April 22, 2024
The Last Time I Saw My Dad Alive
I was vomiting all day. A gastroparesis attack, bad enough that I texted my doctor and NIH and canceled my trip. I was supposed to be admitted that day for a liver biopsy. Instead, I was curled in bed, trying not to go into DKA. Sleeping, sweating, throwing up into a bowl next to my bed. My dad was sick too—so breathless that my sister came over and brought him a nebulizer.
Later she said she didn’t even understand how he made it up the stairs to my apartment. But he did. He always showed up. And that was the last time I saw him alive.
He apologized to me. For my relapse. He was dying, and he was still saying sorry that I was the one vomiting. That was my dad. I don’t remember what we said exactly. I think we said I love you. We always did. I know he squeezed my foot.
The next day, my mom asked if I wanted to come into the house and see him. I didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t feeling well and I was lazy or sad or maybe both. I said no. I didn’t know it was the last chance.
When I got the call from the ER, I was already on my way. I walked into the hospital and they told me he died. My mom and sister were already there. They had known. They stopped the code maybe fifteen minutes before I arrived.
Then I saw him.
He was lying on a hospital gurney. Veins accessed, breathing tube still in. I think I tried to push it out of the way. I didn’t want to see it.
We waited an hour or so outside his room and then the chaplain came and gave last rites. My dad was raised Catholic, and put all of his kids through 12 years of Catholic school and then college. I don’t know if he believed in God, but it felt like the only thing to do. I remember sitting at his feet, closest to the door, shaking. The chaplain said his prayers, agreed to run the funeral, and left.
It was time for me to go. I kissed his cheek. It was cold. Cold and awful and gone. It didn’t feel like him. He wasn’t there anymore.
That’s the last time I touched my dad.
Thursday marks one year since he’s been gone. I can’t imagine facing more days without him, but I will. I will do my best to make him proud. I will take care of the grandkids.
I miss you, Dad. I love you, Dad. A lifetime wouldn’t have been enough.
Your every breath makes his spirit proud and gives him peace. His love will forever be a loving guide for you…may you always feel him near when you call.