We were on our way home from California visiting my family for Thanksgiving, 14 of us packed into my Dad's Suburban with our dead Camry in tow. We dragged it home all the way from where it broke down in the middle of absolutely nowhere, a.k.a Barstow, CA. Just about an hour shy of home sweet home, right after realizing we were almost done having to sit on top of each other for lack of space, my cell phone rang. It was my sister in law: "Dad was just taken to the hospital for what we think is a minor stroke. He spent the day Christmas shopping, then came home to string the lights across the roof. After finishing, he came in and stood over the sink with a sudden, shooting headache. He sat down, and that's when Mom saw it, his drooping face. It looks like everything will be fine, but come to the hospital as soon as you can."
We pulled into the driveway of our tiny apartment after the longest hour of driving ever, chucked our bags in the door and sped to the hospital just in time to watch his life flight hover off the pad to take him to a different hospital better equipped to help him. So we hopped in the car with Steve's sister and her husband to meet him at the new hospital. We joked on the way there about how if Dad were awake, he'd be flying himself to the hospital. Sure, it's no KC-135, but he would have insisted anyhow.
We met up with the rest of the family and the doctor told us he was confused as to why Dad was life flighted. He had a brain stem aneurism, and it's likely he was helpless before the ambulance arrived at the house hours earlier.
No! No! No! No! No! It wasn't real, it wasn't really happening, not for real, yet still only a couple hours later we found ourselves holding each other as we stood around his bed to let him go. We let him go. He was gone. Yesterday he was on the phone listening to us complain about our broke-down car. And now he was gone. It was some foggy delirium of tears and swollen throats. And then we woke up one morning and it was real. It really did happen, for real, and now the world is one amazing man shy.
That was five years ago and we still feel it. We still miss him every single day.
His kind and gentle heart.
His friendly arms that welcomed anyone from any walk of life.
His fierce love for his grand children, for camping, for flying, for toy trains.
For movies and movie popcorn and mexican food.
For family.
For God.
But as much as we pine, there's something about someone passing away that makes their influence on us even more powerful than when they were here with us. Now his example and his memory are an almost tangible treasure.
And as if in honor of the anniversary of that indescribable day, Steve just today announced to me that he refuses to put up exterior Christmas lights. Ever. Not at this house, not at our next house, not in a box, not with a fox. Why? Because clearly it's not a good idea for Gordon men to put up Christmas lights. Just look what happens immediately afterwards.
We pulled into the driveway of our tiny apartment after the longest hour of driving ever, chucked our bags in the door and sped to the hospital just in time to watch his life flight hover off the pad to take him to a different hospital better equipped to help him. So we hopped in the car with Steve's sister and her husband to meet him at the new hospital. We joked on the way there about how if Dad were awake, he'd be flying himself to the hospital. Sure, it's no KC-135, but he would have insisted anyhow.
We met up with the rest of the family and the doctor told us he was confused as to why Dad was life flighted. He had a brain stem aneurism, and it's likely he was helpless before the ambulance arrived at the house hours earlier.
No! No! No! No! No! It wasn't real, it wasn't really happening, not for real, yet still only a couple hours later we found ourselves holding each other as we stood around his bed to let him go. We let him go. He was gone. Yesterday he was on the phone listening to us complain about our broke-down car. And now he was gone. It was some foggy delirium of tears and swollen throats. And then we woke up one morning and it was real. It really did happen, for real, and now the world is one amazing man shy.
That was five years ago and we still feel it. We still miss him every single day.
His kind and gentle heart.
His friendly arms that welcomed anyone from any walk of life.
His fierce love for his grand children, for camping, for flying, for toy trains.
For movies and movie popcorn and mexican food.
For family.
For God.
But as much as we pine, there's something about someone passing away that makes their influence on us even more powerful than when they were here with us. Now his example and his memory are an almost tangible treasure.
And as if in honor of the anniversary of that indescribable day, Steve just today announced to me that he refuses to put up exterior Christmas lights. Ever. Not at this house, not at our next house, not in a box, not with a fox. Why? Because clearly it's not a good idea for Gordon men to put up Christmas lights. Just look what happens immediately afterwards.
No comments:
Post a Comment