"Remembering July"

December 13, 1998 

It's seven a.m., and despite my lack of sleep on the eve of finals week, I lie awake in my darkened room.  I hear the bell chiming across campus through our opened window.  It's unbearably hot in our room, despite it's being December.

As it often does during spurts of insomnia, my mind races.  I think of computer programs I could write, trips I could take and things that have happened in my life.  I thought a lot about July 11th and 12th again this morning. . . the fateful day when my father passed away.  With my recent computer crash, I lost my only account of the two days, and I chose to re-write the journal entry.

Ira and I were enjoying the company of friends at the McCormack home on July 11th.  It was getting late into the night, and we decided to stay until morning.  It was a great time.  I'll admit it, that summer I was filled, in some part, with an unexplained anger toward my brother and my friend.  But that was forgotten on this night.  We played hide-and-seek (It's still fun, even when you're 19 years old) in the McCormack's large, unfinished house for hours on end.  But we soon grew tired of this game, and we had exhausted all possible crevices and closets in which to hide.  It was very early in the morning, and we decided to take a walk.

It seems almost surreal when I look back upon that stroll down county road 13, a rather desolate stretch of gravel several miles from a streetlight.  The moon was bright, illuminating our path, and the sky was clear.  The warmth of the air made me unusually comfortable as we strolled along.  To the east, an artificial glow in the sky told the position of Minot, just fifteen miles away.  The perfect silence was broken only by the sounds of our voices and laughter.

We walked for what seemed like days, trekking farther and farther south.  There was nothing to allude the fact that my brother and I were heading toward sorrow.  There was no way for us to know that while we enjoyed the company of friends, our father was sleeping his last night away.

Around six or seven a.m., my brother and I went back to Minot to our father's house.  This is where I had been staying all summer while working at Wal-Mart.  My brother was just visiting from our mother's house.  We had not slept at all that night, and we needed rest.  Upon reaching my bedroom in the basement, I fell onto my bed and immediately lost consciousness.  I awoke to the sound of my father's voice. "Jason!  Time to get up!" I realized after glancing at my clock radio, that it was 1 p.m.

I got myself out of bed and showered.  This afternoon, we (Ira, my dad, and myself) were all planning to go to my grandparent's house for dinner. . . a pleasant occasion.  As I walked past my father in the kitchen, he was on the phone with Grandma.  I heard some concerned shouting on the phone. . . odd, I thought.  What would my grandma be yelling about?  I had a little contempt in my heart toward my father in the last few months of his life, as he had been drinking a lot.  My opinion of him wasn't too high.

I continued through the kitchen to my room.  When we were ready to leave for Grandma's house my father, still at the kitchen table, informed us he was not to accompany us on this family get-together.  He explained that his right hand was 'asleep' and it had been since he had gotten up in the morning.  He attributed it to sleeping on it in an odd position.  Dad hadn't been in good health in the months before July, and nobody realized it then but he exhibited all of the textbook signs of congestive heart failure.  He had very swollen feet.  I suggested he have it checked out, he said no, telling me it was because he had been bed-ridden for a week after a car accident and hadn't moved around.  It was edema, not laziness.  He had chest pain.  His explanation for that was heartburn and ulcers, which he had supposedly had for years.  It was probably the heart failure that doctors failed to diagnose.  He was exhausted all the time.  The doctors told him his blood was low in hemoglobin and gave him iron pills... six months earlier.  He still believed that to be the problem.  It was the lack of blood flow to his entire body as his heart slowly stopped working.

His hand was one more symptom, and a very serious one at that.  I thought briefly about encouraging him to go to the hospital, but I didn't bother.  I decided he would probably just tell me not to worry about it and that it was nothing.  I had tried to get him to check out his other symptoms, but he refused, attributing it to some minor cause.

Ira and I took the dog and went to Grandma's.  On the way out of the house we shouted a quick "goodbye," and headed out the door.  We would never see him alive again.

Burlington was a great time.  Grandpa and I played a few games of Aggravation (a marble game) and grandma cooked up a wonderful meal.  I didn't realize at the time that grandma was concerned.  She knew more about heart attacks and such than I did, and was worried about my father's hand.  She wanted to check on him, and suggested that we drive into Minot, pick up my dad, and we would all meet and go to Dairy Queen for a treat.  Ira and I got into my pickup and drove home.  On our way, we discussed our dad, his alcoholism, and why he had turned down such a generous offer by his mother to cook dinner.

When we arrived at the house, I glanced into the living room, noticing my father in his normal position: lying on the couch, watching television.  I thought nothing of it.  Ira walked right past him on his way to the bathroom.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  In about ten minutes, Oreo (the dog) started barking.  Our grandparents had arrived.  In the middle of checking my email, I hit the power button on my laptop and ran up the steps to greet them.

After exchanging a few words, grandma said she wanted to "see how Bob's hand is doing."  She walked to the living room, me following close behind.  I was curious to see if the problem went away as well, because he had been asleep the whole time I had been there and I hadn't talked to him, so I thought.  Ira and Grandpa were waiting outside by the car, anxious for some ice cream.  I can still remember every detail of the next few moments and my eyes tear up as I recall them even now.  Grandma asked my father "Bob, how's the hand?"  No response.  "Bob?” she asked once again. I said under my breath "Oh my God."  I could feel my adrenaline rush and I got chills. She touched him, and screamed "BOB!!" Grandpa came running into the house faster than anyone has seen him move in years.  I think my brother stayed outside.  Grandma shouted at me to call 9-1-1, and I immediately grabbed the phone and dialed.

The woman on the line asked me if I knew CPR, and I responded no.  She was shocked, asking me if I had been taught any in school, which I hadn't.  I shouted, "Does anyone know CPR?" What I saw next was heart wrenching: My grandmother was giving chest compressions to her son, saying she didn't know how to do it, but was trying.  The woman on the phone said she would walk me through it, and told us to get him onto the floor.  Grandpa and I lifted him off the couch.  His body was very heavy, but my grandpa lifted him with ease.  I was shocked even at the time.  Just as we were about to start CPR the fire and rescue truck pulled up.  I was grateful for their quick arrival.  Soon, a policeman and an ambulance arrived.  We shoved the furniture out of the way; they cut off one of his favorite shirts.  The floor was covered in medical equipment.  After I was of no use to the medical team, I realized my brother was nowhere to be seen in the small, crowded living room.

As I watched, comforting my grandparents, the got out the defibrillator paddles.  They shocked him.  I left my grandparents in search of my brother, whom I found in the driveway, leaning on a car.  His eyes were covered with tears, and he cried "Our dad's dyin' man." It was true, and somehow I knew it.  I told him "They're getting out the paddles."  We had no idea how long my father lay there before being discovered.  Honestly, I almost anticipated his death.  I'll admit I thought he had a few years, but his lifestyle was not at all healthy, especially that summer.

Then selfish thoughts poured through my mind.  I thought of how different things would be for me if they didn't revive him.  He was the last tie I had with the place I grew up in. (except my grandparents and girlfriend) At one point I even thought about who would get his possessions.... while they were still doing CPR.  The mind can be a terrible, selfish thing.  I hated myself for having such thoughts, but seemed unable to stop them from surfacing. 

But soon I felt more sorry for my grandparents than I did for myself.  Seeing my grandma attempt chest compressions and my grandpa lifting his son's body to the floor was horrible.  And dad was their only younger relative in the immediate area.  I still wonder what will happen when my grandparents can't take care of themselves anymore.

My grandparents came into the driveway, and we hugged.  Ira constantly assured grandpa it was ok.  The policeman asked us if we would like to call anyone and suggested our Pastor.

About this time, they put my father into the ambulance and sped down the street, lights going and everything.  I was glad to see that they didn't slowly drive away without their lights flashing.  That would have been bad.

The policeman blocked the road as we pulled out of the driveway on our way to the emergency room, where we waited and said a few prayers.  A counselor of some sort talked to us, and we cried, waited some more.  Soon, the counselor left and came back, informing us that the doctor wanted to have a "conference" with us.  I thought to myself, "this can't be good."  We were led into a small room, and he said it.... 

"Um, he died." Period.  End of sentence, end of a life.

My grandma wailed with grief, grandpa cried in more subtle tones.  I can't recall what I myself did, but I know we shed a lot of tears.  After a time, my grandma's pastor, Dale Peplnjak, arrived.  We made a few phone calls to my aunt and mother, who both immediately jumped into their cars to drive across the state.

Next, they asked us if we would like to see the body.  My grandparents stood up without hesitation.  I got up only after realizing I wouldn't be seeing his likeness but a few times ever again.  Ira stood later, after we had all gone in.

As we left the conference room, everyone gave us a look . . . one of sympathy and understanding.  Everything seemed to be in slow motion, far away.  I turned the corners in the hall, and entered a room.  The first thing I saw was his foot, sticking out under a sheet placed across his midsection.  I froze, staring at his foot.  I couldn’t move.  My grandmother coaxed me forward saying, "it's alright." So I walked up to look at his face.  His eyes were slightly open, the color of them visible but very cold and dead.  There were tubes in his mouth and a little blood on his teeth.  The tubes contained a dark brown substance, perhaps lung fluid stained dark by his cigarette addiction.  After a brief period of disbelief, I touched his shoulder.  It felt like cold rubber, and I immediately broke into sobs.

After a time we left the room saying, "There's nothing we can do for him now." But my grandpa kept turning back, unable to leave.

We drove in silence back to my father's house.  It seemed different now, empty.  One of his favorite shirts, green and white stripes, was cut to pieces, lying on the floor.  The couch cushions were thrown every which way and the recliner was pushed into the hall.

Ira and I gathered a few articles of clothing, our toothbrushes, unchained the dog (who definitely understood something was up), got into our vehicles and drove away.  We spent that night at my grandma's house.  Though I didn't get sleep that night, I was very grateful to end the worst day of my life.

There is much more to tell about how I felt that day and for the weeks to come, but my hand is tired, as is my mind, from this frantic scribbling.

my father is the one in the upper right.  We all miss him a great deal.