Six Months

"Grief is how you know your love was profound."

Tomorrow is the six month anniversary. It's interesting how the memories can come in flashes--in separate, glittering shards, like stained glass. How some moments are crystalline, absolutely clear, yet others are hazed over. Alongside the memories I cannot forget are cloudy hours of sitting, of waiting, of merciful sleep. I see fragmented, blurry images: Benedryl-laced dreams and half-eaten bagels. The smell of lilies and the cold cold cold of his hand, after.

Six month ago, yesterday, was the last time I spoke with my father. Dad grilled steaks; we ate them out on our brand new patio. Dad and I talked about Rushdie's novel Midnight's Children. Later, we had a bonfire and Chris, Mom, Dad, and I sat around and told funny customer stories. 

Six months ago, today, Dad suffered the stroke that killed him. The day dawned beautifully--it was one of those gorgeous fall days that inspires me to improve my life. I had the day off work. I made one of my frequent resolutions that I was going to get skinny. I went running! I discovered some new Marcus Foster music. I sent someone an email about renting a room in Bourbonnais so that I could be closer to my friends. It was a beautiful and optimistic day--the last day of my previous life. Even when Mom called to say Dad was sick, I didn't think that he might die. Even when we sat in that conference room talking about the stroke with the doctor, I didn't think that he might die. I thought maybe he would be changed, that he might have trouble talking or walking. That we'd have a long road ahead of us. I had no idea.

That night, I got dropped off at Fort Hamilton Hospital so that I could drive my mom's van home. As I pulled in, I saw my sister standing outside, crying on the phone. I stopped in the middle of the driveway and opened the door, desperately pleading to know what was wrong. He stopped breathing on his own. They asked about our wishes regarding resuscitation. I was suddenly panicked--I didn't think to put the van in park and I couldn't remember how to open the garage door. She went into the house and opened the door for me. I knelt on the concrete of the garage and cried.

Six months ago, tomorrow, we removed the breathing tube and Dad slipped away. I barely slept the night before, thinking only about what I'd say to him if I had the chance. We drove downtown to University Hospital and waited. I felt alternately frozen and hysterical--oh my god he's going to die oh my god my Dad is going to DIE oh my GOD. Deanne Crane kept on trying to calm me saying, we don't know yet. But I knew it. I knew it in my heart.

 After some time--I couldn't possibly tell you when--we met with the head of the Neuro Intensive Care Unit. She showed us a scan of my Dad's brain. "The white is the area affected by the stroke, the part affected by lack of oxygen," she told us. I stared and stared...It's nearly the whole thing. The whole brain is white. She used words like massive. She used words like irrecoverable. She told us that they could keep him comfortable until we were ready. Chris was sobbing, his head on my lap. Steph was crying on the couch. I think Jon was behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I didn't cry. A bit later, I called Brittany Frost and sobbed to her that my dad was going to die. I sat on the floor of this narrow hallway in the nurses' station, my sprawling feet blocking the way for the busy doctors. 

Sometime during that lost afternoon, I walked out of the waiting room and leaned up against the wall of the hallway, sobbing. I kept on asking my sister, "What are we supposed to do now?" "How are we supposed to keep going?" Neither of us had an answer.

Jason called me to ask how Dad was. I had to tell him--I couldn't keep it from him. As I choked out the words, I kept on apologizing for telling him over the phone, for telling him while he was alone in an airport. I can't forget his silence. I drove with my aunt and Jon to pick him up from the Dayton Airport. I burst into tears when I saw him, my baby brother.

Later we all stood around the bed, thanking Dad for all of the wonderful things he taught us. For the vacations he took us on. For the jokes and the memories and the Saturday morning breakfasts at Waffle House. For not having to yell at us--the idea of his disappointment in us was enough of a deterrent. For being a great doctor and saving so many people. For teaching us to love God. I held his warm hand so tight.

Then, it was over. It was all over.