Dating : August 7th

Every year I reread something I wrote in 2017.

Today, I opened my Evernote app to read it, and was forced to reset my password. Shit. I don’t use Evernote all the time, but the thought of losing this (and other) stories would be tragic.

This post isn’t necessarily for you; it’s for me. And safekeeping somewhere that doesn’t require me to remember my passwords.

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It was a Monday.

Around 4:45, I was in a meeting at a client and my phone rang. It was my mom, and since my dad wasn’t doing well, I figured I should answer it. I stepped outside, and she let me know that dad had fallen on his way in the house, and she needed help getting him back up and into his favorite recliner. I hurried out of my meeting and fought through traffic for 30 minutes over 8 miles. I walked with a quicker pace to the door than normal, opened it and tried to figure out where he was. I found he and mom by the back door in the laundry room. He was on the ground, covered in blankets and a fleece, yet shaking from how cold he was.

After some struggling, ok a lot of struggling, we got him to one of the rolling kitchen chairs, and wheeled him to his recliner. I was able to help him up, and get him comfortable, with his electric blanket on top turned to high. I joked that I turned it from MSNBC to Fox, and he told me to “fuck off”. I figured he was fine.

He looked pretty rough, but it’s been tough to gauge the last few months. After a half hour or so, I decided it was time for me to head home and feed our kids. I said goodbye to mom, leaned in and told dad that I loved him one last time, and took off. I was already exhausted.

“This is the second time mom called me in a day. This can’t be good” I thought as my phone interrupted the silence. I was upstairs, hiding to a certain extent. Mary had a bible study group downstairs, her first one, and I wasn’t about to get caught up in that.

The call only lasted about 28 seconds, but it felt like forever. “I think dad just died” were some of the only decipherable words, before I said I was on my way and flew down the stairs to find shoes.

Mary looked and asked what was up, and my only reply was “I think dad died.” An audible gasp was heard throughout the room, as everyone sprung to action in supporting roles. Mary shot up, the women in the room knew their role of watching our kids without even really saying a word. We grabbed our shoes, keys and I think I may have even remembered my wallet. Out the door we went, with Mary driving on our 25 mile trek south.

On the drive, I called my brother, Brian, and Slacked my pertinent work and volunteer responsibilities away. The outpouring of support from my work wives was intense and incredibly valuable. Brian and I tried to converse, but there wasn’t much to know yet. Granted, I was flowing between bawling and working, which is always an interesting combination.

Mary and I chatted as well, and thought about what was on the horizon. We realized that if the ambulance was still there, it wasn’t a good sign. Silence. Then tears. Then again through the rotation.

We turned the corner and saw what we had feared. A fire truck, ambulance, and two police cars with their lights on surrounding the driveway. An EMT was walking out as we sprint-walked our way down the road. The look on his face led us to further believe the inevitable. As we opened the door, we knew. A glance in the family room revealed seven souls living through what must be a horrible experience, and my dad on the floor with an intubation tube down his throat, and some mechanism doing chest compressions.

I had no idea what to say, other than “where’s my mom?” The EMTs and police looked slightly caught off guard. Knowing without saying that I was a son of the man they were trying to revive must have been difficult. They pointed me to the dining room, but even though I’ve been in that house thousands of days, I apparently took the long way. Mary found her first and we all collapsed together in tears and hugs.

The next few minutes were a flurry of emotion and nothingness. I’d walk into the room where he lay, and see the machines do their work, and blood come out from the tube that was in his mouth. An EMT approached me and mom, and I knew it was official. He had the word Supervisor on his shirt, anyway. He explained what was about to happen, and that the sounds would end soon as the doctor on call exhausted all options. That was a bit hard to comprehend, as it still didn’t seem to be final. Until he said “I’m so sorry for your loss”. And then I lost it.

We sat and held hands as we cried for a few moments. Then, it was time to let others know. I called Brian back first. I can’t remember the conversation to be honest, but feel like we just sat in the silence on the phone after it became official. I told him we’d figure out the logistics, and touch base again in the morning since it was already 9:30 at night.

After Brian, I realized how few phone numbers I have for family. Mom called Dad’s sisters, and we started making the rounds. It being almost 10pm, I’m sure I woke some people up, but didn’t want family to wait long to hear. I’m sure there were people we missed in the process, but the folks we did talk to made sure to pass on the message to their contacts as well.

At this point, the EMTs had removed and cleaned up as best they could, but certain things had to remain. The intubation tube was still down his throat, an IV port in his arm, and the pads from the defibrillator were still on him. They cleaned as much blood off of him as possible, as he laid motionless on the carpet. Their gear was in their duffle bags as they made the slow walk out the door. It seemed as if they were walking away from a battle which they knew they had no chance in winning. Their heads were both low, and courteous to us at the same time. Two officers stayed behind, as they had to call it in to the medical examiner. They asked us what funeral home, and I’m pretty sure mom responded “oh god, I don’t know.” For being sick for over a decade, and in poor health, they still hadn’t really talked through the specifics. I don’t blame them at all. But, some quick decisions were made. Washburn McCreavy was the place where he’d get cremated, and where he would be laid to rest. The officer’s call ended, and she let us know that she would stay as long as we wanted. Her call triggered the folks at Washburn to be notified and send someone out.

While we waited, we sat next to his body on the floor. Mom on one side, me on the other. Some folks came to the house in that time including mom’s cousin, and one of dad’s older sisters. Without knowing him, any stranger could have understood he was in poor health. His arms super thin and weak looking, while his legs were thick and bloated. His circulation was incredibly poor, and the fresh bandages from dialysis earlier that day were still present. He didn’t look like the dad I grew up with, but it was still him.

Being curmudgeonly myself, dad and I always had a close-yet-distant relationship. We’d hug on special occasions, and laugh or cry together, but most of our time was spent complaining about republicans, expressing frustration over the Twins, or him asking me to fix some problem on his iPhone or computer. Well, or wifi. Their wifi is horrible. But sitting next to him now, my hand was on his thick skin, missing him instantaneously. His eyes were watery, and stuck open. Mom said it’s because he always needed to know what was going on. Probably true.

At one point I moved to the couch, and the officer came to talk to me. Mary was sitting next to me, as we held hands waiting for something to happen. The police needed a secondary contact, and apparently that was me.

“Ok what’s your name?”

“Matt.”

“Matthew?”

“Yeah, sorry”

“M-A-T-T-H-E-W?”

“Yep” I said. I didn’t want to correct her. Rumor is that my original birth certificate was missing a T, but has since been corrected. Personally, I don’t remember.

“Ok, and your middle name?”

My heart sunk. “Jon” I said, with tears fighting to come out. Just like our son, my middle name was my dad’s name. We aren’t one for tradition per se, but it seemed extremely fitting for us.

She went on to ask more questions, but Mary promptly interjected because she knew I was checked out. Especially when she asked for our address. “Uh, how do you spell ‘Uranimite’” is a common question that I was not in any shape to answer.

Eventually, the funeral home folks arrived. He introduced himself as Scott, and his partner, also named Scott. I greeted them at the door, and noticed that they were backing into the driveway. I have too much of my dad in me, so naturally had to make a comment.

“Minivans now, huh?”

“Uh, yep. A bit more discreet” was Scott’s response.

Mary overheard me and gave me a punch of disapproval for my question.

Mom came over, and Scott told us the process, and what to expect next. They take dad to one of their facilities, and a funeral director calls between 8:00–8:30a in the morning. Mom and everyone in earshot let out a collective groan. It was 10:30pm at this point, and the thought of an early morning anything was uninspiring at best. Once it was all explained and paperwork was signed, they came in and started to remove his body. Before they did, we all took a few moments with him for the last time. We said our goodbyes and let the Scott’s do their job. A job that I’d never survive, honestly. They wrapped his body in a white sheet, then put him on a gurney and strapped him down tight to it. They had a red velvet covering they placed over his body. He was gone, and I’d never see him again. They rolled through the hall, and to the doorway. I held the door open as they took him from the house. No one was around me at the time as far as I could tell. As they left, my hand pushed the door shut, and with the sound of it I started crying yet again. I stood, hand on the door for a few breaths, head down and saying goodbye in my head, asking God to take care of him on his new journey.