Monday, July 13, 2009
There was another July 13 that fell on a Monday. It was in 1992. Our summer day started as usual, but little did we know it would end in tragedy.
I got the call as husband and I were sitting down to supper. "Something's happened to your dad." I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.
Driving to the ER, I felt like everything and everyone was in slow motion. Why were all the cars just poking along?
We finally got there. "We're working on him," they said. "What happened?" I asked. He had just collapsed, I was told. After an eternity, they finally came out and said nothing more could be done. Your dad is gone. They had been trying to get a heartbeat back, to no avail; he had suffered a heart attack.
I looked and people were just going on as usual all around me. The nurse was answering the phone. The cars were going by as I looked out the window. Wait, something was wrong here. Why hadn't the world stopped? Didn't they all know I just lost my dad? But I later realized the world doesn't stop turning when you lose someone.
I felt like a thief had come in the night and took my daddy. I felt betrayed, victimized. Silly, but that's exactly how it felt. Like someone had just perpetrated a crime against me and my family, and we deserved justice.
It's been 17 years today, Daddy. I miss you so much. I know God had a reason for taking you, and one day we'll know what it was. There is certainly a void now that you're gone. You were a jokester, the life of the party. We miss all your old stories. Oh, how I wished I'd sat and listened more closely when you told tales of your young days. I'd just roll my eyes then, and think they were boring. How I'd love to hear them now.
I love you, Daddy.