I was happy to be home that night all bundled up in my fleece blanket, so soft, so warm. It was January first of the new millennium, and it was cool and breezy outside. My dad was looking at our Christmas tree, still decorated with a lifetime of memories. Dad had insisted on having the perfect tree, so we did. It was lushly green, and the smell of pine had permeated throughout the entire house since the day it arrived. It was huge--ten feet tall and five feet wide. And now my dad was just staring at it.
Suddenly, I noticed that tears were rolling down his dark cheeks. I didn't understand this uncharacteristic show of emotion. It confused me, so I decided to leave him alone. I peered out from the kitchen to see what he was doing, but tried not to make it obvious that I was watching him. He touched each ornament and held it tightly. It looked as if he were trying to staunch the flow of dark and consuming thoughts.
That was the month I stated to see my dad become weaka and frail. Not knowing what was wrong, my mom took him to see the doctor. After undergoing x rays and blood work, they returned home to anxiously await the results. Finally, the doctor called. My dad was in serious dangerof having another heart attack, and he had to be checked into the hospital immediately.
I cannot remember a time when my dad was really well. He had already suffered a series of heart attacks, as well as complications from bypass surgery. This time, Dad was in the hospital for two long weeks. He was hooked up to so many I.V. tubes and monitors that it made it hard for him to communicate with us. Eventually, he progressed enough to be able to come home.
Every couple of days, a nurse would come to the house and help my dad with his rehabilitation. One day, as we waited for her to arrive, I noticed something unusual. My dad wasn't breathing. My mom ran over to him and shook him.
"What? What's wrong?" he asked.
"You weren't breathing." I told him.
He answered with a simple, "Oh," then fell back into an uneasy sleep. A few minutes later, I looked over at him.
"Mom . . ." I gasped and pointed at him. She woke him up again.
"Why don't we keep you up until the nurse gets here?" she asked him, her voice cracking. He slightly nodded his gray head in agreement. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say a word.
The nurse finally arriced. She looked him over and said "We have to get you to the emergency room."
My father frowned. He reminded me of a child not wanting to do what he is told. With a forlorn look on his face, he asked, "Do I have to?" The nurse nodded.
There were so many things to say, but no one was sure how to say them. When my dad was about to leave, I gave him a lingering hug and held him tight. I didn't want him to let go. As he got into the car, I told him I loved him.
He turned and smiled at me and nodded in acknowledgment. I watched as they pulled out of the driveway and down the street. I watched until the car vanished behind a big tre that stood on the side of the road. That was the last time I saw my dad.
Things have changed in my life over the past eight months. There is not as much laughter, and there are times I feel angry and depressed. Going places is not as enjoyable without my dad. When I see a family witht hei father, I feel envious. Sometimes when I come home, I forget that he is gone and go into his room to talk to him. I always feel empty when I realize he's not there.
My river of tears for him still floods every so often. I know this river will fo on forever and never dry out, just as my love and memories of my dad will never dry up either. They will last forever, just like his spirit.
My time has come,
And so I'm gone.
To a better place,
Far beyond.
I love you all
As you can see.
But it's better now,
Because I'm free. . .
By: Traci Kornhauser
Found in: Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul
on Tough Stuff
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