Slipped Away

Three years ago today, I was woken by my a phone call from my mother.

"Daddy had a tough night. I'm going to see him this morning; you should come when you can."

I told her I'd be there as soon as I could. I picked up my three-month-old son from the spot in bed next to me, and carried him downstairs to wait.

The details of this morning have been muddied by time. Were both girls home, or had they gone with Fairly Odd Father to the airport? He was picking up his parents and his brother who were arriving to spend Christmas with us. Despite my dad's illness, we were excited to have them visit, knowing that their presence would liven up our home.

Our home had been sad because my dad was dying of colon cancer. For six months, he had been hospitalized, and all hope of him returning home had been abandoned. He had lived through a few milestones: the Red Sox finally won a World Series; he had met his first grandson; he knew that my younger sister was pregnant with her first child (as I reread this, I realize that the Red Sox should probably have been listed third. . .).

My in laws loved my dad, even though they'd only seen him in person a few times. They were happy that they'd be able to wish him a Merry Christmas and spend a few moments with him while they were up north.

The minivan filled with family returning from the airport. We all hugged, and I passed around the newest Fairly Odd Family member, little man D. I showed them to the guest room, and walked them through the recently completed renovation of our master bedroom and bathroom.

At around 9:30am, I strapped D into his car seat, kissed my family goodbye and was about to drive to the rehab center where my father was waiting. As I went to sit behind the passenger wheel, my husband entered the garage and walked up to me.

"Your sister just called. Your dad just died a few minutes ago."

And, so, that was that. I never did get a chance to say goodbye, to watch his last breaths or to hold his hand as he slipped away. This plain fact hurt a lot right then.

Now, three years later, I think about my dad just about every day. I tell my kids stories about him, show them photos and sing his favorite songs. I even let them listen to those godawful Christmas songs by that over-the-top, maybe-not-even Russian group because he would've loved to hear that playing loudly throughout the house.

His life was about so much more than his last minutes. Yes, I would've liked to have been there. But, in a way, it has made me realize that rarely do we have a chance to say goodbye to the people we love before they, or we, die. Regardless of how much I try to organize, plan and create the life I want, the biggest part of it, the life part of it, is really not in my control at all.

(for photos and to read more about my dad---or "Daddy", as I called him--- please see last year's dedication).

(also, I will never stop telling people about the importance of getting a colonoscopy, especially if you have a family history. I've already had one, and you can read about it here and here).