On Friday September 9th, 2011, I went to bed with my alarm set on my phone for soccer the next morning (the first of the season). I was the "snack mom" for Chloe's early game and had everything laid out to make everything run smoother that morning. At 3:20 am my phone was ringing, but I had no comprehension of the time (I later looked). I just knew it was dark and that something must be terribly wrong when I looked at my phone and clearly on the little screen was printed, "My Parents" with their home number. I answered the phone with an abrupt, "Hello! What's wrong?" and didn't know who's voice would meet me on the other side. It was my mother and she was telling me something, but her words sounded jumbled, but maybe it was my brain that was jumbled at the time. I quickly said, "I can't understand you, is Daddy sick?" thinking I might need to make a trip to the Murray ER or to their home. She said, "No, Daddy's dead". I heard those words clear and distinct and I responded with a shocked, "WHAT!?!?" and told her I was on my way. Suddenly the 25 miles between us seemed like a million as I sprung out of bed and turned the lights on. Jamie was already up and asked, "He's dead isn't he?" and how he knew this I had no idea, because at the time I had no words and couldn't hardly bare to utter the phrase, "Daddy's dead" and still really can't that well.
The moments that followed are burned in my brain forevermore. The sights, the sounds, the people, the reactions, my Daddy sitting in his favorite chair at the table, slumped, face discolored, arms folded in front of him, feet up on his toes, the silly bag of Lifesavers the kids gave him for Father's day in front of him (he kept refilling the bag), his overalls on, and people seemingly everywhere.
No one knows what happened. My mother went to bed around 9 with him in that very spot. He often stayed up late and had asked her to stay up a while longer, but she was exhausted from a day at work. He stayed up, I'm sure fiddling with the things that laid in front of him at that dining table, which was typical of him. She got up around 2:30 and thought he had dozed off, went closer, and realized he was gone, still warm, sweat beads on his brow. He had made tomato juice just hours earlier, spent some time outside, in his garden, went to see his Dad, and somehow it was his last day on earth.
The hours and days that followed were full of food, people, choosing caskets and flowers, feeling tired and unable to sleep, feeling hungry but unable to eat, and he was buried on Tuesday the 13th beside his Grandfather and even at that point, it was unreal. I remember the tears flowing freely at the graveside and I lost it as they carried his casket to the hole in the ground. I felt like my knees were buckling under me and I couldn't hardly catch my breath. This was it! The end of the road for him on earth.
Holidays seems harder as I have one less person in my life to cross of a list. Father's day is a bit empty and hollow now. I find that people that are 30 somethings like myself rarely understand losing a parent so their reaction towards it is to tell me about when their grandparents died, which is world's apart from losing a parent. So, leaning on my side of the family has been essential and Jamie has been nothing, but wonderful in letting me grieve however I needed at the time.
I will never forget this day, the good times of my Dad, the sweetness of him being my kids' G-Daddy and how he would make them giggle. I will never forget that. He is in heaven based upon God's promise and I will see him again one day. Time doesn't actually heal all wounds. Grief changes, but is always a bit present. I can handle it now better, because the shock of it all is past and all the "firsts" have been encountered, but that Daddy sized hole is always in my heart.
