5 YEARS

        It was 5 years ago, March 24, 2009. It was around dinnertime, on a Tuesday. Ava was our only child then, just 2 1/2 yrs old. My phone rang, it was my Mom. I debated answering, like I usually did in those days. By the fifth ring I said 'hello'. There was no hysterics or drama in her voice, " Your Dad hurt himself, he is at the ER, you should come." " What happened", I ask. " He fell and hurt his leg in the laundry room", she said. Now, I don't know if this is the information my mom actually received, or she was merely protecting my feelings, but it was very far from a leg injury. So, initially, I brushed off the call, thinking ' I have to get dinner started, Ava is hungry'. A couple hours passed and I get another call. Still no new information, but I could sense the urgency in my mom's voice, so I got in my truck and drove down to the hospital. Upon arriving, I learned that my Dad indeed hurt himself..... purposely. It was a small cord or rope. The medics were surprised that the rafters in the laundry room were able to hold his weight. His oxygen had been deprived for longer than 4 minutes, but he still had a pulse, so they hurried him to the ER, where I was now waiting outside with a handful of my other family members. As soon as my brother and sister were there, my mom took us inside his room to go see him.

When you think about suicide stories, you never actually think that you will have to ride the emotional roller coaster that follows. My first and obvious feeling was denial. 'Ok, so he attempted suicide. My Dad is fine. Just juice him up with some meds and rest and he will be fine'. I remember all the beeping sounds, the sounds of the breathing machine pumping air into is lungs, like someone was gently stoking a fire. The motion of his chest going up and down with each whir of the machine.  I remember seeing the tube down his throat.. His throat. His neck. The long, purple indented line that swung across it now, where his gold cross used to hang. I didn't step too close to the bedside. It was almost as if I got too close, it was real. This wasn't real. He was fine, right?

They led my siblings, our mom, and me into a small room, probably no bigger than your standard exam room. Once inside, I didn't feel like I was in a hospital anymore. The floor was carpeted, there was  a small table with two chairs. There might have been other furniture in the room, I don't remember. I just remembering feeling like this was a 'bad news' room. The lights were dim. The ER doctor that brought us here had a look to his face that even an ace at beside manner couldn't disguise.

"Your Dad's brain has been without oxygen for some time. From our initial tests, we can assume very low brain function. We will move him up to the ICU and run more tests tomorrow to see where he stands".

 It was at this moment that I personally gave up hope. I knew enough about medicine that prolonged oxygen deprivation is not something you can simply recover from, you are gone. Your body may be alive, but everything about you is gone.

I went home that night and I was angry. Sad too, but mostly angry. Angry at my Dad, angry at his girlfriend for abusing his psyche and his body. (We would later find out that she was very abusive and violent toward him.) He stayed with her for whatever reason. I was angry about that. Angry that I wasn't around more to prevent it from happening, or at the very least make him see that he was a better person and didn't deserve that treatment. Angry at myself for not calling more, and visiting, making him feel like he had a place in our lives. It's that naive mentality that you think your parents will always be there for you. That is, until they aren't. At this point, I was too angry to cry. I went to bed angry.Angry and scared.

The following days would amount to more tests and uncomfortable waiting room chairs. A final meeting with neurosurgeons cemented the fact that my Dad was not coming back from this self inflicted act. We could keep him on the machines, but it was only a matter a time before we needed to press stop; they were only working to keep his body alive. After that meeting, my siblings and I had to decide if we wanted to donate his organs. Now, that is a decision I would have rather had to make later in life. It is an odd feeling to say the least having a discussion about the donation process. After the doctors removed him from  life support, they would  have to wait 90 minutes. If his body survived past the 90 minutes, they wouldn't be able to use any organs. The organs would have to still be viable at time of death, and with no blood flow, those organs would deteriorate fast.  The hospital staff  took him downstairs, closer to the morgue. We followed along, down eerie hallways of cinder-block walls. It was dark and slightly colder than upstairs. We came to a short hallway of about 5 or 6 rooms. I wondered what other families were down there doing the same thing.  He was set up in the the corner of the room. My family lined up against the opposite  wall. There was about 10 or 12 of us and it overflowed into the doorway of this final room.  The nurses disconnected the machines and we proceeded to wait. They urged us to approach the bed and give our last respects.  I guess I have watched too much television, because I was assuming a flat line once the cords were freed. That was not the case. We waited. He struggled to breathe without the ventilator, his chest still heaving up and down like it had when he was connected. This time, the breathing was accompanied by different sounds. It wasn't the calming whir of a machine, but a heavy, grunting sound, almost as if he was snoring in a new way. Amid the sadness of the room, we had a giggle about the 'snoring' sound. He was often a snorer. I can remember as a kid, many times, he would fall asleep on the couch watching t.v. while snoring loudly. One of us kids would change the channel and he would dart up, awake, and demand we change it back to his show. I think part of us was waiting for that to happen in this room, but it never did. His body rallied on past the 90 minutes, so organ donation wasn't possible. We moved back to the original room in the ICU.

My Dad's body would continue to breathe for another 7 hours on its own. I could only watch his chest move up and down and listen to machines beep as his heart rate slowly went down.(I watched it so much that during the wake I swore I saw his chest move for a second) You could feel the anxiety in the room. No one wanted to see the heart rate reach zero, but as it got closer, I think we were all wondering when it was going to happen. If you have ever witnessed a baby being born, I would liken it to the same feeling. The beeping stopped and we all saw the zeros flash on the monitors. I felt a release of tension in my own mind and body, and could feel the room let out a sigh. Life was now different in so many ways that we would have yet to realize.

I think about him a lot, especially when the kids mention a grandpa or Dad. Father's Day is always a bit tough, and I can't listen to Black Sabbath , Santana, or Tim McGraw without picturing him driving me home from school. I would like to think he helped shape my wide appreciation of all music.

Ava is now old enough to ask questions about what happened to her Tata and how he died. As of now, I just tell her that his brain was without oxygen for too long and that answer seems to suffice. At his graveside funeral, I remember her innocence during the whole ordeal. As they finished lowering his casket into the ground, Ava shouted, "YAY", as they clearly did a good job with the task. It was the comic relief I think we all needed at the time and it's one thing I choose to think about about the day he was buried. I finally let myself cry that day because it had built up for long enough. His death has taught me a lot and I continue to learn from it each day. I appreciate life so much more and try to be present as much as possible in my kids' lives. Not just to be a part of their memories, but so I can remember why I am here. I'm important to their lives no matter what happens because it would surely change their path if I wasn't around any longer.




If you or someone you know is struggling (or you think is), please reach out. TALK ABOUT IT. Connect with a friend or go visit. Send a text to let then know you are thinking of them. Sometimes it just takes a simple hello to let people know they are still part of this world and that someone needs them. It can make a world of difference. http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Here's to you, Dad

Here's to the third Father's Day you are not celebrating with us.

To Nana, who will remember her son and grandchildren 

A little more fondly this day.

To Me, a daughter, who no longer has a father to make a card for, 

Or to call this day in June.

To the days you drove me home from school, just the two of us 

(and the dollar bag of chips I talked you into buying me once a week)

To the days we knew we were in trouble when we heard your keys, 

Attached your belt side, rattle down the hallway.

Here's to the three new granddaughters you have that will not know their 'Tata'

Here's to the bottle of tequila still sitting on the liquor store shelf

 That was meant as your gift.( Because let's face it, it was your favorite)

No neck ties or rounds of golf for you.

Simplicity was your daily mantra.

Here's to you,  the man who worked hard everyday of his life,  

But still had enough energy to put us kids in our place at the end of the day.

Here's to the man who now resides in your house,

 in  your domain,  the place where your life ended.

Here's to the days we spent at your bedside, 

And the days we spent planning your farewell.

To the hopes, wishes and prayers that you could have stayed,

 Could have lived a little longer.

To the others who touched your life, may they think of you today as well.

While our memories may be scant and varied, 

you will forever be our  Dad and we remember you on this day.

your daughter,
Jennifer