It started out like any other day. Dad got ready for work as usual; I could hear him in the bathroom and all that stuff. He had been battling something of a cold lately, but he appeared to be on the road to recovery.
I hung out at home most of the day, since I had graduated from college and I hadn't yet landed a job. (Dad took care to remind me to do some serious job searching and get together with my career counselor.) There was nothing really noteworthy about the morning or afternoon, apart from Christopher staying home because he was sick, too.
Since it was Tuesday, that meant Michael, Corie and I had to get ready for Young Single Adult Institute that evening when Dad got home. It was held at the Davis branch of Weber State University, an easy 10-minute drive from home. We were in a bit of a rush because Dad was running a bit late. When Dad stepped through the door, it was a very quick hug, peck on the cheek, and "Bye, Dad." My last image of him was sitting at the kitchen table with his blood pressure cuff; Mom told me later that he'd wanted to check his blood pressure.
That was the last I saw of him.
Institute went on as usual, and when we were dismissed at the end for refreshments, Brother Arrington from the bishopric appeared out of the blue and informed me that he would be taking me and my siblings home that night. I didn't think too much of it until I called home on my cell. A voice answered, "Mather residence," and it took me a minute to realize it was Kim Parry. Again, I didn't give it much thought after telling her to let my parents know that we were getting a ride.
When we got to my house, I saw the front door wide open and a big group of people gathered at the door. Before we even had a chance to approach the door, Kim came out briskly and led me, Corie and Michael to her truck. That's when it hit me that something was wrong. Kim wouldn't tell me anything, no matter how much I pressed her. All she would say was, "I can't tell you, sweetie." I know she wasn't doing it to be mean, but the suspense was murderous; my brain was racing in all directions and so many scenarios kept popping in and out. Was it Mom? Was it Dad? Was it both? Was it a heart attack? A stroke? A suicide?
We got to the hospital in no time (it was a very short drive), but I was so scared I insisted on holding Kim's hand; I had a fine time getting my legs to cooperate with me. We went through the emergency doors, where we met up with Bishop Kippen, Brother Osmani, and Sister Jefferson.
It wasn't long (yet it seemed like forever) before Mom came through another set of doors with a few other people, including a grief counselor. Mom was crying up a storm, and the first words out of her mouth were, "Dad's dead!"
Then you can figure out the rest.
There was a great deal of hugging and crying; I was too shell-shocked to cry at all. I literally could not feel anything except my legs, which felt like solid wood. The counselor informed us that Dad's heart had simply stopped (the medical term was "myocardial infarction"), and she tried to reassure us that he didn't suffer. Mom told me later that when she came back to the house after dropping us off at Institute (she was a little later than usual because of a bunch of construction work on the main roads), she found Dad lying on his back on the living room floor. He didn't say anything when she spoke to him. His eyes were half-open and his lips were a funny grayish color. When the paramedics came, they worked on him like crazy for well over 40 minutes. But it was a lost cause.
I remember seeing Kayalauna Kuhn, Sister Oliverson, and later my own sister, Christine, and brother-in-law, Joel. There wasn't much to say and not much to do besides sit around, cry, exchange hugs, go to the bathroom periodically, and stare into space.
Before we left, Mom had to go to where Dad was staying and see him one more time. I understood that completely, but I didn't have the courage to go back there myself. I didn't want to have the memory of Dad as a hospital mannequin; I felt just a little better about seeing him in his casket. In a way, I'm glad I wasn't there to see Dad die, though it disheartens me that Mom (of all people) had to make that awful discovery.
Kim chauffeured me, Michael, and Corie home. The Purcells and a few other people in the ward (whose names I can't place now) were waiting for us, and a few others stopped by the house later. At one point, my own grandparents arrived. I remember clinging to Grandpa like a lifeline; contrary to his funny, sarcastic nature, he was completely somber and called me "baby" in the most tender tone you can imagine. He and Grandma ended up staying for the night (and they took turns with Aunt Sue throughout the week) but not before Brother Osmani, Brother Purcell, and Bishop Kippen offered priesthood blessings to each member of my family, myself included.
I didn't have the heart to sleep in my own room. So I slept on the floor in Mom and Dad's room, in a sleeping bag. (Eventually I got on the bed because the floor wasn't too comfortable.) It was a long time before I was able to get to sleep; I kept thinking this was all a bad dream that I should wake up from, sooner or later.
The day that followed was easily the longest day of my life. I didn't feel like doing anything. Though people brought plenty of good dishes (Diana Dearden brought over some excellent spaghetti, my favorite), I had to force-feed myself. I went for a little walk around the neighborhood, took a nap on my parents' bed, and mostly just sat around and moped. I was finally able to cry a little that day, when some of the shock had worn off and everything was catching up to me.
The rest of the week was pretty much like that. I didn't care about anything anymore; my zest for writing and drawing was all but snuffed out. (It took me about a month to rekindle it.) I only ate and slept and showered for the sake of keeping myself healthy, or at least from getting sick. When people congratulated me on graduating college, I was all, "Yeah. Big whoop."
The funeral itself was very nice (nicer than I expected), and though I easily recognized Dad's features, a part of me kept saying, "This can't be Dad."
You can bet it was tough to see all the ads for Father's Day. My birthday, along with Christmas and every other holiday leading up to this Memorial Day, were all bittersweet.
Though I've gotten used to not having him around anymore, I still half-expect to see him tinkering at his laptop or coming through the door after work or a meeting, and it's an eerie feeling to hear his voice on our voicemail, see an extra empty chair at the dinner table, and see his clothes hanging in the closet. I've never been able to look at a mini-helicopter, a strawberry pie, a peach pie, a barbecue grill, or hear a lawn mower or the music of the Carpenters the same way since.
I know we all die one day or another, and I'm not so worried about where Dad is now or whether I'll see him again. What gets to me more than anything is why it had to be NOW. Why did he have to go NOW, as opposed to 20 or 30 years later? Maybe it's for my own good that I don't know at present, and maybe it was also for my own good (and the good of my family) that Dad was taken from us when none of us were there to see it. I feel cheated in one way, but spared in many others.
Some of my friends who'd lost a parent prior to my loss informed me that they knew exactly what I was going through, and I knew that they did indeed know. I was there for them, now it was their turn to be there for me.
Sometimes I really am okay. I'm able to put on a happy face and carry on. Other times, reality hits like a punch in the stomach. It's never easy to wake up in the morning and recall that Mom's a widow and I'm a half-orphan.
This must be what Dad went through when he lost his own dad, who passed away in a chillingly similar fashion. I'm told that Grandpa Mather also died of heart failure, at the age of 57. It's a nice thought to think that Grandpa or Grandma Mather (or both) came for Dad when it was time.
Mom and I often wonder what the spirit world is really like, what Dad is doing now. We dream about him now and then; I remember hugging him and not wanting to ever let him go. I do know that will be the absolute first thing I do when I see him again: a big, way overdue hug and kiss.
In the meantime, I'll just have to take it the way everyone else does, the way I got through this entire bittersweet year: one day at a time.
I love you, Dad.
