Much too young to feel this damn old.
I'm 20 damn it, and I feel 40 tonight. I'm horrible at writing here. skajeanne has pointed that out to me many times recently. What hurts the most is that it's on the terms that ahve taken place in the last 24 hours that I'm writing this. I'm sorry to those that I've been meaning to talk with. I've had such a busy holiday-time, and just when I thought I was ready to handle things again, the carpet gets yanked out from under me. My dad passed away last night, due to cardiac arrest. He had gone to a doctor's appointment last Monday (or Tuesday? My memory fails me) and the doc performed a routine EKG; something that we've all become accostomed to since his last heartattack in November 2005. The doctor did not like the resaults and suggested my dad check himself into the hospital. He did, not thoroughly convinced that there was something wrong. He found the source of the anomaly in his EKG: a minor heartattack. His fifth. As a family, we started what we thought would be a normal week's stay at the hospital for my dad.
It's funny: he always joked that he should have had a permanent room with a silver plaque with his name emblossed on it because he spent so much time there.
They started running their normal tests that they normally did in past times that dad had been to the hospital. The doctor didn't like his kidney health and asked mom if he could try some new medication to help dad. Some miracle thing. I don't know what it is now. He did fine taking it for about 3 days until his kidneys failed. This was Thursday night. I had talked to him on the phone briefly, quick enough to tell him I loved him, and that I expected to see him on Valentines. Friday morning they prepped him for surgery to have a caffeter (sp?) put in so they could start immediate dialysis to save him. He was completely comfortable and at rest and everything went fine. Mom had dropped his iPod radio off for him, asking the nurse on duty to be sure that he got it when he got back and for him to call her after he had rested. She wasn't feeling well and I'd sent her home earlier that afternoon with some medicine and the plea to sleep to feel better. As she was leaving the hospital, she heard a "Code Blue" called over the intercom in the hospital. Code Blue is for those that are near death and need to be recessitated. She went home telling herself it wasn't dad.
She'd gotten all the way home when she got a call from the hospital asking her to hurry back, that dad was being recessitated. Her phone died right after the initial message. That's when they started calling me. I picked my phone thinking it was dad on the other side because the number was the hospital's. I was glad he was calling; I'd been pretty lonely during the day. I flipped open my phone and said "Hi daddy!" but it wasn't my dad. It was his doctor, saying they couldn't get ahold of mom and that they had just spent a half hour trying to recessitate dad. He said (and I remember his words so clearly): "I hate this part of my job sometimes, miss. Your dad was a very blessed man, but his time was over, honey." It was that point that I finally found the couch to sit on, or I may have collapsed.
I spent about 3 hours at the hospital; at least I think it was only 3 hours. It truely felt like an eternity. My mom's bishop came to see her, skajeanne was driving me around (bless her) and I got to see my brother too. He had some of the best news I'd heard all that day, but nothing could and still cant, even as I write this, get the mental picture of how my dad looked before I left. By that time he'd been dead for about 4, maybe 5, hours. I wanted to kiss his cheek brfore I left, but I couldn't bring myself to. His nose was full of bloody tissue and still dripping, his tongue against his lips sticking out (oddly, that was how he slept), his forehead had started to turn purple. What's hard to think now is he had a B.A. in Government and History from BYU-Hawaii. He wanted to be a teacher; and he would have made a fine damn good one. He was so smart, and I loved listening to him talk history because you could tell he loved it. With all his heart. As I was leaving his room, I reached for his hand and took his fingers in my hand one last time. Call me hopeful, but I had hoped it was all a joke then. That he'd be warm, and sit up and grin and yell "GOTCHA!!!" He didn't. His fingers were so cold; stiff. It's true when they say rigor mortis sets in quick.
I can't even remember how dark his eyes were. He hadn't been able to see well for 10 years; a whole decade of eye problems and darkness. All that makes me simle now is that he can see. Better then I can. He can walk without doing his civil duty in holding a wall up for a few minutes. He's not in pain anymore, which is all I could hope for myself. He had a lot of bad days, and he wasn't perfect. So far from. what made it okay was that he was my dad, and I his princess. I miss him like I would air. I feel so empty, and no words can help that. It's like my heart's been ripped from my chest with a dull knife. I feel it all so deep, and it's so much more than pain. It's completely undescribable. My brother told me last night that he and his total sweetheart of a wife are adopting a baby girl. I'm going to be an auntie, and as much as the idea helps alieve some pain it doesn't. He was my dad. My daddy. And he's gone. I wish there were adequate words to describe my pain, but anything I think of falls short. He was at peace with himself and his life. It was his time to go; I know that. And I can accept it. It's hard, but I can accept that fact.