My Dad

My dad died over thirteen years ago. While I'm not one to grieve for years, I do still think about him on occassion -- particularly when I hear an off-color joke that he might enjoy. And I dream about him, and the house I grew up in, all the time. So much, in fact, that sometimes I feel like he's still a part of my life.

He died of pancreatic cancer. We knew he was ill because he seemed to be getting extremely forgetful and we thought it was either alzheimers or, because he was an alcoholic for most of his life, some sort of alcohol-related dementia. Turns out it was probably his brain metatesizing from the cancer.

He was only in the hospital for a few days when he was diagnosed. There was nothing the doctors could do. We were told he could live another month or another six months; they had no way of knowing. He died the very next day.

My sister and I were scheduled to meet at the hospital after work to transport him to a local hospice. It was a blistering cold, snowy January. That afternoon, as I was sitting in my office, the sun came out and bathed my office in warmth. I was filled with peace. A moment later, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that my father had just died.

I called the hospital. "Did my dad just die?" "Yes, how did you get a call so quickly?" "I didn't. I just knew."

When my sister and I went to the hospital later, we went into his room to say "goodbye" to him. His roommate (poor guy!) then told me that my father, just before he died, got out of bed and was trying to dial my number.

Although he never reached me, we had an amazing connection.