My Least Favorite Holiday

Here comes Independence Day. For most Americans, it calls to mind parades, hot dogs and fireworks. For me, it reminds me of losing my Dad.

My Dad died 13 years ago today. Well, officially, he died on July 5th but to me, he was gone on July 2nd, shortly after he collapsed at work from an aneurysm. After operating to relieve the bleeding and swelling in his skull, the doctors put him into a medically induced coma to give his brain a chance to rest with the hope that he would wake up when they discontinued the sedation. His siblings, my uncles and aunt, were very hopeful that he would wake up. My Mom and I knew he wouldn't. We knew as soon as we walked into his room after the surgery because we knew what brain dead looked like. After all, we'd seen it up close just 9 months prior.

I was at work when my mother called to tell me that Dad was in the ER. I don't remember exactly what she said but she let me know that he was conscious with a terrible headache, that he was on his way for tests and that I should come down right away. I do remember the coldness washing over me again, an iciness running through my veins and leaving me unnaturally calm. I finished entering a new volunteer application into the system and was about to start another when the folks in my office, having heard my half of the conversation, urged me to grab my stuff and go. I reluctantly did. It wasn't that I didn't want to be with my father. I just didn't want to make it real. Leaving my desk, driving to the hospital, parking the car, all of it would set the dance into motion. I knew the steps and I was too weary to do them again. It sounds crazy and dramatic but I knew he was going to die. Even though my mother didn't give any indication that he would -- he seemed okay when they took him away for the tests -- I knew we were going to lose him.

My Mom and I were wearing the same clothes that we were wearing the day Jon died. Weird. My trunk was packed because Mom, Dad, my boyfriend at the time and I were heading to the shore after work. I went to the car to get an outfit for my mother who changed then and there. We had been looking forward to going to the shore, the first glimmer of excitement we had after the long, dark winter without Jon. (I think this is why I never look forward to anything. On the contrary, the more exciting something is, the more I anticipate it with dread.) Instead, we spent the next three days in the intensive care family lounge. Waiting for a change, knowing it wouldn't come. Wondering why, why, a thousand times why? Hating the transplant team who hovered like circling vultures waiting to pounce on us, the exact opposite of the respectful professionals who treated us with kindness when Jon died.

I did drive to the shore that week but not for the break from my horrible job that I had planned. I drove down to tell my grandparents about Dad in person. When I walked into the shore house, my Pop was so excited to see me. Then he saw the look on my face and he knew the nightmare was beginning again. He didn't know what was wrong but he knew it was big and I watched the light go out in his eyes. Again. I guess they came home to say goodbye but I don't remember that part. It all gets hazy in my mind and I only recall bits and pieces. Walking to McDonald's with my uncles. Dad's wonderful nurse who played classical music for him and talked to him like a person rather than a carcass just in case he could hear her. Losing my car in the parking garage. The deja vu of calling friends and family with the news. Seeing the looks on people's faces while I followed the casket down the aisle, stunned at how quickly my family had been cut in half and grateful that they weren't me. The way my feet baked inside my leather shoes as the priest droned on with useless prayers at the cemetery. Then finally going home, the crowds gone, to face the reality of life without the man whose fingerprint was on every part of my life to that point.

I miss him always. Sometimes it's worse than others like my wedding day, for example. Most of the time, though, I keep it together not only on the surface but also in my head because I'm used to it by now. This year, though, the anniversary is hitting me hard. Cry-in-the-shower hard. Angry-at-the-world hard. I don't know why. Maybe because of my new baby, my last perfect child, yet another who won't know him or benefit from growing up with his intelligence, moral code and sharp sense of humor to guide and shape her. She needs him, both of my girls do. Jack, surrounded by this decimated family of women with only Tom acting as a male role model with any regularity, really needs him. I need him. Still. Always. But he's not here and he never will be except in elusive memories and fading pictures. I wish that was enough.