Oh Dad....

My last words to him as he lay on the ground and I stared into his face were "Oh, Dad".  I looked at his lifeless hazel brown eyes and used my hands to close them one last time.  Lying on the floor of the living room, shirt open from where the ER team had tried to do chest compressions to revive him.  

It's been 8 years since he left us to join the others that preceded him.  8 years since that Monday morning when I got the call from my sister Annie that something was wrong with Dad and that he was loopy.  He was disoriented and acting strangely.  I thought of dehydration.  Maybe his sugar level was down, or his blood pressure was low.  

Annie said that she had given him water and that his vitals were good.  He had just taken them while she was there.  We discussed calling his nurse, who was seeing him pretty regularly since his recent hospital stint.  

"Keep me informed", I said.  Words that I will forever regret.  My instinct was to go back to work, given that Annie was there.  I had visitors who had come in to meet with me, and I was in full-on "work" mode.  Annie was there, and she had things under control.  Whatever that means, because what would happen next was beyond all of our control.

Hours later, after Annie’s shift ended, it was Angela’s turn to check on Mom and Dad. When she arrived, the door was locked, and the TV was blaring, but Dad didn’t answer her knock or unlock the door—something he had done every single day until now.

After some time on the front door, she sensed something was wrong and walked quickly around the back, peeked through the window and glass door to see Dad, appearing to be taking a nap on his recliner.  But he would not move when she knocked and knocked.

She immediately called her mom, Evelyn, who told her to call Tony, her brother.  Tony rushed and broke open the door to find that Dad had passed away watching TV, remote control in one hand, a toothpick in the other.  They called 911 while Evelyn got there and called me, crying, that Dad had passed away.

My heart sank.  My mind raced.  I was paralyzed at my desk.  I took the call from the conference room, excused myself, and walked quickly into my office, answering the phone.  I hung up and started to "pack my bag" when I thought go, go, go.  No need to bring the computer.  I can get it later.  I don't recall if I actually packed it or Dan brought it home for me.  All I remember was running to my car, racing down Highway 123, trying to get from Greenville to Easley.  I remember the drive, but I was in autopilot.

I called Luisa, who happened to be in FL still, since the passing of her brother.  She decided to stick around further to be with her family.  I said I think Dad died.  I was crying and trying to stay focused on getting there as quickly as possible and avoiding getting into an accident.

She could not believe what I had said and said "what?, what?" in total disbelief.  I could not stop the ears flowing.  Getting harder to see where I was going.  I told her that I would call her back as soon as I got there.  She said be careful and I hung up.  Drive faster, I told myself. 

As I drove what normally is a 15-20 minute drive, I felt like time stood still, and it was taking longer than it had previously on that same road.  I prayed for it not to be true.  For me to be able to get there in time to take care of it or fix it.  Whatever the hell that meant.

Then the regrets kicked in.  Why had I not gone there as soon as I got the initial call from Annie?  What was I doing that was so important that I could not attend to family matters, which in my mind always came first? 

I had driven back from FL the night before by myself.  I called Dad about 9:30pm, telling him I had just gotten home.  I was tired after a ~13-hour trip, and I would visit him Monday night, after work, as it was my shift, like it was every Monday night.  He said "hi Rafy. Cómo te fue el viaje? Me alegro que llegaste temprano y con tiempo. Isite buen tiempo." (Hi Rafy. How was your trip? I am glad you are home and got home in time.  You made it in good timing."

Why did I not go there?  How would I have known that was the last time I spoke with him?  How would I not know that the last full embrace was when I went to FL 2 weeks earlier with Dan, when Luisa told me I had to come? Miguel was not doing well, and I needed to come down with Dan as soon as possible.  

I talked to my dad every single day while I was down there, telling him how Miguel was doing and trying to keep him updated. Miguel kept getting worse, and when he finally passed, Dad just couldn’t believe what I was telling him. None of us could. We were shattered — and then, right on top of that heartbreak, my own world started falling apart in ways I could barely hold together.

We would then move our focus to taking care that Dad had a proper funeral and making sure that Mom was fully taken care of.  All of our lives were turned upside down 8 years ago with everything we were going through.  

I lived with the regret for not doing what I could.  For not visiting him that evening and embracing him like I usually did.  For not telling him how much I really loved him and really valued him, moving down to be with us.  For telling him everything I wanted to tell him but was too stubborn or hesitant to say.  Dad was not a person who really showed his emotions and wanted to always show strength.  He did not like to show any weakness, but only because he did not know how.  His way of telling you that he loved you was to spend 30 minutes picking the right card that would say everything he could not force himself to say.

I was and am not like that, but with him, I had to not go overboard.  I wanted to at that time, but missed my time to do so.  The regret I had for years that seams to have been masked with all of the exciting things in my life since then, only to reappear on April 2nd.  The day my father died.

Missing him more today than I have in a while.  The emotions run high today.  Last night, I received a text from a family member that put it so spot on.  "The years fly by, but the pain lasts forever".