The Day My Heart Stopped but the Clock Kept Ticking

Our lives are constantly evolving – at least we hope they will for many years to come.

Time doesn’t stop for anyone, for any reason; the darkest and deepest depths of our traumas may bring us to our knees but life goes on.

Reflections of my father’s sudden passing and the coroner’s determination that his death will never be solved rears its ugly head from time to time. Realization that the clock isn’t going to stop ticking due to my loss, pain or trauma provides lessons on future struggles to come.

I think most of us can relate when it comes to the loss of a loved one as we all handle the inevitable quite differently.

It was a warm summer day, August 6, 1995, and my parents were over the night before for dinner. We spent the late afternoon watching pre-season football, followed by America’s Most Wanted that Saturday night. I often cancelled plans with friends as I preferred spending precious moments with my parents. I have no regrets. I craved the simple and carefree life by creating family memories.

I awoke early the following morning as we all did – my three-year-old and my husband as well. Today would be another day filled with touring new homes. As I removed the bed covers and placed my feet on the shaggy outdated carpet, vertigo controlled my next move, which would be headfirst on the floor.

I passed out and was immediately driven to the emergency room in another county as my health provider offered emergency services a few miles from home. My parents were called, trying not to alarm them with a most reassuring tone.

As usual, Dad would be playing a morning game of tennis as he had more free time, being recently retired from the fire department he worked at for over 30 years. Since retirement, he seemed to be on the court more than at home. His golden years arrived early, being hired on the fire department at the young age of 22. He deserved it. He earned it.

After I was admitted, my veins seemed to have a mind of their own as they twisted and turned with such stubbornness, each time the nurse attempted to insert the IV into my arm. Apparently, I was severely dehydrated and suffered from a viral infection.

Taking a sip from the grateful cup, I was thrilled my condition was not life threatening and satisfied to remain in the ER for the afternoon. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

The IV was eventually inserted and I napped for a bit when the doctor entered my room with the most peculiar look on his pale face. His words rang something like this:

“There is no easy way to say this.”

It seemed like an eternity for him to finish his message; knowing these words are never followed by a joyful heart-to-heart.

“Your father has died.”

Instantly the pain in my body dissipated and transferred to a foreign pain in my heart like no other. Numbness, confusion and denial immediately set in. I surely thought the doctor had the wrong person, but yet the urgency to be with my mother overwhelmed my thoughts. I believed my father was gone. I just refused to accept it. There were many questions overloading my brain as I ripped the IV from my arm and walked from that cold room.

As the nurses and doctor insisted I return, I continued walking toward the front entrance as the blood dripped from arm. I felt no physical pain; only loss in my heart. My daughter skipped to the car with an obvious innocence as her father guided us to the car.

I arrived at a destroyed hospital waiting room with tables and chairs overturned and magazines scattered amongst the floor. My mom literally destroyed the small waiting room. When she saw me, she belted out a cry that I have never heard before. She ordered the priest to leave the room as he attempted to deliver the final blessings but her fear was having no part of it.

That day, at the young age of 54, my mother inherited the title of widow.

We met with the coroner days later and an autopsy revealed no answers – only more questions. Toxicology presented no hope as to answers as well. That year his death was among five deaths that were undetermined. The coroner advised I find a cardiologist as I may have inherited a rare heart disease from my father. I followed his vital instructions and I will save that narrative for part two of this story.

My mother described the horrific incident with such sequential memory that I questioned if she was watching a Dateline rerun. My father’s funeral was a massive blur in her mind, but she remembered the incident as one would a repetitious nightmare. I dressed her that morning for his funeral and did my best to give her strength, reminding myself her strength could only come from within.

The day embedded in her brain began like this –

Your father had just finished his lunch – his favorite, a hot dog and corn chips. I came inside from the backyard after feeding the cats. When I walked into the kitchen he was on the floor. I ran to the phone and called 911.

Being a fireman’s wife and knowing the protocol when emergency personnel arrived at the scene, it was best the public left the scene in order for them to focus on the serious job at hand. According to my mother, she was out of control and they had to remove her from the room. She was beyond frantic, if that is even possible.

My mother continued to relive that day as she cried, telling me her persistent questions to the paramedics - Is he breathing? Is he breathing?

She knew he was gone. She knew by the mannerisms and lack of supportive words from the paramedics that he was gone.

From that day on, her life was forever changed. Many of our lives were forever changed and I realized how the death of a parent affects everyone on a different level. My mom lost her husband of 37 years. I lost my hero. My brother lost his baseball companion. Dad’s fellow firefighters lost their friend and brother. His sister lost the chance to apologize for wrongs that she confessed to me at his funeral. His father lost his will to live.

Loss is never the same for anyone.

Reality was beginning to sink in - our hero, comedian, support system, companion, confidant was gone. We all accepted the loss, yet we all handled our loss in such different ways.

I lived with my mother the first month after dad’s passing, making certain she remained hydrated and ate regularly as the most common habits needed to be relearned. We installed security lights and hired a professional security company to install an alarm system now that she would be living alone. Yes, my mother was a wife of the 50s and my dad insisted he take care of certain tasks, but what happens when they’re gone. She was lost.

My mother continued to move through her life, similar to that of a robot. She was not living; merely existing. She was not as fortunate to pick herself up as 26 years have passed and her pain is just as deep as the day he died. She continues to battle her demons, reminding myself her unwanted grief had grown to the size of a monster.

The road continued to be filled with good intentions through counseling, Widows Anonymous – anything to help ease the malignant growth that possessed her for all these years. She walked out of every session, demonstrating the definition to suffer in silence.

I reminisce on those numbing days for me, which turned into numbing years for my mother, and realize that no matter how much she loved me or my brother, we couldn’t fix her. Even though she was such a young widow, 54, she never remarried nor had a desire to be with any other man than my father.

She attempted to travel without him and I was proud of her brave efforts, but she soon discovered most of the travelers, whether it be a cruise or a trip to Mexico, were mostly that of couples. She spent most of her first solo trip alone in her room, crying at the loud reminder that their golden years had taken a drastic U-turn. But I was still proud of her attempts to reset her new life.

There would be no more humming. No more laughter.

My brother handled his loss in a significantly different way, choosing to close himself off, refusing to look at any pictures, videos – basically anything that reminded him of our father. I didn’t immediately understand his stance, but I grew to respect his method of surviving the pain. It certainly wasn’t my method but I learned to accept his decision and also the coping ways of others.

His unfortunate behavior to ignore his pain became a wound that will last him a lifetime. The sudden shock of our father’s death awoke bi-polar inside my precious and brilliant brother. The stark and sudden shock to his system awoke this ugly and unwelcome predator, forever prevalent within.

We all deal with grief differently. There is no right or wrong way as long we are not creating self-harm and remain on our pity pot. Our loved ones want us to be happy and move on through this life.

Our beautiful stories may live within our thoughts as we write the marvelous chapters along the way. In reality we can define our path as we move through the journey of life, but our final manuscript is not decided by us.

Today, I am now the same age my mother was when she was widowed.

I cannot explain why but the first three years brought the highest hurdles. It seemed that the holiday traditions of the same locations and same dinner table that once brought simpler times of joy and laughter, screamed for drastic change. We tried to muster through that first Thanksgiving without my father, and immediately realized we failed. The pain was taller than Mt. Everest. Time would eventually weather the storm and bring us more clarity. But at that time, a united decision was made to spend the next Thanksgiving in Las Vegas, meeting up with family and giving the magical traditions a break.

We are here for a visit. Some visits last many years while others are cut short. Live your best life now, while you can. No one will do it for you.

It truly is a monumental loss when you lose a parent that always saw the glass half full, but those warm memories can become more cherished in our minds than any lack of pity for our pain.

I refuse to allow the inevitable tragedies of life to keep me down, resembling the inflatable clown that sustains punches but never completely stays down. It’s okay to feel sad, feel hurt or even angry; emotions are necessary in order to heal. Life is going to knock you down just never stay down to the point that your precious life passes you by.

A few days after my dad’s passing I was alone at the cemetery, visiting his crypt, which was outside amongst a fragrant, colorful garden. I heard the sounds of laughter and cheerful voices up the road as the annual summer fair was in town for the week. I thought to myself, how can they be so happy when my life is filled with so much sorrow?

It was in that moment, the younger version of me distinctly realized…the clock isn’t going to stop ticking due to my pain. Life goes on. From that day onward, harsh realities clicked within and I tasted the unfairness life can bring, but I also devoured the joyful memories.

To this day, when I close my eyes at night and my head rests on my pillow, I reminisce on the good times, bringing back to life past camping trips, holidays around the table, kick the can with my cousins as the video rewinds and often pauses. I have control of this old movie and no one will ever take that away.

We are here for a visit. Some visits last many years while others are cut short. Live your best life now, while you can. No one will do it for you