Happy Birthday, Dad

He would have been 63 today. Too young to die. Old enough to know how to take care of himself.

Dad was ill: chest pains, shortness of breath, pain in the left arm, erratic pulse. I don't know how long it had been going on, but I found about it seven months before he died. My guess is it had been going on for at least the seven months before that, if not longer.

When I found out what was going on, I got mad. Who wouldn't? My dad refused to see a doctor. He said his health was his business. I tried to tell him that his health affected more than just him: family, friends, and that damn small town he lived in (born and raised). Too many people relied on him--he had to stick around. I called him a selfish bastard.

Looking back, he was probably too ill by that time. If he had gone to the doctor he probably would have needed emergency surgery--and he would have refused.

Dad had insurance, but it was catastrophe insurance. He told me he couldn't afford to go to the doctor. He couldn't, really. Surgery would've bankrupted them. Now, personally, I'd rather have my dad around and broke and than dead, but it was his life and his decision. He didn't trust doctors, so even if he'd had insurance, he wouldn't have gone to the doctor.

Last year on June 30 I was out with friends. I meant to call Dad to wish him a happy birthday, but I didn't get around to it. About 11:00 that night, he called. I wished him happy birthday. Then he told me Uncle Don had had a stroke. Don was one of Dad's three brothers--my dad was the baby of the family, Don was the second youngest. He explained to me what happened--Don and my aunt were at the hospital. My aunt was having a routine check-up since she had a history of small strokes. Don was in the hospital coffee shop when he had a small stroke. They called a code blue and took him upstairs, that's when he had a massive stroke. He would have died if he hadn't been in the hospital.

I asked Dad how he was doing. He said he wasn't ready to lose a brother. Little did he know that twenty-seven days later he would die of a massive heart attack. His brothers weren't ready to lose their brother, either. And I wasn't ready to lose my dad, but I did.

I meant to call Dad to ask how Don was doing. I didn't because my brother called me a week or so later--family stuff, he was returning my call. I asked him how Don was doing. Don was improving, my brother said. Don could say one word: Bullshit. A person could go a long way with only being able to say bullshit. So, with the update on Don, I never called Dad. June 30 was the last time I talked to my dad. Did we argue? Little bit, but not really. Looking back, I think fighting was the only way we knew how to communicate. Months would go by where I refused to talk to him.

The last year hasn't been easy. I've lost a lot of people in my life, but I've never had to deal with the legal aftermath. It sucks. Really.

I miss him more than I ever thought I would.

So, happy birthday, Dad. I wish I could tell you that in person.