My phone rang at 2:01 this morning, obviously rousing me from my slumber. When I saw who the call was from I knew. She confirmed it when I answered.
"The medics are here with your dad.” She said simply.
"Okay," I answered, "are you going to follow them to the hospital?"
"He's not going anywhere," she said, simply.
"I'll be right there."
I rushed down there as fast as I could, covering the 8 miles in record time. Traffic is very light at a little past 2am. As soon as I turned the corner onto their street I saw the flashing red lights four blocks down. When I walked into the house, mom was sitting fairly calmly at the table. There were two EMT's and two policeman there. As I walked in the door they greeted me with looks of solemn respect, knowing I must be a relative. He was already gone by then of course. He died peacefully in his chair–the chair he ate, slept, and did pretty much everything else in. It was his 'home base.'
The cops were going through the necessary ritual of writing everything down, when they came to the point where they had to take some pictures.
"You might want to leave the room," the officer said gently, "We have to take some file pictures, and we'll have to to roll him over." he said, apologetically. Mom went into the bedroom while they did their work. I stayed. I don't know why, but is felt I had to stay. It was weird. I felt a sort of detached pity for him as they turned him the best they could. Then they they opened his eyes for a picture. That must have been the part that disturbs people. It was definitely a weird sensation to me. I could have done without it.
The EMT's left first, followed not long after by the two policemen. With everyone gone mom and I sat down at the table, just a few feet from dad lying peacefully beneath his old scruffy orange and black Harley throw with only his feet showing. We sat talking and waiting for the fellows from the funeral home to show up. It was strange. We both felt it and commented on it. It was like if we made too much noise we would wake him.
She seemed at rest with the notion that he was finally gone. She had wondered several times in these past months how he had managed to survive the ravages of cancer and dementia that had plagued him. But as comfortable and strong as she tried to portray herself while she was sitting there she also seemed very vulnerable.
I watched the two guys from the funeral home transfer dad's body over to the gurney as mom again retreated to the safety of her bedroom. I gazed at him sadly as they went about their business. That is, until the zipper. The long, drawn-out zipper of finality. The sound I had heard on so many television shows. It seemed so different here. It seemed suddenly very, very real… As if I had been in denial up until that time. I wasn't stricken with a sudden wave of grief, but rather, the situation before my eyes suddenly seemed underlined and italicized. It was real and it was happening.
I sat with mom for another hour or so. We talked and drank coffee. During that time I started contacting everyone. She didn't want to have to deal with it and I couldn't blame her. I didn't want to do it either, but better me than her. Little by little, I got hold of everyone at the “base” of the family triangle, some by phone, some by text. By this time Mom was getting tired. She seemed anxious to have some time to herself. She didn't say, but I sensed it.
I left and went home. R.I.P. to the Old Man on the Porch.
