Father’s Day is Sunday. I wrote this blog post
9 years ago. Unfortunately, I never finished the book I had planned to write. I doubt I ever will. But thank you for reading what would have been the preface.
THE
YEAR WITHOUT A FATHER
My mother had left me a voicemail at
work. Even before I retrieved it, I
had a feeling that I knew what it was.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Marie, you rang?”
“Yes.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I think we have a
problem.”
“Which is?”
“It’s your
father. I think he stopped breathing.”
I could feel my mind
shutting down and automatic pilot kick in. “Are you sure he’s not
breathing?”
She
hesitated. “Yes.”
“Did you call 9-1-1?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to
call 9-1-1?”
“Yes.”
“Is anyone else home?”
“Yes. Keith
and Robin are here.”
“Have one of them call
9-1-1. You need me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on my way.”
As I hung up the
telephone, it felt like someone was sticking thousands of needles into my face
and chest. I remember thinking God, I hope I’m not having a heart
attack. I guess I was in shock.
I walked to my
supervisor’s cubicle. She took one look at my face and stood
up. “Rita, what is it?”
“My father just died,”
I replied faintly, and felt tears run down my face.
She immediately put
her arms around me. “I’m so sorry, sit down.” She
took my hands.
“I have to leave.”
“I
know. Who can I get to drive you home?”
I wiped my
face. “I can drive.”
But she wouldn’t hear
of it. “You may think you’re okay but I’ll feel better if someone
else drives you.”
I thought for a second
and regained my composure. “Leena in HR. I’m sure she’d
be able to.”
“You stay right here
and I’ll get her.”
I stayed seated in
Terry’s cube as I tried to fathom the fact that my father was dead and no one
had called the ambulance. Then I saw Leena race by on her way to my
cube. I stood up as she came back and saw me; then she ran over and
enveloped me in a hug, murmuring words of comfort. Sure enough, that
started me crying again but only for few seconds.
“Where’s your
stuff? Are you ready to go?”
“I have to turn off my
computer and get my purse.”
“I can take care of
that,” Terry said.
“I have to fill out a
form for leaving early.”
“Don’t worry about that,”
Terry said as the three of us made it over to my cube. “Leena, can
you pull your car up? Rita and I will meet you there so we can avoid
any questions.”
“Sure
thing.” She gave me another squeeze. “I’ll meet you in a
couple of minutes.”
At my cube I quickly
put an ‘out of office’ message on my email, told Terry that I’d do the phone
voicemail later and collected my purse and little work bag. She
thought we should go out the back way to avoid any questions, and I
agreed. However, when we got to the back entrance, there was no
Leena. After a couple of minutes, we realized that she probably went
to the front lobby entrance, so we went there and luckily didn’t encounter
anyone on the way.
Sure enough, after a
minute Leena drove up and I got into her car. “Don’t worry, I’ll get
you home real quick,” she said in her Louisiana drawl.
That proved to be
prophetic. I had no idea her little Honda could go that fast; but
thankfully there were no state troopers on the highway that
afternoon. Even though I know we talked, it’s difficult to remember
much of what was said. I told her about what my mother had said, and
she asked, “Do you think anyone did call 9-1-1?”
“I’m sure someone
did.” I had my hands tightly clasped together. I was subconsciously
willing the car to go faster because I knew I needed to get to my parents’
house.
When we finally hit
that block I could see there was already an ambulance in attendance, and a
police car was there as well. “This doesn’t look good,” I said.
Leena pulled up at the service station right next door and I jumped out of the car after quickly grabbing my things. She followed me into the house…
Tomorrow marks 10 years since I lost my father. This is an excerpt from a book I wanted to write about his last year with us. But as you can see: I wasn’t able to do it.
I loved my father and I still miss him. That year was one that had a major impact on my life, and changed me in ways I
didn’t anticipate.
Hmm, maybe this will be the year I finish the
book. Within the next 12 months, conceivably. With that being said: I’ll keep
you posted.
Miss you Daddy Clank.
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