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My father is dead.
I got the call this afternoon. My stepmother had called my sister immediately after calling 911, and then the paramedics and police arrived before she could call me. So my nieces called me. And they all came over. I mean, my sister, my nieces, and my brother-in-law.
My sister and brother-in-law were literally just out there in Lake Geneva. They got back on New Year's Eve.
I think I wrote in here about how my stepmother's sister texted me several months ago terrifying me with concern about how I would manage without my dad -- not knowing that my stepmother had not told either my sister or me yet about his need for a heart valve operation.*
But my stepmom downplayed it, telling us he wasn't going to drop dead. Apparently -- she said on the phone a while ago, the doctor had actually said the heart valve operation would make him feel better, but probably NOT prolong his life.
I've been crying pretty steady for a few hours now, with gasping breaks to talk with my sister and nieces et al.
It hurts so much.
I want him to have a huge political memorial, sometime this summer. I was angry that my uncle's memorial soft-pedaled his Workers' World politics. I am damned if my dad's will not celebrate his lifetime of revolutionary marxism, of internationalism and engagement with the Fourth International and Ernest Mandel.
We have to do an obituary for the local LG newspaper in which he had a weekly history column.
He was 82. He was not enjoying the contraction of his life -- he should not have been driving, but still was. He couldn't travel internationally any more, and walking was increasingly difficult. He fell, yesterday, apparently, and my stepmother wasn't strong enough to pull him up, so he waited a while on the carpeted floor and was finally able to pull himself up using his armchair. This morning, he didn't feel like he could do the daily drive to the Piggly Wiggly for coffee and so Mary could get her paper copy of the New York Times. So he went back to bed, and Mary drove to the Pig. When she got back, she thought he was napping. He has been napping a LOT in the last few months. When she went to wake him up, he was dead. Which is exactly what happened with me and my mom. She went to take a nap; I went to wake her up; she was dead. She was still warm, which was shocking and led to me shouting at her to wake up, over and over until the neighbors came. He was cold, according to Mary.
I will have to write about him. I want to write about him. But not now.
*This is what Mary's sister (whom I love) texted me last July: "Thinking of you. I suspect you are worried about PQ. I had a good talk with Mary yesterday and hate to think of all of you losing him.😘"
My sister and brother-in-law were literally just out there in Lake Geneva. They got back on New Year's Eve.
I think I wrote in here about how my stepmother's sister texted me several months ago terrifying me with concern about how I would manage without my dad -- not knowing that my stepmother had not told either my sister or me yet about his need for a heart valve operation.*
But my stepmom downplayed it, telling us he wasn't going to drop dead. Apparently -- she said on the phone a while ago, the doctor had actually said the heart valve operation would make him feel better, but probably NOT prolong his life.
I've been crying pretty steady for a few hours now, with gasping breaks to talk with my sister and nieces et al.
It hurts so much.
I want him to have a huge political memorial, sometime this summer. I was angry that my uncle's memorial soft-pedaled his Workers' World politics. I am damned if my dad's will not celebrate his lifetime of revolutionary marxism, of internationalism and engagement with the Fourth International and Ernest Mandel.
We have to do an obituary for the local LG newspaper in which he had a weekly history column.
He was 82. He was not enjoying the contraction of his life -- he should not have been driving, but still was. He couldn't travel internationally any more, and walking was increasingly difficult. He fell, yesterday, apparently, and my stepmother wasn't strong enough to pull him up, so he waited a while on the carpeted floor and was finally able to pull himself up using his armchair. This morning, he didn't feel like he could do the daily drive to the Piggly Wiggly for coffee and so Mary could get her paper copy of the New York Times. So he went back to bed, and Mary drove to the Pig. When she got back, she thought he was napping. He has been napping a LOT in the last few months. When she went to wake him up, he was dead. Which is exactly what happened with me and my mom. She went to take a nap; I went to wake her up; she was dead. She was still warm, which was shocking and led to me shouting at her to wake up, over and over until the neighbors came. He was cold, according to Mary.
I will have to write about him. I want to write about him. But not now.
*This is what Mary's sister (whom I love) texted me last July: "Thinking of you. I suspect you are worried about PQ. I had a good talk with Mary yesterday and hate to think of all of you losing him.😘"
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I think that's how I'd want to go—sudden, minimal suffering, before my life got too constricted. But it's scant comfort to one's loved ones, who don't get a chance to say a proper goodbye.
I hope you get your big celebration of your dad's life and work. He deserved that.
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