My father died. In my mother’s arms. In front of me.
He coughed blood and the aneurysm on his infected aorta ruptured. His eyes rolled in his head and his body convulsed. I screamed GET A DOCTOR! and they came running, but my Mom’s best friend of 54 years, my Dad was already gone.
My mother and I reached for each other, hearts clanging, wildly alive. You are amazing. We washed his blood off her fingers. My husband and I embraced, crying love.
When my father was sick and the doctors and nurses searched his tired body for clues, it hit me that they had no idea who they were trying to save. That he was a world-class professor and friend, that his parents were deaf, he hailed from Chicago, aced Harvard and gave the best hugs.
After he died, I told everyone, he was a great Dad, and opened my arms. My father held me my whole life. After they cleaned up his body, I went back to tell him again.
My father died. My father died and I felt an oceanic shift. Our love could no longer be shared over the table at our weekly lunch, through email or the secret language of signs. My heart did not break, my friends, it grew. I felt a soaring strength rush in. The calm of his nature, the weight of a mountain, the certainty of love. My Dad, in me.
If you’d like to know more about my American Dad, read Part 2: A Family Tree.
Thank you for stoking.
GOOD NEWS FLASH: We are alive. What are we going to do now??
I love to hear from you.
Click FOLLOW THIS BLOG VIA EMAIL and join the global party. Don’t forget to send back the confirmation email you’ll receive.
I post every two weeks, more or less.
Please COMMENT, QUESTION, SING, DANCE and SHARE!