I Meant to Call

My father died six months ago today.

I am very much my father’s daughter, from the abnormally high arches of our feet, to our loner natures. He was (and I am) stoic, grumpy, often hard to read, addicted to Law & Order, and pessimists.

My mother, on the other hand, is a commensurate optimist. So when she phoned me saying my father was in the hospital, unconscious from a head injury, I didn’t fly up to see them right away. I thought he would pull through. He had slipped on ice; who dies from that?

Apparently people on blood thinners do. (I later found out that my doctor’s mother had died in a similar way. Fuck you, phlebitis.) A few days later, a second MRI showed extensive brain damage and no possibility of recovery. I 86ed a work lunch, ran home to pack, downed 4 fingers of bourbon, and jumped on a flight to Maine.

I felt like I was moving in slow motion walking down the hospital corridor to my dad’s room. Then there he was, head half shaven and hooked up to a variety of tubes. As my brother, attempting levity, stated, he looked like Darth Vader when his mask came off. I sang “Behind Blue Eyes” to him; The Who was his favorite band. It was corny but all I could think to do.

Five years ago, I had a mental health episode and was contemplating suicide. My father, who hated phone calls as much as I do, made a point to call me every Friday. We’d bitch about work, about politics, about my shitty love life, anything but my mental state. Those phone calls saved my life.

Now I had to help make the decision to end his.

My father was a proud man and had been very vocal about never wanting to be kept in a vegetative state. He wanted dignity, both for him and the people who would need to care for him. Intellectually, my family and I knew that my father wasn’t here any more. The things that made dad dad had left us days ago. This didn’t make the decision to take him off life support any easier.

My father was also a strong man. His body hung on for a couple of days before he finally passed. He was agnostic, I’m a pantheist, and I don’t think either of us believed that people are ensouled. Still, I took his hand and thought “it’s okay to go, dad. It’s going to be okay.” Then he started having trouble breathing.

He died a few hours later.

My father was always a practical guy. We had a simple, direct cremation — no embalming, fancy funeral, religious service. I saw him one last time before he was taken to the crematory.

It may just be my grief talking, but I think this was the way my dad would have wanted to go. Like I said, he was a proud man, but he was also a meat and potatoes man who smoked like a chimney. He would have considered it undignified to be in and out of hospitals or in a nursing home.

I have one regret. Recently, I started missing those Friday calls. My father was retired, and I planned on giving him the occasional ring to bitch about work, about politics, about my shitty love life, anything but our mental states.

I meant to call. I’m sorry, dad. And I love you.

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