It was around 3am on July 5th, 2014 when my brother burst into my room with tears on his face.
“You need to get up. Go upstairs. Something’s wrong with Dad.”
My stomach dropped, my hands started trembling, and I felt cold. Something bad was happening, and it was not like the many times before.
I trudged upstairs, my hands gripping the railing so tightly that my knuckles turned white. The basement door was open, so I could hear everything–the EMTs hastily discussing what the plan of action was, my mother’s worried breaths, my brother’s sobs– as I gazed in shock at my father’s near lifeless body lying on our living room floor. Gloved hands rapidly worked on chest compressions in waves of blue latex. The ambulance lights flashed through the windows, and it was all just too much. I felt nauseous and retreated to the bathroom, hovering over the toilet with this incessant pulling in my stomach. I had one thought in my mind as I looked up at the ceiling, begging whatever Gods that could hear me for one last wish: “Please, just let me say goodbye.”
My chance never came.
___________
My dad, Michael, was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes before I was around and was unlucky enough to struggle with complications because of it. When I was 8, he was diagnosed with renal failure, and by the time I knew what that meant, it was terminal.
I grew up loving and living with my dad realizing that he would be gone before I knew it. Our family spent countless days and nights at the hospital with him, trying to make his days a bit brighter. No one understood the pain he was going through, but it was tough for everyone.
One Christmas we brought in a tiny tree and some gifts to unwrap in the hospital room, the view of frozen Lake Erie dimly lit by the streetlights and glistening snow. The smile on my dad’s face when we came in with decorations made my heart warm. I had to learn from a very young age that the holidays are not about how many gifts you get, or a warm fireplace with the smell of baking cookies. Sometimes, happiness and cheer comes in the form of sterile sheets and the smell of sanitizer, knowing that your loved ones are safe for another day.
Another holiday was spent in the ICU, as he was in a coma due to extreme fluctuations in his blood sugar. One hour it was 10bgl, the next it was over 1000bgl. The doctors and nurses did not know how he managed to survive those few weeks, but he did. It was the best day ever when my brother and I were told he woke up.
There were at least two times when his heart failed, and he was pronounced dead on the table, before he actually died. The amazing hospital staff somehow brought him back, but each time his demeanor weakened. His body was frailer, his brain slowly shutting down, but his spirit stayed whole.
I eventually saw him break, though. He had a wound on his leg that spread an infection through his whole calf. There was nothing anyone could do except amputate. We were there for the whole surgery, just waiting for him to be sent back to his room. Once he was, and he finally woke up, he was overcome with sobs.
“My leg…”
But it did not take long before he was back in higher spirits, attending appointments to be fit for a prosthetic leg. He stayed healthy enough to receive his mechanical limb and relearn to walk with it.
Dialysis was a huge part of our lives as well. He started at a clinic but finished at home when my mom got her certifications to run home dialysis. My brother and I helped. Every other day, each of us would take turns preparing the Sak and putting it into the machine. Sometimes I didn’t feel like doing it and was mad at the world for making me responsible for something so important while I was so young. Now I’d give anything to “make another Sak.”
There were countless ups and downs. Chaos consumed my family. My brother and I had to grow up much faster than all of our friends. My mom had to sacrifice so much. And I cannot even imagine how much pain and emotion my dad had to work through. Times were hard. Life truly sucked sometimes, and I felt cheated.
Then it stopped.
No more Saks, no more hospital visits, no more Dad.
____________
The doctor came into the room where they sent us around an hour prior. You know, The Room. The Bad News Room.
He had a look on his face that told us everything we needed to know. My dad was gone.
The words “We did everything we could” sent my brother into fits of anger and my mom into uncontrollable sobs. I sat nodding, really trying to comprehend what was happening.
My mom sent me out with her phone to make the necessary phone calls to the rest of my family. That was when it hit me.
The next few days were a blur, really. My family all came to show love and support. The funeral was hell for me. I’ve never cried so hard in my life, but I was embraced by love and beautiful memories from those around me.
My uncle gave a speech at the service and talked about how my dad would call, say a few words, and just stay on the line. It was annoying sometimes, but he was the kind of person that just wanted to connect with others. He didn’t need to say much, he just needed to know you were there.
His best friend spoke about their many fishing trips together, which reminded me of all the times he dragged me out to go ice fishing or stock the pond with trout.
My friends all told me how kind-spirited he was and how his laugh made them laugh, too.
It was overwhelming to know he had such a big effect on so many people, and it plunged my stomach into another wave of nausea when I realized he would now only be present in their memories.
Day after day for years, I remembered another of his quirks, and it ripped another piece of my heart from my chest.
It wasn’t easy, but I somehow managed to pick myself back up and find the words to finally write this 5 years later.
___________
Grief fucking bites. There is really no way around it and no way to sugar coat it. It is a horrible, endless cycle of emotions that makes it hard to navigate daily life. It has been over 5 years and I still get hit with days when I can’t muster the strength to get out of bed. People always tell you that there are 5 stages of grief, and that once you reach acceptance, it becomes easier to handle. I’ll tell you right now, that’s bullshit.
No one goes through the same grieving process, and it is impossible to know how much a loss will affect someone until it happens. It takes time. It is a slowly advancing development of thought and struggle and sadness. It makes you wonder. It makes you want to give up. But most importantly, it makes you grow.
There is no right way to handle loss and grief. I, personally, put all of my emotions into my school work so I could graduate high school and make my father proud. I wanted to do everything for him, just so he could look down on me, from wherever his spirit clung, and smile.
Others probably don’t feel the same way, and that’s okay. It is not an easily navigable situation, and there are no guidelines. No amount of time will take away the ache that comes with losing someone so close to your heart.
I still get caught up in all of the things I won’t experience with my dad.
I walked at my high school graduation close to tears because he was not there to see it. I will soon walk at my college graduation close to tears because he will not be there to see it.
Weddings are tough because I watch and know that I will not have my father to walk me down the aisle or join me in a father/daughter dance.
As the air gets chillier, my mind races with thoughts of “another Christmas without Dad.”
My head gets heavy, my heart clenches, and my chest gets tight. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think about how different things would be if he were still here. I could wake up every morning and say “I love you.” I could blast Steve Miller Band tunes and hear his voice singing wildly off key. I could read him my favorite bits from the books I enjoy. But that is not reality. It is a dream that, no matter how vividly I imagine it, will never come true. It sucks, but it is a part of me. This loss shaped who I am today.
Death and life are not parallel. Rather, they are intimately intertwined in an organically shifting relationship. Death is not the opposite of life, so we should not treat it as such. Death and loss can stir up so much growth and life in us, and it is important to remember that we should not feel bad for feeling sad.
Everyone deals with these emotions at some point in their lives. It is important to grasp reality and understand that grief never fades. It is always there, in the back of your mind, and with good reason. Grief lets us know we are alive and secure enough to push through situations so terrible they alter our world. Grief allows us to grow.
So yeah, grief bites. But it also brings us closer to ourselves, our loved ones, and our passions. Grieve, and grieve hard, because it’ll only make you stronger.
Michael Stewart Lee
February 24, 1969- July 5, 2014
