When my phone rang early Wednesday morning, I saw it was my sister Shelli. “Sweet,” I thought. “She scored the weed we wanted for Dad to see if it would give him an appetite!”
Her voice was calm. Very calm. Too calm. Dad had fallen in the garage. Mom had called her and an ambulance.
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Bring bail money in case I get arrested. I’m driving 90 miles an hour.” She chuckled. I did too.
When I hung up the phone I was shivering uncontrollably. Twitching. Itchy in my own skin. Unsure of what to do. Afraid that taking any step forward would help whatever was happening to play out. I needed time. I wanted it to freeze. For nothing to happen. So I could wrap my brain around it. Understand it. Stop it. Fix it.
Her second call was direct–still calm. Still kind. She urged me to jump in the car and start driving to Indiana. She’d call me and tell me where to go while I was on the way. The oldest, Shelli has been a fierce protector of me. Always. And she was trying to take care of me while an impossible situation swirled chaotically around her. Around all of us.
The worst was going to happen–if it hadn’t already. I needed to calm down for the hour-and-a-half drive to the hospital in Indiana. Author of the Xanax Diary, meet Xanax. I popped the tiny white pill, and pulled my shit together for the longest drive in the history of the automotive industry. And on the way, she called again.
My dad died on Wednesday, August 15.
There, I said.
But I still don’t believe it.
I thought back to my visit with my parents the week before. I’d gone down to help with some yard work before their back deck was rebuilt. The old one was thirty years old and in need of repair. I hadn’t seen Dad in a few months–when I came to pick up my dog after my trip to Costa Rica. He looked about the same. He’d grown frailer over the last year. And quieter. Robust and healthy all his life, his weight loss and growing weakness confounded all of us–including him. Moving around exhausted him, and so did talking, it seemed. Even standing very long was too much for him. We didn’t know what was happening. But had some hope with a new doctor my sister Ronda had found via a friend of hers who he saw just the day before he died.
When it came time for me to leave, I went to say goodbye to him in his office where he usually sat watching TV. He rubbed his frail hand on my arm and said, “I’m lucky to have a son like you.” It wasn’t that he hadn’t shared this sentiment before, but I’ll live on these–on this visit–for the rest of my life.
“I’m lucky to have a dad like you,” I replied with a smile. I had no idea those would ever be the last words we’d exchange, but I learned from loving and losing Ken to never waste an opportunity to tell someone you love them.
He was the strongest man in the world. And the kindest. And sometimes the scariest (when we were in trouble, we were in TROUBLE). Maybe everyone is lucky enough to think that way about their father. He loomed large–in size and personality. You always knew when he entered a room. Like many dads, mine taught me how to fish, said I was a “natural” at golf–a sport he took great pleasure in for most of the years of his life–and at some point probably hoped I’d be an NBA star when I shot up to 6 feet in height in high school. None of those things appealed to me.
Though I share his name and his looks and his height, the things I’ll hold on to for all the days of my life are the things he taught me about integrity, responsibility, respect, and family. I know my mom has a difficult road ahead–so do my sisters and I, but I know we are strong–and we’re strongest together. We’ll grieve together and support and love each other all the way. As Dad would expect us to.
My dad was one-of-a-kind. I wanted many more years with him, but I’m grateful for the time I got to have with him.
Dad photobombing me, Shelli and Ronda and my nephew’s wedding in 2015.