Alone

We decided to go for a walk. My mom, sister, brother, and I all wanted to try out the trail on the old train tracks. We had just moved to the city about a month before and were still getting settled. The housewarming gifts were still coming in and new friends were yet to be made. My dad didn't want to go. He said he had a headache, which wasn't unusal for him. He often made excuses not to exercise. We had that one in common. So we left him at home, in the basement.

At least three hours had passed by the time we got home. The TV was off and Daddy wasn't downstairs anymore. I was only ten, weeks from entering the fifth grade, and I was so excited to show him the rocks and train pegs I had collected. I raced upstairs to find him in his room. I didn't think it odd that he was upstairs at the time, but now I cringe when I think of it. He must have literally crawled up those stairs since his left side was paralized. He sat on the floor, in his ancient Mickey Mouse shirt with all of the holes and no pants. I said his name a few times. He was having a hard time breathing and his speech was slurred. He said to get my mom. It seemed to take an eternity for her to reach me. I still wonder, why didn't I go and get her instead of waiting at the top of the steps? What if it was my fault that things turned out the way they did?

I thought he was kidding when he said he had had a stroke. I knew he wasn't when my mom called 911. My siblings and I waited in the hallway. Me being the youngest, I had to leave when the ambulance came. I want downstairs and I cried until I ached. Later, my mom would tell me my dad said not to be scared. Does that mean he knew he was dying?

My mom left someone to sit with us that night. I remember we watched Iron Chef and I made a get well card. It said "Don't worry, Daddy! We'll be at Kennywood soon!" Kennywood was the amusement park we were supposted to go to the next week. I still can't smile when we go to that park.

My dad didn't have a stroke. He had a brain anysursem. We went to see him the next day. I had never been afraid to see my father before that day. There were so many tubes and wires. My mom told me he was asleep, but I knew he was in a coma. A few weeks later, he was awake. I held his hand, and he could talk sometimes. One day, he was so thirsty, but he couldn't have water. I had never seen my father cry before. I went to the waiting room and broke down in front of complete strangers watching old sitcoms.

Every Tuesday that summer, they held a vigil for my dad at the church he was supposted to be the pastor of. We never went, but I heard they were beautiful. The name of the sermon he was going to preach that Sunday- it was called "Never Give Up." Life's ironic sometimes.

One of the things I regret the most now is the fact that I hated to visit my father while he was ill. Who hates to see their own dad? But I did. I was terrified something would happen. He would forget who I was, wouldn't be able to talk that day. I stayed home some of the times everyone else went to see him. That's time I willingly let go of. I know I'll never forgive myself for that.

My friends, they always call me after a fight. They tell me they hate their parents and wish they were dead. The problem with having friends like mine is that the only funeral they've been to is that of their great-grandmother. Its different when you've lived with the person everyday. When half of you is from them. Its so different.

I remeber the last time I saw my dad alive. It was time to go home after visiting, and he was slipping back to sleep. I told him I loved him, and he barely audibly told me the same. We went home.

The call came during lunch the next day. My mom went to the hospital, and my brother and I went to get ice cream from the truck outside. We had so much fun, chasing the truck and laughing. When we came inside, she was home and talking to my sister. He had died. One minute he was joking with the nurse about how awful the food looked and the next minute he was dead. He was 46 years old. There were services, casseroles, and condolences. School was a nightmare. I had no friends since we had just moved, and now I was the girl with the dead dad. 10 days later, everyone forgot my family and my dad, and our personal crisis was replaced by the country's. Everyone went on with their lives except for the four of us. We huddled together for warmth, when everyone else deserted us.

I thought the funeral would be the easy part. Wrong again. Not only were there over 150 people there, but we had communion. It is not easy to sit still for 2 hours while your dad's body lays up front. I saw enough cousins and aunts I'd never met before to last me forever.

My mom often tells me how I am so much like my father. I always protest, saying how I would never want to be like him. However, I love these similarilies. Something I've noticed since that day, there are no pictures of only my dad and I. I love the similarilies because it keeps me connected. It makes me feel like I am my father's girl.

I am a different person since my dad's death. I am afraid of everything. If it starts to snow while I'm in a car, I freak out. I don't like my mom to be gone for a long time alone. If she dies, who do I have left? I'd be an orphan. I'm so afraid of death, sometimes I can barely live. Every birthday, I know I'm that much closer to dying myself. I became an old cynic when I was ten. The happiest day of my life was when I found out ulcers aren't caused by worrying. I keep waiting to grow out of this stage of constant fear.

Some of my friends to this day don't know about my dad. They assume my parents got divorced. I don't tell anyone if I don't have to. I don't want to be that girl with the dead dad. People treat you so much differently. Nonetheless, I fell robbed of our time. Who will walk me down the aisle? Who will see me graduate? My dad was a pastor. Now, whoever does my wedding, it will not feel right. One of the last conversations I remember having with my father was when he was yelling at me. Great way to remember him. I dread father's day. I miss him everyday, and I will for the rest of my life. I hate this story, I hate to think about it. They say time heals all wounds, but for some, I believe it will take a lifetime.