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Dearest Pop,
It was the night before All Saint's Day, you didn't want me with you, but I insisted. So, you drove us to the store to prepare for the next day.
You were behind me when you slowly looked small. You were falling. It was the first time I saw you fall. You were in pain. I didn't know what to do. I didn't even know how I managed to grab your phone and called Mom. I panicked.
It was a heart attack. I was crying hard. You were brought to the hospital. The next day, you needed to have a brain surgery. It was All Saint's Day and blood donors were hard to find. I was hopeless.
The next thing I saw was the unconscious you brought on the way back to the ICU from the operating room. Your bed had posts that looked like a Christmas tree made of bottles.
I waited 'til the general aneasthesia's effect fades. The surgery was said to be a success. I waited so I could talk to you, but you didn't wake up.
It was called a comatose. I made you a playlist of your favorite songs for you to listen to. The doctor said it was good for you. That it would wake you up, but you didn't. Nothing woke you up. Not even my silent weeps and my wet face; not even my kisses or my whispers. Nothing. You were unresponsive.
My happiest day came when you responded to what I said a few times. I was so happy, I cried. I saw you open your eyes several times. I saw your palm open a few times because I told you so. You were struggling, but you tried. How dumb was I to make you struggle that much.
A few hours after that, you seem to release everything you had. Now, I think it was what is said to be your farewell. I was too dumb to notice it was your last.
More hours passed and the cardiac monitor's display is stable, so stable that it didn't change a figure. I thought it was a good sign, but it wasn't.
The unchanging statistic was the sign that the machine responsible for your breathing was doing the job solo. You were no longer helping yourself.
You didn't make it. At age 47, Dad you left. I was alone, for Pete's sake I was always alone with you in that room.
I was alone when the experts approached me one after the other. Five times Dad. They told me you were dead. I heard it five times from different people at different time in that same room with you. Each time, I expected different news. That the other informed the wrong person or that the other went to the wrong room, but no. I was alone and they told me the same story. It killed me five times.
But I saw you. You were breathing. You were warm. You were --- alive.
It's been two years since the day I last felt your warmth. It's been two years and I still have not ran out of my share of 'it could have beens'.
Four days before your massive stroke, you were in the lawn with us, but we didn't include you in our pictorial. All I had from you that time was a blurred photo of you when it could have been a family portrait with you if only I knew. Now it is certain that I'll never be able to hold a complete family portrait of us. Never.
On our way to the hospital for the surgery, I didn't sit beside you. Instead, I cried alone far from you when I could have sat beside you and told you to not give up and that I love you.
When one day you became responsive, I made you do things like open or close your eyes when I could have just whispered to you how much I love you while you could hear me.
When I knew you were brain dead, I could have waited a little longer to feel your warmth before I decided to take the respirator off your system, but I didn't.
I miss you so much Dad. It has been two years. I could have done better, but I didn't. I'm sorry.
You were behind me when you slowly looked small. You were falling. It was the first time I saw you fall. You were in pain. I didn't know what to do. I didn't even know how I managed to grab your phone and called Mom. I panicked.
It was a heart attack. I was crying hard. You were brought to the hospital. The next day, you needed to have a brain surgery. It was All Saint's Day and blood donors were hard to find. I was hopeless.
The next thing I saw was the unconscious you brought on the way back to the ICU from the operating room. Your bed had posts that looked like a Christmas tree made of bottles.
I waited 'til the general aneasthesia's effect fades. The surgery was said to be a success. I waited so I could talk to you, but you didn't wake up.
It was called a comatose. I made you a playlist of your favorite songs for you to listen to. The doctor said it was good for you. That it would wake you up, but you didn't. Nothing woke you up. Not even my silent weeps and my wet face; not even my kisses or my whispers. Nothing. You were unresponsive.
My happiest day came when you responded to what I said a few times. I was so happy, I cried. I saw you open your eyes several times. I saw your palm open a few times because I told you so. You were struggling, but you tried. How dumb was I to make you struggle that much.
A few hours after that, you seem to release everything you had. Now, I think it was what is said to be your farewell. I was too dumb to notice it was your last.
More hours passed and the cardiac monitor's display is stable, so stable that it didn't change a figure. I thought it was a good sign, but it wasn't.
The unchanging statistic was the sign that the machine responsible for your breathing was doing the job solo. You were no longer helping yourself.
You didn't make it. At age 47, Dad you left. I was alone, for Pete's sake I was always alone with you in that room.
I was alone when the experts approached me one after the other. Five times Dad. They told me you were dead. I heard it five times from different people at different time in that same room with you. Each time, I expected different news. That the other informed the wrong person or that the other went to the wrong room, but no. I was alone and they told me the same story. It killed me five times.
But I saw you. You were breathing. You were warm. You were --- alive.
It's been two years since the day I last felt your warmth. It's been two years and I still have not ran out of my share of 'it could have beens'.
Four days before your massive stroke, you were in the lawn with us, but we didn't include you in our pictorial. All I had from you that time was a blurred photo of you when it could have been a family portrait with you if only I knew. Now it is certain that I'll never be able to hold a complete family portrait of us. Never.
On our way to the hospital for the surgery, I didn't sit beside you. Instead, I cried alone far from you when I could have sat beside you and told you to not give up and that I love you.
When one day you became responsive, I made you do things like open or close your eyes when I could have just whispered to you how much I love you while you could hear me.
When I knew you were brain dead, I could have waited a little longer to feel your warmth before I decided to take the respirator off your system, but I didn't.
I miss you so much Dad. It has been two years. I could have done better, but I didn't. I'm sorry.