And if you have five seconds to spare
On this date, 19 years ago, my father died of a massive heart attack. He came home from his night working the graveyard shift on the MetroNorth trains, he went to bed. He woke up during the day and, while his kids were at school and his wife at work, he went to the gym to work out and drop some weight.
While working out he had a heart attack. This was 1990, so there weren't signs up everywhere telling people how to recognize the signs of a heart attack. They sat my father down, they gave him water, they eventually took him to the hospital, but it was too late.
He was forty years old.
Me and my sister were six, my brother was 10, my mom was only 35.
When my brother and I got home from school and saw our dad's car wasn't in the drive-way and a baby-sitter had gotten Carrie off her bus, we knew something was wrong. Our father, come rain or shine, was always there when we got home.
Then the hours passed, and daddy didn't come home. Neither did mom.
Eventually my mother came home, with our neighbor Mimi. She looked wrecked. She looked numb. She looked down at us and told us our dad had died at the hospital. I don't remember much after that. I remember jumping up and screaming at her. I remember running to my room and slamming the door. I remember carrying around my teddy bear, the last christmas gift from my father, for weeks after.
My father was forty years old, a hard worker, and a father of five kids over two marriages. He came in on his off-time to help with the school programs and even helped build a playground at the Church which refused to let him partake of all the Holy Sacraments, b/c he was a divorced Catholic. He had high blood pressure, but refused to take his pills because he didn't like how they made him feel. He never got the chance to go to college, he was drafted for Vietnam at the age of 18, joined the Navy, and got medically discharged after an accident in basic. He became a father for the frist time at the age of 19. He was a member of the railroad union, like his own father, from the age of 18 until his death. He taught me many things, like folding laundry, and loving baseball, reading horror and rocking out to Billy Joel. He wasn't perfect, no one is, but he was dedicated to his family, and he loved us dearly.
From my father I inherited my pale skin, the redder shades of my hair, the lighter shade of my eyes, my big feet, my short temper, my strength of will and determination, my nose, my love of trains. My memories of him are sometimes hazy, since I was so young when he died, but for my preschool-kindergarden years it was just me and him, Shannon and Billy, taking on the world in the afternoons. I was a daddy's girl, in many ways I still am, like I still feel this need to do things I know would make him proud.
I remember at one of his wakes my grandmother just dropping down at his casket, unable to get up, looking at her first born child unmoving, no longer cracking a wise ass joke or a charming smile. My father was buried in a navy blue Ireland sweater and a pair of nice pants. No suits for him, ever. I remember they placed a rosary in his hands. I remember having nightmares for months later, screaming as I saw demon-like creatures crawl out of my father's casket. I remember waking up one night, sitting straight up in bed, and seeing something in his form coming into the room. When my father was alive, he'd come into our room at night to give Carrie her late-night feeding. I would always wake-up and he would always laugh at me, shush me, and tell me to go back to sleep. It is still rare to this day that I sleep straight through the night.
I miss him, I can't not, but I am also a firm believer in faith. I do believe he's watched out for us more than once. The fact that Andrew hasn't been shot yet, the fact my sister's lived beyond anybody's expectations, all those time my mom's almost had a fatal accident and hasn't, all those time I could've died and didn't. But here's the thing: I wouldn't change this life, my life, for the world. Everything has shaped me into who I am, the memory of my father being one very strong factor, and while I still have a long way to go, and a lot to do, I am proud of who I am today. I have two college degrees, I know I am capable of becoming a professional historian, I have set foot on Irish soil, traveling by myself with my own money. I survied three years living in a city where I know no one and have no family close by and I can, and will, do such a thing again.
So this, this is in memory of him. In what he did, and what he became, and what we remember him for. I love you daddy, I know you're out there for me and the bean and mom and andrew, and I just hope you're having a hell of a time with the rest of your family and friends wherever you are. Hey, maybe the Jets can actually get to the Superbowl this year!
Rest in Peace, WRJ Jr. 2-14-1950 to 10-11-1990
