When you are at a loss for words

Today marks the 1 year anniversary of the passing of my brother in law, Miguel. 365 days to the day when we saw him take his last breath and could not believe what was happening.

In the last year, since then, our family has lost my dad - Rafael, my wife’s aunt - Tia Onelia, my aunt - Tia Margot, my uncle - Tio Jovino and just least week, 10 days ago to be exact, my father in law - Miguel Humberto.

2 days shy of his 81st birthday and 10 days shy of the anniversary of losing Miguel.

They say that it comes in 3’s but for us it has been twice that. 6 people that we have known, loved and dearly miss.

The pain and sorrow on our family places a shroud over the joys of birthdays, anniversaries, celebrations and what would be otherwise joyous occasions.

Life continues for us with a numbness and a state of disbelief.

While we take some comfort in the thought that they are all celebrating with each other in Heaven and in the presence of God, the thought of us continuing to be covered by this shroud and wondering if we will ever be able to truly be happy again is painful.

With each death we experience directly or hear about over the phone, the pain of what we experienced a year ago comes back roaring but in a different way. We immediately think about that day and how it started a pattern of pain, grief and loss that we still have not been able to recover from. We were knocked down a year ago and every time we try to get up, we fall.

To my wonderful brother-in-law, along with my own father and now my father-in-law, whom we all miss dearly, may we get to laugh one day with all of you. I hope that all of us begin to feel more comforted by your place in heaven than by the lack of your presence here with us on earth.

I look forward to the day we are all together, playing dominoes.

Two Twenty-three, Nineteen Thirty Six

That’s how I remember dad saying his birthday when asked. It was always cute to hear him say that at Walmart when picking up his medicines. One day, when I was there, I had to say it and the person behind the counter asked if my dad was ok. He was not. He was feeling really bad and needed for me to pick up the medicine. Little did I know that just a few months later I would lose him.

The lady behind the counter, roughly late 40’s, early 50’s, told me that she loved his accent. She loved how proudly he stood when he would say his name and his birthday. It was so romantic she said. It was. He was a proud hispanic person and at 81, was still going strong until one day, he wasn’t.

Today is dad’s birthday. It is the first birthday we celebrate without him. It’s a rainy day and has been raining all week. Including at his house where he would always complain that it doesn’t rain and that it was like a desert. Dry, hot… It never rains. Especially when he had planted stuff outside.

In the past 5 days, it has rained almost 5 inches. I can see dad up there trying to fix the problem. Probably opened up the big garden hose and said "let it rain, have to water the garden. It’s too hot down there".  Um, Dad - That’s enough rain for now. Please stop.

It’s the simple things we miss about him. The way he would swing back and then forth to get momentum, push the leg rest on the recliner until it clicked, and stand up in fell swoop. Just so he can give me a hug and a kiss when I walked in.

The way that he would call me to tell me not to rush about lunch but that it was ready. It was also 10:30am by the way. The way that we chit-chatted about this and that. Nothing too complex where it would require a lot of thought or deep conversations, but we would cover a lot of topics in our conversations.

The papers that he would receive or voice calls on the answering machines that he wanted me to review. So I can help interpret what it was all about and if we had to do anything.

The constant videos he would show us on his tablet that would come across. Which towards the end, was a video we had already seen. He also showed it to all of us and we would all warn each other through text messages that Dad had come across a new video that someone posted. So, watch out, he’s waiting for you so he can show you. We would say to each other.

One day, I walked in and he was livid, practically screaming at someone on the phone, cursing at the person on the other side, saying to the person that he wished very bad things for him. It was so unlike his character. Finally when he hung up, I asked who was that and what was that about. He said it was a crank call and he was just having fun with him. However dad was definitely bothered by the whole thing as it was the 3rd time this person had called. I ordered a call blocker and that solved the problem from that point on.

I would always walk in, assess the situation, and deal with it. Such as the leaky faucet, running toilet, water filter in the fridge… Every Saturday, it was may day to do that.

On his birthday, I would walk in with a birthday card and a gift. Usually a shirt, since most of his were stained by his cooking, or bleached because he would mix the colors and whites in his wash resulting in a white chlorine streak on a blue shirt.

Every Saturday, I would have lunch with him. Most of the times he would make it but towards the end, I was making it. I would make him lunch and take out the dinner to unfreeze it so that one of my sisters that would come later in the evening, could cook it for him.

Today is Saturday and the first birthday after losing him. Later this afternoon, two of my sisters and I will go to the cemetery to say happy birthday. To listen to his voicemail messages that I recorded to my phone so we can hear his voice.

The Mollejitas are ready.

To feel the sadness overcome us that we do not have those simple moments. Moments that we have had for about 10 years since he moved down to be with us. Moments that are starting to fade in our memories until something triggers them. Like his birthday, today.

Dad, I miss you more than I would have imagined. The pain in my throat, that feels like a sore throat is of this sadness of not having you around to talk. To do the simple things we did every Saturday.

Yes I know that you are not suffering anymore and yes I know that you are with your parents and other loved ones that left this earth before you did, or after. But I struggle to overcome the sadness I feel of you not being here so I could wish you a happy birthday and have lunch with you.

Today, on Two Twenty-Three, Two Thousand-Nineteen. What would have been your 83rd birthday.

Happy Birthday dad.

Here are the links to his voicemail and his 81st birthday. 

https://1drv.ms/u/s!AiRrLD9nwgZrhuNK9f6XTsv8yZoZrA

https://1drv.ms/v/s!AiRrLD9nwgZrhuNLGx5jjOyfkaYv1A

If it’s not the same it is different

Every year, for as long as I can remember, the routine was the same. Celebrate Christmas home with my family and then New Years with my wife’s family.

Likewise, being Hispanic, the obligatory Lechón para la despedida del año, the annual pig roast to bring in the new year. That was a routine that I had the honor of doing with my brother in law, Miguel. While there were others that participated, including my son’s Dan and Nick, or Miguel’s son in law Mike and others, the privilege of arguing with Miguel about not burning the pig, watch the flames, you let the fire die,... fell entirely on my shoulders and was something he and I shared.  And I looked forward to every year.

Every year it was the same routine but with something different. First we used whole garlic cloves that we spent at least 20-30 minutes peeling until after several years later, we discovered pre-pealed cloves!

Also, sometimes we would mix things up, especially at Miguel’s whim, when he wanted to use bitter orange this year or Spanish mojo next year.

Even where we would get the pig, would change multiple times over the course of our annual tradition with the hopes of getting the right one. We would take trips to Miami from Cape Coral, roughly 1.5 hours, to stand in line, tell stories about various things, talk about work, and listen to the new tracks we both discovered with the hopes of showing one up over each other.

Over the past several years, Miguel even discovered minced garlic. Which I would strongly disagree with but he swore it was the same and pure, like fresh squeezed orange juice. To me it was more concentrated juice watered down with something that reflected garlic at one time.

Every year it was the same. We would prepare the pig the night before, and next morning, on the 31st, would start the charcoal and set up La Caja China.  Even that would evolve over time as  Miguel got a new one, that was “better”.

Once the pig was on the charcoal, we would start the dominoes game with some new beer Miguel got just for the event. Have you ever tried mats labatt's beer? Overrated. However, his Rum and Coke (Cuba Libre) was something else.

We would play nonstop until it was time to check the pig. There were times that Miguel would disappear to the store for an ice run or something and come back hours later asking if if I ruined his pig. Ok, that occured every year.

“Did you let it burn? How’s the pig Ralphie?” He would say. “Did you let the fire die?”

Over time it was as though he was instigating me on purpose by wanting to start the pig face down instead of the skin down which is how we ALWAYS did it! That was the one disagreement with me that led me to get forceful just to make sure he would not ruin it!

We would start that way and after the pig was done, we would take it out of the box, take our pictures and then begin to cut it up for the dinner. We would always say it turned out great and that it was the best pig we had made to date. I do thing it got better every year but then it was just the fantastic memories we created doing this routine.

This year it is different once again. This year, I will not have anyone to argue with. I will not ask an hour into it, when is Miguel coming back? I will not have the opportunity to play dominoes with someone who cheated every time and created new rules in his favor. Though sometimes those rules were in my favor as well as we partnered up against Mike and Spencer.

This year the pig will be done to relive the memories that we have made, year after year, to remember all of those wonderful trips to the supermarket to get the last minute items and make sure the pig was delicious and very well prepared for the family to enjoy.

This year will be different and not the same. It will never be the same. This year we will try to do our best not to cry over the pig as we remember the priceless moments we had every year.

For the past several months I have wondered if we would do this. If we would want to do this. If we could do this.

Years ago, on one of Miguel’s birthday, I posted a picture of he and I along with the masterpiece of the lechón.

Along with the words:

“God gives awesome brothers-in-law to people who don’t have real brothers. And God did that with me too. You are an inspiration to everyone that meets you and bring out the best in people. It’s awesome that you learn from people as well.”

Miguel - I hope you took everything you learned down here, year after year, and are up in heaven teaching them how to prepare the best pig roast they’ve ever had.

Just don’t burn it and we will try to do the same without you.

I love you my brother and will forever miss our thing we did every year.  That was just between us.

The scar of a wound

Back in the early 80’s I was repairing a computer, replacing a video card inside.  The computer slipped off of the desk and when I grabbed it to prevent it from hitting the floor, I sliced my finger due to the very sharp internal computer case. I was rushed to the hospital, where I got some stitches on my finger and they wrapped it up in a bandage.  The person who "patched me up" did something to my figure that left a scar and to me, never healed properly.

Still, almost 40 years later, I can still see the scar on my finger. Normally I forget it is there, though I can see it clearly when I look at my finger.  When I pick up an object with my left hand, it reminds me that it is there because of the pain I feel when something is pressing against the wound. If I rub my other finger across it, it feels tingly until I touch a certain point and then I feel a sharp pain.

The memory of losing my dad and my brother-in-law Miguel, now going on 8 months feels exactly the same as this wound. I don't wake up crying from the constant throbbing pain I once felt. I usually go throughout the day as I go about my life, living in the today moment with everything that is calling my attention until something stops me in my tracks and I think of one of them.

Recently, on this Thanksgiving, it was the memory of dad making his delicious pot of rice for the big gathering.  He would start early in the morning preparing the spices, making the rice and then calling us to let us know it was done. Usually about 2+ hours before it was supposed to be ready and we had planned. To which he would say “se me adelanto” which means it got ahead of me.  This would happen, year after year.

It also was the memory of Miguel, along with Denise and the rest of our Florida family arriving the night before. Usually around 9PM or so, unloading the massive amount of suitcases for the 7-9 people packed in the van.  Immediately complaining about how cold it was, if we had the wood pile stocked for the fireplace and if it was already burning nice and hot. If the turkey was already prepared or if he had to go start doing all of that by himself. "Mira Denise, como me tienen trabajando!" (“Look Denise, At how much work they’ve given me to do!”). "Quick! Take a picture", he would say. Same as my Dad’s rice, this would also be the annual pattern, year after year.

Just like my finger, the sharp pain I feel when memories like I describe come back, the tears immediately start flowing down my face, almost to a gush. The thought that I will not be “whole” anymore and will forever have this wound in my heart, in my soul. Almost seem unbelievable and unbearable.

8 months later, I still feel the sharp pain and wonder if it will be like this from now on. The numbness of my mind thinking “How can this be, that this would happen like this”. That the plans that we had made were completely turned upside down.

Will every Thanksgiving bring back these painful memories or will my wound heal? Leaving just a scar of a distant memory that once robbed me of my ability to breath from the pain I felt.

8 Months and counting.

I miss you dad and Miguel in ways I struggle to describe as I rub my finger over my scar.

When the wound heals but the pain is still there.

It’s been 5 months since you left us.  We try to continue moving on, not trying to forget but continuing to live.  Trying to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, special days like Father’s day, vacations and even holidays.  But the fact is that while the numbness has disappeared, most of the time, there are times where our emotions get the best of us and stop us in our tracks.

Today was one of those days.  For 2 days actually, I have been thinking about this weekend, knowing that we were approaching 5 months since we last heard your voice.  That the long weekend was coming up but that it would be different than what we have done in the past, where we all got together at your place.  The grills will still be used, but it won’t be the same.

Sitting in church, reflecting on the day, I could not stop thinking about what I would give to have you there right next to me. What if it were different?  Why did it happen the way it did and why it was different than what we had planned?

On my way to the cemetery to visit you, a song came on that forced me to pull over and let my emotions take over me.  It was a song that Dan introduced me to that made me cry when I first heard it.  Hearing it again though, I heard something different.  I heard words that I had not heard or frankly missed before, because previously I heard it from his point of view.  Today, I was hearing it from my point of view and it took a different meaning.

The words to the song, “My Old man”, when he is talking about Feeling the Callous on his father’s hands, made me touch mine, but think of yours.  When he says that his father was a Lion, and they were his pride.  It reminds me of how much you really loved your family.   He talks about being forced to walk the line, but in the end finally understanding what plan his father had, to make him like he was.  That now that he has a son of his own, he understands that his father was only trying to raise him up the right way, to be the best he could be.

Dad, I hope you continue to be as proud of us as we think you were.  That you continue to look over us, how we are taking care of mom and trying to live our lives the best we can.  We try to be strong and that strength clearly comes from everything you taught us.  But the pain is still there.

We love you, and miss you so much.

My Old Man

Never leave for tomorrow, what you should do today.

I am sure that people have heard that quote before in some form or another: https://quoteinvestigator.com/2013/01/17/put-off/  but for me it took on a different meaning on 4/2/2018.  Four weeks ago, on that day, my dad took his last breath.  I was not there at that moment and a few hours later, when I saw EMS trying to revive him, not once did I remember the fact that he had a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) in his will.

I did not think about the fact that he had passed away peacefully, in his home, on his recliner, listening to Spanish TV with a remote control in one hand and a toothpick in his other.  I did not think about how I would miss talking to him almost daily. I did not think about how I would not be able to ask him about a new family member I found on Ancestry like I had been doing for several years.  I did not think about what we are going to do with Mom, or how our world would be turned upside down.  I did not think about how hard it would be walking into an empty house, expecting to hear a response to me saying “Hey Dad, I’m Here” when I walked in, Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.  And those were the days I did not take him to the doctor’s office.

What I thought about was the guilt of not being there for him as he left this earth.  What I thought about was the last conversation I had with him, when I got home the night before, at 9PM, after driving more than 12 hours from Ft. Myers to Greenville.  What I thought about was hearing his voice, when I said, “Hey Dad, I just got home, have to do some laundry, and I am tired.  I’ll see you tomorrow.  I woke up at 4:30 in the morning to attend Sunrise service with Denise and the family in honor of Miguel.”   His response to me was “That’s OK, no problem Rafy.  Te veo mañana, me alegro que llegaste bien. (I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m glad you are home safe.)” 

What I thought about was how I should have come over to see him, right away, since I was away for almost two weeks.  What I thought about was how I should have come in the morning, before coming to work, to check in on him.   What I thought about was how throughout the day, I kept getting calls from my sister about dad having problems concentrating and that he was “out of it” or acting strange.  What I thought about was how I should have dropped what I was doing immediately, given the promise I gave him 13 years back to take care of him, to be there for him.  What I thought about was how I should have told my sister to take him to the hospital.  What I thought about was how instead, I asked to call the nurse that was coming in later that day, to see what they would recommend.  What I thought about was how I should have asked to speak with him, to hear his voice one more time.  What I thought about was how I could not believe what was happening in front of my eyes.  All I could say was “oh Dad..oh Dad”. 

How could this be?  I never expected Dad to outlive us or last for ever.  That was never something I second guessed.  I know he was getting older, having just turned 82, but just 4 months earlier, he was walking around the gym for a mile and would still come home to cut the grass.

I always thought dad would at least survive mom, given her illness, and go away for 4-6 weeks to PR to visit his family.  What I did not expect was to get called at 5PM that day, and be told that dad was not-responsive and that EMS was on their way.  What I did not expect was to walk in, and find him on the floor, surrounded by strangers along with my sister, niece, nephew and neighbors, all crying or consoling my family, and have dad just lay there on the floor, shirt open while someone was attempting to do CPR.

The guilt I feel, even after four weeks, is hard to put in words.  Yes, we did what we could and took care of him better than I had hoped.  Yes he had a beautiful life, and if anything, showed us how we can go peacefully.  Yes he was not tied to tubes in a hospital, struggling and suffering.

So why is it, that all I can think about was that last conversation, and me second guessing how I should have come over when I got home from my trip.  How I should not have been so selfish and made the extra trip. How I would never have that chance again and I blew it.

I will not have that one more time, one more visit, one more conversation, one more kiss and hug.  If there was ever a meaning for the adage not leaving to tomorrow, what you can (SHOULD, NEED TO) do today, this is it.  I’m sorry Dad.

Trying to wake up from the fog

A little bit over 2 weeks ago, I lost my father.  It is true that I do take some comfort that dad had a wonderful life of 82 years.  That he went to be with God and live in eternal glory.  That he was reunited with his parents and other family that have preceded him.  That we did everything we could as a family, to take care of him and help him through his medical issues.  That we were there during the last 13 years of his life and literally spent every day visiting him, especially over the last 4-5 years.  That every holiday, birthday, family event was jointly celebrated as a united, large loving family with his 4 children and their spouses, 11 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren all under one roof and usually celebrating it with great food and games of dominoes.  

But to say that we are ok with his passing is incorrect.  What we would give for just one more day, one more hello, one more hug and a kiss.  What we would give for just one more disagreement and frustrated moment, followed by a hug with an apology.

It hurts more than I would have expected.  I don’t mean this in a wrong way, implying we did not love him, but that this was completely unexpected and we were all unprepared for what would happen on April 2nd. 

You see, we have been taking care of mom, who is in her last stages of Alzheimer’s, unable to respond to our calling, smile when she sees us, or react in any way due to this crippling disease.  I can’t say that when mom, passes, it won’t hurt like hell, but we know what’s coming and while we cannot predict what it will be like when the time comes, or when it comes, we know that for 10 years we have been preparing our selves for the fact that this disease is what will eventually take our mother away from us.

But dad was different.  His passing was a complete surprise to us.  Something we were not expecting or even to be honest, prepared for.  He was resilient.  He was strong, and had a character that would not let him give up.  Yes, over the past 3 months, he was having health issues, primarily with his heart, but dad appeared to be getting things under control.  His weight was under control, the liquid around his heart was sort of being managed with the medication.  His kidney was ok.  Even the sores on his feet due to the last minute bout of gout was being managed.  He was walking around with a cane the day before he left.

His nurse had come in and said that his vitals were perfect.  How could this be then that we would lose him that day?

We have scrambled to take care of his affairs, execute his wishes, and make sure that we make all of the arrangements to take care of mom, exactly like, if not better than what we did before.

But those moments when we are not in “action mode”, are the moments where we break down, question how could this be.  How could the strongest, most stubborn, resilient man we knew, not be here with us?  How could the 82 year old that just 6 months earlier, would go walk about a mile or mile and a half, then come back and actually cut his own grass have gone before mom?

The 13 years we had, were the best 13 years of our lives with him.  All of a sudden, they’re gone.  The memories we were building everyday just stopped.  There are no more memories to create.  No more dominoes to play.  No more baseball games to watch and discuss. 

It has left a vacuum in our hearts that makes no sense.   A fog that is still with us, that at times looks like it is disappearing, only to come back to leave us wondering, how could this be?  The guilt of not having closure since it was sudden and not being able to say goodbye.