Today my dad would have been 69 years old.
I lost him in 2008, when I was just 26. I was in Chiropractic school, 6 hours from home, when I woke up to a voicemail from the police.
“You’re dad’s dead,” was the gist of the message - a super-professional way to let a family know that their loved one was gone.
That message had been preceded by a million missed calls from my brother, whose phone had actually been on when the police called (unlike mine), so he knew first. I dropped to my knees in shock, then stood to pack my things and head for home.
It was January in New York state, and it was bitterly cold. I stopped to get gas and can still remember how frigid it felt to use the pump without gloves, but how appreciative I was for the discomfort because it meant I was alive and could feel, unlike my dad.
My dad’s passing was unexpected, though I always knew it was a possibility. He had a life-long battle with alcohol, and, after becoming sober from that, replaced it with prescription drugs. He was an emergency room nurse, and his doctor was a “friend” - the kind of friend that gives you unlimited refills on huge bottles of Oxycodone and Morphine that will eventually lead to your death.
The ironic part of him dying of a drug overdose is that the reason he started taking narcotics in the first place is because he had back pain - and I was in Chiropractic school, where I learned how to help people with exactly that. If only I had already graduated and been home, maybe I could have saved him.
At his funeral I was angry with him, and I had a hard time accepting everyone saying how wonderful he was. I made the 6 hour drive back and forth to his house for months after that, cleaning out every single thing he had accumulated in his 52 years. He didn’t have a will, which made everything so much harder for me, especially since I had no help from my siblings.
Death can bring people together, or it can break them apart. I hoped it would be an opportunity to bring me closer to my brothers, but it did the opposite. And now without my dad, who had been my lifeline to his side of the family, I also lost touch with my paternal aunts, uncles and cousins. It would be years before we would reconnect.
There have been so many times over the almost 17 years since my dad passed that I wish he were here with me - when my husband and I opened our business, when we got married, when we had our children, when we bought our first home. I know he would have been there every step of the way to tell me how he really felt, to give advice, to play catch with my boys or take them fishing, and to help with home improvement projects (that he would half-ass, but get done). Becoming an adult and a mother without his guidance (or that of a mother - but that’s a story for another day) has been the biggest challenge of my life.
Last year I saw a video going around social media where kids and their parents were put in different rooms and then asked the same question: “If you could have dinner with one person, dead or alive, who would it be?” . The parents all answered things like “Mother Teresa”, “Michael Jackson” and “Patrick Dempsy”. But every single one of the kids said “my family”. I’m with the kids. Sometimes I see my dad in my dreams, but my real dream would be to be with him again - to share just one more meal that I could make for him, after all he gave me.
Happy birthday, Dad.