Disclaimer: I will not win a Pulitzer or publishing deal from this post. I am going to try to not edit it extensively because I want it to be its most authentic. So apologies in advance for the stream of consciousnesses writing that’s about to follow.

I lost my Dad, somewhat (more on that in a bit) suddenly, nearly 3 weeks ago.

Funny phrasing, saying “lost” to mean “they died” I literally lost him two summers ago when we were in San Diego at my nephew’s boot camp graduation. Our whole party went to the bathroom and when we came out, he was nowhere to be found. We found him eventually, that day. He will not be waiting for me at the car, as he was that day.

I, myself, am now equally lost.

I know everyone thinks they have the best Dad, and everyone is right. Including me. He was the best.

He was not perfect. He was impatient and a hard-ass when I was growing up. He was a “needler” and “shit-stirrer” when I grew up.

He was the reason I ever gained an interest in politics. When I was in high school, we would watch political shows on CNN before the family went out to dinner every Saturday night. We connected politically and roared with delight while watching the satirical skits on Saturday Night Live together, post-dinner dates.

My dad taught me the immeasurable value of a work ethic. We always had chores growing up, and the day I turned 16 I was expected to become a tax-paying, contributing member of the family (or at least my own bank account). And so, I did, and I have worked (mostly) ever since. My work ethic is one of the traits I pride myself on the most because it reminds me of him.

My dad loved music and travel – two traits I inherited from him. Two of my best memories with him are the year we went to Jazz Fest in New Orleans and saw both the Neville Brothers (his fave) and Ani DiFranco (mine). And then the year we went to Italy, and it was the first (and only) time I saw him get drunk. He was telling a story and dropped the F-bomb, and it’s the greatest memory because my dad until the day he died would chastise me for saying “shit” or “damn”.

My dad, along with my mom, chose me as their child and he always made me feel no different than if I had been born from them. My cousin Angie recently told me we had an endless, unbreakable bond. It was true. My dad and I had always been buddies, always been close. I never had a connection with my mom, plain and simple. My dad was the one who took me on his errands, specifically asking me to join him because we both enjoyed the time together. Honestly, some of my best memories are riding to the liquor store (I still love the smell of them), the bank (getting dum dum suckers in the drive-through), and going to the tobacco shop on Sundays. I would walk around, popping the vacuum-sealed lids off the abundant glass jars, inhaling the exotic scents. There would be a platter of warm sweet rolls and a pot of coffee, and a long polished bar where old men with beards would sit. My dad had a love of automobiles and growing up in a big city, there was at least a couple of car shows a year downtown. He would always take me. I would be bored as shit but thrilled that he would ask me to spend time with him. Even as a kid, I got that and it clearly made an impression on me.

My dad was the one who took us to fireworks, parades, and ballgames. My dad is the one who taught me to drive, and how to wash a car and change a flat. Still can’t do the last one (sorry Pops). My dad taught me to balance a checkbook and the importance of “paying yourself first”. My dad was the one who moved me into my dorm, stuck 60 bucks into my hand, and told me to call them the next day…and my dad was the one who visited me at college and not only saw every show I was in, but every show that my best friend was in, as well. My dad is the one who moved me across the country four times. My dad is the one who did my taxes every year, cheerfully because he was an accountant and that was his jam. My dad was my biggest cheerleader.

I said at the beginning that his death was somewhat sudden. He had a planned total knee replacement at the beginning of June, which I was there for. I was with him and my mom the entire month, with plans to get him back home out of rehab before I left. That was the plan.

You know what they say about making plans.

But after his successful knee surgery, he was having trouble breathing, eating and using the bathroom. It was determined that his hiatal hernia was causing the issues and that it needed to be fixed via laparoscopic surgery. So he had the second surgery done 5 days after the first. It, too, was deemed successful. He was moved to a skilled nursing facility (read: nursing home) for rehab, after doing a few days of rehab at the hospital. Long story short, he did not recover from that second surgery. In my opinion, it was a rapid decline from that point.

The day before he died, I saw him twice. I woke up that morning to a series of missed calls and one frantic voicemail from 1:30am (my phone is always on silent, especially overnight). My dad was never a person prone to panic. But the voicemail was asking for me to bring his Tylenol because he was in extreme pain and “they” wouldn’t give him pain meds. So at 7am, when I got the notifications, I called him and he was still adamant that I bring him the Tylenol. I drove it up there around 8, and he was still annoyed but calmer. We had a brief but intense discussion in which we agreed I would call to try and get his pain meds changed. He didn’t want to wait until the follow-up appointment on Thursday. I left him, and called the surgeon’s office and explained the situation. Dad had been experiencing a lot of intense pain following his hernia surgery, and the surgeon was aware of it and said it was common and could last a few months. I explained to them that the pain was happening more frequently and now was affecting his PT, so could we please do something stronger? They said they’d call me back.

I went back to visit Dad in the afternoon and immediately I could tell, something was off. He seemed doped up, but not quite. Just…calm and quiet. More so that in previous visits. I asked how his pain had been and he said it was better. Then I asked if he was able to do his PT and he said no, which annoyed me. When I asked him why not, he took a deep breath and said he just wasn’t feeling up to it. Although somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet alarm bell went off, outwardly I just chalked it up to lack of sleep. I said I was continuing to follow up with the surgeon and maybe we could try at home rehab, so at least he’d be more comfortable. And he agreed to that. When I left him, around 5pm, we had a plan to start the at-home rehab transfer the following day. I told him I would see him in the morning, as was our custom by that point (two visits a day usually, occasionally one more or one fewer). I did not say I love you before I left. Only see you later.

I learned several years ago that the only good news that comes in the middle of the night is Oscar nominations. The phone call came at 4:34 the next morning, a Wednesday. Instantly awake, I could hear my mom’s end of the conversation: an “oh no” followed by “Good Shepherd”. Thank God, I thought to myself, he’s still alive and she’s just telling them where to take him. I think part of me believed that maybe he was just having trouble breathing or had asked to be taken to the hospital because of his pain. My mom hung up, and I laid there in the still dark bedroom for what seemed like forever but was probably only a few minutes. Why wasn’t she yelling for me? Finally, I heard her shuffle her way to the front of the house and when I called down to her, she told me he was found unresponsive and that the EMTs were working on him. As a natural, in-shock reaction I said I would jump in the shower. Then I realized that wasn’t the best course of action, and we agreed to get dressed and leave immediately. I called my brother and minutes after hanging up with him, the nursing home called back and said he didn’t make it. When my mom told me this, I said: “You’re kidding”. Because of course, it had to be some horrible mistake. At what point does an EMT stop resuscitate attempts on an 80-year-old in poor health? Couldn’t they keep trying until we got there? The answer, apparently, was no. So my mom and I made our way to the nursing home in the breaking dawn, already sticky with humidity. We met the coroner (strange to type those words, even stranger than saying it out loud) who informed us he believed it was heart failure. Dad was tucked neatly into his bed and looked like he was sleeping. I removed his glasses from his face and gathered his things.

I wished I had told my mom that I needed a minute alone with him, but I didn’t. I wish I had taken a picture of our hands together, but I didn’t. (I did later on before the funeral, but it looks horrible and fake. I am not deleting the photo for now, though) I wish. I wish. I wish.

My dad’s legacy is me, and my brother, and the children we are raising. Every single good thing that I am, is because of my Dad and the lessons he taught me. I know how lucky I am because, after his near-fatal stroke 8 years ago, there were no unfinished conversations between us. He knew how much I meant to him, and vice versa. He lived an extremely full, long, and happy life. I was gifted with 8 extra years with him, and 45 years total. How very lucky I am. And all of these things should make me feel better. But they really don’t. My heart and soul have a huge void that will never heal. I haven’t even fully wrapped my brain around the fact that he’s just gone.

I’ve lost my true North, and I will never be the same.

“And the best part of a bad day is knowing it’s okay

The color of everything changes

The sky rearranges its shade

and your smile doesn’t fade into a phone call, and one bad decision we made.” – Counting Crows