I'm the first one at the hospital.
Just before the morning bell rings to start school, my good friend and school secretary Dana Newman races up the stairs to my classroom at Central Catholic.
"Your stepmom just called!" she gasps. "It's your dad! He's on his way to the hospital!"
My hands, gripping the steering wheel, tremble all the way to St. Francis. The hospital's only a few blocks from school, but I can't get there fast enough. I don't expect to beat the ambulance, but the emergency room desk clerk tells me Dad hasn't arrived yet.
"We don't have any other information," she repeats patiently as I pepper her with frantic questions.
Pacing back and forth waiting for the ambulance, I tell myself it will be all right. Dad's only having heart fibrillations like he did before, that's all.
John and I, in fact, have just spent an evening with Dad and Kris at their house. Sitting in his favorite chair, Dad accepts the dozen or so paper bags my stepmother hands him. As she busily puts groceries away, Dad begins to fold bags.
"And would this be your very special job?" I tease.
"As a matter of fact," he says with dignity, "this is my job."
I watch as he places a carefully folded bag beside his chair. "My goodness," I marvel. "How would Kris ever manage without you?"
He glances up wryly and chuckles. "Listen, Smart Alec, I try to do my part around here."
With the advent of the year 2000 and a new millennium, Dad hands the reigns of the travel agency over to my brother Mick and, for the first time in his life, works half days. Aside from enduring a pacemaker for arrhythmia and badly arthritic knees, Dad enjoys good health. Kris makes him deeply happy, and he finally has time to to enjoy our stepbrother Nolan's high school events. In the evenings, he relaxes in front of the t.v. with Kris and Nolan. Duchess, his little dachshund, slides next to Dad's thigh in the big worn recliner. Long before the ten o'clock news, man and dog are snoring in tandem.
I refuse to believe, on this beautiful morning in late May with sunshine pouring through the windows of the hospital, that my 70-year-old father will leave this earth.
"Please God," I silently beseech, "we need him so much!"
All at once I see Lori, my brother Mick's wife, scurrying across the pavement toward the emergency room entrance, and I am filled with relief at the sight of her loved and familiar face. Almost immediately, the sirens of the approaching ambulance shatter the early morning quiet. My heart leaps against my chest. The ambulance comes to an abrupt stop not far from Lori and me. Instantly, two paramedics tumble out, open the rear doors, and muscle out a gurney. Our huge father is strapped to it, his long legs extending over the end. My hand flies to my mouth. In that instant, I know Dad is either unconscious or dead.
Immediately behind the ambulance comes a caravan of vehicles. Kris and most of my siblings fall out of their cars, and Lori and I run to meet them. Kris sobs and rushes into my arms. My brothers and sisters and I huddle around her.
"What happened?" I finally ask.
Kris struggles to regain her composure. "He collapsed on his treadmill," she chokes. "They're giving him C.P.R."
My sister Mary groans and begins to weep. The words don't penetrate my senses. Kris explains that Nolan, in his bedroom getting ready for school, hears Dad fall from his treadmill. Aside from a great gasp, Dad is motionless. Nolan immediately calls an ambulance and then notifies Kris who rushes back from work.
Without quite realizing how, we've navigated ourselves inside. Still huddled together, we're met by an Emergency Room employee who escorts us to a small room. We don't talk. Fearfully, we stare through the window of the door waiting for someone to tell us what's happened to Dad. My brother Rick reaches over to grip Kris's shoulder, and his steadiness and goodness remind me of Dad. Deb folds her arms tightly across herself, and Mary's brown eyes are strained and anxious. Mick, tall and stalwart, stands silent and still with his arm around Lori.
It's Dr. Wagoner, Dad's own physician,who walks gravely to our room and quietly admits himself. None of us breathes.
"I'm so sorry," he says softly to Kris.
Our cries fill the small room. I am suddenly recalling Mom's last shuddering breath before she passes 21 years ago. Then, as now, we weep and instinctively reach for each other. Dr. Wagoner waits respectfully, offers his grave condolences, and departs quietly to leave us alone.
Our brother Tom, who's just arrived, sees us through the window and hurries frantically to us.
"Is Dad okay?" he breathes. None of us can speak. "Tell me!" he begs when no one responds.
At last Kris grabs his hand. "Your dad's gone," she sobs.
Tom curses, lowers his head, and intently seems to study the floor.
A kind hospital volunteer pokes her head into the room. "We've notified a priest here at the hospital," she informs us. A moment later Father Harry Kurtenbach, the wonderful parish pastor with us when Mom died, skids around the corner. He's amazed to see us, and we can hardly believe it's our own Father Harry come to comfort us once again.
"Oh, children," he sighs, as if it's 21 years ago and we're all still kids. He embraces each of us. "It's time to say goodbye to your father," he says.
Our stepmother goes first, alone. When she comes back to us, something inside her seems to have broken. We suddenly remember this is the second husband Kris has lost. She leans over in agony as if searching for breath, and we catch her and hold her. Finally Father Kurtenbach ushers us to the room in which Dad lies. We steady ourselves and enter.
Dad's shirtless and wears only his gym shorts and tube socks. Other than the very stillness of his body, he could be asleep. His mouth gapes open just like it does when he snores in his recliner, and his big prominent nose sticks in the air. It's the same nose I have - the nose I've always hated on my girl face.
"I'm glad I have your nose," I think fiercely now as I stare down at my dead father. His tennis shoes rest side by side below the gurney as if any moment he will sit up, tie them on, and stride out the hospital doors to finish his workout.
Father Kurtenbach gently forms the Sign of the Cross on Dad's forehead and prays briefly. Then he invites each of us to say goodbye. Observing my siblings one by one as they tearfully hug Dad, I stand at the end of the gurney and grab Dad's gnarled hammer toes through his gym socks. Surely, he will wake up, I think confusedly. But when it's my turn to say goodbye, I feel the lifelessness beneath his cool skin.
"Goodbye Dad," I weep, just like my siblings. I hug him with all my might, the way I used to when I was little - before Dad felt awkward about hugging our adolescent bodies. It feels good, too, and I sense that Dad knows- knows that all of us cling to him one last time.
Dad's a giant of a man. We gaze now upon his lifeless form and cannot fathom he's truly gone. He looks, for all of his loving familiarity and dearness, like a fallen warrior. Nothing will ever be the same without his bigger than life presence.
When I was five-years-old, I still remember the way Dad lifted Joe, Mick and me to the low hanging roof over our backyard patio. He was so tall, it was an easy reach.
"Jump!" he grinned with his arms thrust upward.
I recall the sheer joy of leaping into space, completely confident my good father would catch me.
Although growing up with Dad was sometimes complicated, in the end Dad wanted his kids and grandkids only to know they were loved - that we could count on him.
And we always could.
For all the rest of his life, whenever we stumbled, Dad was there to catch us.
Just before the morning bell rings to start school, my good friend and school secretary Dana Newman races up the stairs to my classroom at Central Catholic.
"Your stepmom just called!" she gasps. "It's your dad! He's on his way to the hospital!"
 |
| Dad, 1998. (Photo courtesy of Grand Island Independent) |
"We don't have any other information," she repeats patiently as I pepper her with frantic questions.
Pacing back and forth waiting for the ambulance, I tell myself it will be all right. Dad's only having heart fibrillations like he did before, that's all.
John and I, in fact, have just spent an evening with Dad and Kris at their house. Sitting in his favorite chair, Dad accepts the dozen or so paper bags my stepmother hands him. As she busily puts groceries away, Dad begins to fold bags.
"And would this be your very special job?" I tease.
"As a matter of fact," he says with dignity, "this is my job."
I watch as he places a carefully folded bag beside his chair. "My goodness," I marvel. "How would Kris ever manage without you?"
He glances up wryly and chuckles. "Listen, Smart Alec, I try to do my part around here."
With the advent of the year 2000 and a new millennium, Dad hands the reigns of the travel agency over to my brother Mick and, for the first time in his life, works half days. Aside from enduring a pacemaker for arrhythmia and badly arthritic knees, Dad enjoys good health. Kris makes him deeply happy, and he finally has time to to enjoy our stepbrother Nolan's high school events. In the evenings, he relaxes in front of the t.v. with Kris and Nolan. Duchess, his little dachshund, slides next to Dad's thigh in the big worn recliner. Long before the ten o'clock news, man and dog are snoring in tandem.
I refuse to believe, on this beautiful morning in late May with sunshine pouring through the windows of the hospital, that my 70-year-old father will leave this earth.
"Please God," I silently beseech, "we need him so much!"
All at once I see Lori, my brother Mick's wife, scurrying across the pavement toward the emergency room entrance, and I am filled with relief at the sight of her loved and familiar face. Almost immediately, the sirens of the approaching ambulance shatter the early morning quiet. My heart leaps against my chest. The ambulance comes to an abrupt stop not far from Lori and me. Instantly, two paramedics tumble out, open the rear doors, and muscle out a gurney. Our huge father is strapped to it, his long legs extending over the end. My hand flies to my mouth. In that instant, I know Dad is either unconscious or dead.
Immediately behind the ambulance comes a caravan of vehicles. Kris and most of my siblings fall out of their cars, and Lori and I run to meet them. Kris sobs and rushes into my arms. My brothers and sisters and I huddle around her.
"What happened?" I finally ask.
Kris struggles to regain her composure. "He collapsed on his treadmill," she chokes. "They're giving him C.P.R."
My sister Mary groans and begins to weep. The words don't penetrate my senses. Kris explains that Nolan, in his bedroom getting ready for school, hears Dad fall from his treadmill. Aside from a great gasp, Dad is motionless. Nolan immediately calls an ambulance and then notifies Kris who rushes back from work.
Without quite realizing how, we've navigated ourselves inside. Still huddled together, we're met by an Emergency Room employee who escorts us to a small room. We don't talk. Fearfully, we stare through the window of the door waiting for someone to tell us what's happened to Dad. My brother Rick reaches over to grip Kris's shoulder, and his steadiness and goodness remind me of Dad. Deb folds her arms tightly across herself, and Mary's brown eyes are strained and anxious. Mick, tall and stalwart, stands silent and still with his arm around Lori.
It's Dr. Wagoner, Dad's own physician,who walks gravely to our room and quietly admits himself. None of us breathes.
"I'm so sorry," he says softly to Kris.
Our cries fill the small room. I am suddenly recalling Mom's last shuddering breath before she passes 21 years ago. Then, as now, we weep and instinctively reach for each other. Dr. Wagoner waits respectfully, offers his grave condolences, and departs quietly to leave us alone.
Our brother Tom, who's just arrived, sees us through the window and hurries frantically to us.
"Is Dad okay?" he breathes. None of us can speak. "Tell me!" he begs when no one responds.
At last Kris grabs his hand. "Your dad's gone," she sobs.
Tom curses, lowers his head, and intently seems to study the floor.
A kind hospital volunteer pokes her head into the room. "We've notified a priest here at the hospital," she informs us. A moment later Father Harry Kurtenbach, the wonderful parish pastor with us when Mom died, skids around the corner. He's amazed to see us, and we can hardly believe it's our own Father Harry come to comfort us once again.
"Oh, children," he sighs, as if it's 21 years ago and we're all still kids. He embraces each of us. "It's time to say goodbye to your father," he says.
Our stepmother goes first, alone. When she comes back to us, something inside her seems to have broken. We suddenly remember this is the second husband Kris has lost. She leans over in agony as if searching for breath, and we catch her and hold her. Finally Father Kurtenbach ushers us to the room in which Dad lies. We steady ourselves and enter.
Dad's shirtless and wears only his gym shorts and tube socks. Other than the very stillness of his body, he could be asleep. His mouth gapes open just like it does when he snores in his recliner, and his big prominent nose sticks in the air. It's the same nose I have - the nose I've always hated on my girl face.
"I'm glad I have your nose," I think fiercely now as I stare down at my dead father. His tennis shoes rest side by side below the gurney as if any moment he will sit up, tie them on, and stride out the hospital doors to finish his workout.
Father Kurtenbach gently forms the Sign of the Cross on Dad's forehead and prays briefly. Then he invites each of us to say goodbye. Observing my siblings one by one as they tearfully hug Dad, I stand at the end of the gurney and grab Dad's gnarled hammer toes through his gym socks. Surely, he will wake up, I think confusedly. But when it's my turn to say goodbye, I feel the lifelessness beneath his cool skin.
 |
| Dick Brown - a giant of a man. |
Dad's a giant of a man. We gaze now upon his lifeless form and cannot fathom he's truly gone. He looks, for all of his loving familiarity and dearness, like a fallen warrior. Nothing will ever be the same without his bigger than life presence.
When I was five-years-old, I still remember the way Dad lifted Joe, Mick and me to the low hanging roof over our backyard patio. He was so tall, it was an easy reach.
"Jump!" he grinned with his arms thrust upward.
I recall the sheer joy of leaping into space, completely confident my good father would catch me.
Although growing up with Dad was sometimes complicated, in the end Dad wanted his kids and grandkids only to know they were loved - that we could count on him.
And we always could.
For all the rest of his life, whenever we stumbled, Dad was there to catch us.
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