It’s been three weeks since I received the phone call from the medical examiner. I was at work when the unknown number called me and after I Googled it, it said the “Hennepin County Medical Examiner.” That’s not a call you ignore and I’m glad I didn’t, though I would’ve rather learned about my dad’s passing from family. I can still say you’re never going to be ready for that call.
Honestly, the last three weeks have been a blur. Having to plan a memorial service or celebration of life filled a lot of the first week and trying to keep up with life has followed after. I’m processing his death at my own pace, which I think is fine. I refuse to acknowledge any rules for grief and just letting whatever happens happens, but not denying myself from feeling certain things.
The amount of support I’ve received has been incredible. I never would have expected the degree of outpouring that myself and family received that has made dealing with this easier.
Friends will still ask how I’m doing and if I’m hanging in there. Honestly, it’s still weird not having a parent. I don’t think I’m used to it. While my dad and I would talk once every week or every other week, we hadn’t seen each other in months. He had abstained from participating in family events after my grandma’s home was sold nine months ago and consistently canceled plans we had made leading up to his death.
My girlfriend pointed out that based on all of this, my relationship with him hasn’t necessarily changed yet. Maybe it will when his birthday passes on September 9 or when I don’t get a phone call from him on my birthday a month later. I have no idea what’s going to happen.
His life didn’t have to end this way, so soon
The honest answer to how I’ve been doing lately is that I’m angry. Things will happen that remind me of him and I think how stupid this is that he’s not here. “You should be here!” is definitely a thought I’ve had many times.
This feeling was only exacerbated by learning his official cause of death: atrial fibrillation, liver failure, alcoholic cirrhosis, and alcohol abuse. When he mentioned that his doctors suspected he may have cirrhosis of the liver, he seemed to recognize the severity. This was probably just over a week before he passed.
My dad mentioned in my last conversations with him that he had stopped drinking once his health declined and his girlfriend said confirmed that he didn’t drink for the final two weeks of his life. This should have happened a long time ago. He should have quit when we spent Easter 2012 in urgent care having him treated for congestive heart failure. But he didn’t and that’s just how addiction works a lot of time.
Sometimes I tell myself that it didn’t have to go this way, but like many addicts, it was unlikely to end any other way. That’s sad and maybe harsh, but there was hope seven years ago when his liver was surprisingly still healthy.
It killed me at the service to see the old pictures of him with me and my sister. He looked happy and tired, much like any parent of two young children would be. But I didn’t often see him that happy and certainly not in the final nine months of his life. He couldn’t find that happiness in the final months of his life but wherever he is, I hope he’s happy now.
I’m also angry because I look at those photos and see a man who genuinely loved being a father, but other things got in the way. I know he wanted to be there more for us and now there’s no way he will. He wasn’t there for my college graduation dinner because he wasn’t well enough and now he’ll miss countless birthdays, weddings, and so much more.
I think of him choosing to stay home last Christmas instead of celebrating with the family in protest over my grandma selling her house. In the end, he robbed us and himself of one last Christmas with the family.
It makes me angry to listen to my grandma, his mother who had to bury her son, say that he should have at least given us the chance to say goodbye.
It makes me angry not to hear his girlfriend say that he gave up on the day that he died, but to think that she is right. He still had a heart rhythm when paramedics arrived that morning and tried for 40 minutes to bring him back. Surviving that episode would have meant significant lifestyle changes, doctors appointments, and more medications. I guess it wasn’t worth it.
My dad had many great intentions but change was difficult for him and he didn’t often like doing things that made him uncomfortable. I think of the times I encouraged him when we’d work out at the YMCA or give him nutrition advice, and how he was never ready to take that next step.
Changing your life isn’t supposed to be easy
When we would talk, he’d always tell me how he didn’t eat enough or eat consistently but began snacking on lunch meat and fruit instead of junk food. That seemed like progress but visiting his office after he passed revealed a few too many McDonald’s bags. Changing your life is difficult but it’s not like he didn’t have support. We all recognized that he still had time and were willing to help. Now, it’s definitely too late.
Losing my dad left a bunch of complicated emotions. I wasn’t perfect and he wasn’t perfect, but we loved each other. These things wouldn’t upset me if I didn’t care and sorting through these emotions is a part of the grieving process. If it seems like I’m being harsh, I don’t mean to.
For now, I’m upset that my dad didn’t realize just how much power he had to change his life and situation. You can always find a reason not to do anything or you can do what you can. Sometimes the path to changing your life is taking whatever small, incremental step that you can. And when that shit gets hard and you want to quit, remember why you started in the first place.
