84 Hours

As some of you know, my dad passed away last month at age 57. To say it was a shock is an understatement - he was in the best shape of his life and was a healthy young man. One of the ways I processed everything that was happening was to write down what was happening and my thoughts and feelings. What follows occurred either around me or in my head in the three and a half days after he died. I debated posting it at all and thought about allowing it to live on my computer forever. I don't know if at some point this may be helpful to someone, but it didn't seem right to keep it to myself. My father was such a wonderful man that I feel this is part of the way I can pay it forward. If it helps even one person, it's worth it.

This is mostly unedited, and I can't really bring myself to read it all yet. A few close friends have read it & edited weird things that don't make any sense, but for the most part it's raw. A few caveats - it jumps around, is very long, I'm sure is rather sad at points, but hopefully is funny at others. I hope you get something out of it, and I'd love to hear from you if you do.

Sunday

Katie and I were doing what we’d often done since moving to Atlanta: driving to a new part of town, finding somewhere to eat, and getting lost before setting the GPS for home. We were in the middle of trying to find our way to a new restaurant (that, it turns out, we’d been to months before when visiting) when the phone rang. Considering we were minutes away from lunch, I figured I’d call her back and talk to her about my new job or how we were liking Atlanta or talk to her on the first stop of what would be the usual merry-go-round at family dinners. Then a follow-up text: “Call me as soon as you can. Love you.”

My immediate thought was of her son Bryan. Bryan went all around the country competing in national meets and championships, and I thought he might’ve been in Atlanta and gotten hurt or had car trouble. She said she was on the road back from West Virginia, that something had happened to my dad, and that my sister was on the way to our house in the suburbs from her apartment in Richmond. I felt bad about calling Claire-Elizabeth knowing she’d be on the road. I did anyway.

She said that Dad called her and said he wasn’t feeling well. He told her he thought he may be having a heart attack and to call the ambulance. She called 911 and then started the 20 minute drive south on I-95. When I called, she was minutes from turning onto our street. I stayed on the phone with her as she came around the curve from Forest Glen Drive onto the circle; that curve I knew so well having taken it way too fast every time I rounded it since I first got my permit at 15. She said the ambulance was still there. My last thought when I hung up the phone was that if they were still there, it was probably something minor. Treat him there, maybe observe him for a while, and Claire would be there to take custody (My mom often said that one day Claire-Elizabeth and I would share custody of Dad with her).

We skipped lunch and headed back for the apartment. The waiting was agonizing and I wanted to feel comfortable Dad was being taken care of, but my heart raced. My mom called me. She was in the Atlanta airport, having left Richmond hours earlier for a trip to Portland. She sounded composed and it reassured me. “I don’t know what’s happened, but Claire’s at the house. I’m on a 5:00 flight back home.” Hearing my mom so (in comparison to me) calm settled my nerves a bit. I think I breathed for the first time in an hour after I hung up with her.

A half-hour passed. It seemed like an eternity.

The next call was from Claire. She was at the hospital but no one would tell her anything. Paramedics wouldn’t let her into the house, and told her they’d be taking him to a nearby hospital. My sister and our neighbor had gone to the hospital, but no one there knew anything. There hadn’t been a crew call. The nurses didn’t know anything. My mom wouldn’t be home for another three hours, I wouldn’t be home for another five, and our aunt was probably driving 120 mph on I-64 trying to get to her. I didn’t know what was happening with my dad at that point, but my heart broke for her. She didn’t deserve to be anointed the quarterback of this operation. I hated myself for first moving to Florida the day after Christmas in 2007. I hated buying a house and going back to school and moving to Atlanta and not being there in that waiting room as our family’s representative.

As soon as we got back to the apartment, I booked my flight. Getting to the Atlanta airport and through security in 40 minutes would be next to impossible, so I booked the next flight out at 7:00. I thought it’d be fine, and dad would have a fit that I flew all the way in just because he had some minor thing. I started to pack a few things. I packed some polos, jeans, flip flops, casual shoes, underwear, shirts. Things I’d need for a few days at home just hanging out and watching mid-day baseball while Dad recovered from whatever it was. My suit, still hung in the middle of my closet from the final interview of a job I’d started 6 days prior, was something I didn’t want to think about.

My mom called – breathing and gasping and trying to speak but failing. I knew Dad was gone as soon as I heard her voice. I told her I was coming home on the next flight and would see her tonight. I asked if she had someone there at the Atlanta airport with her. I told her we’d have someone pick her up. I told her I loved her. It wasn’t until after I hung up that I felt like someone had kicked me in the chest. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. Almost like all the muscles in my body gave out in one coordinated attack, I sunk to the floor and cried. I stayed on the floor for what seemed like an eternity, and I cried like I’ve never cried in my life.

For the second time in an hour, I called my sister when everything in me told me not to. She was at the hospital. She was the one who the ER doctor spoke to, but she had no idea what he’d told her. I hated myself for not being there to talk to him. No one should ever have to do that. But I felt like it was my responsibility as the oldest to be there. At 23, she should not be the one hearing and giving this news.

I thought about my mom. She and my dad had been married for 32 years. They met when she was 21. She’d lived her entire adult life with him. They both had good friends, but they were each other’s best friends. A few weeks earlier, my mom had somehow started talking about work friendships. She said that she’d had a great time with her work friends, but never really had a best friend other than him. They had a great marriage. They were dissimilar in perfect ways, completing each other totally. My mom – type A, hyper-driven, emotional, 1000mph. My dad – type B, contemplative, logical, living sometimes as slowly as he drove (ok, not maddeningly slow, like he sometimes drove).

I got up and hopped in the shower. My face felt like it was a thousand degrees and it wouldn’t stop until my head caught on fire. I turned the shower as cold as I could and just stood there. The cold water came down and stung. I felt like I needed to hurt. It wasn’t fair that my sister had to go through everything she did and my mom just lost the love of her life and here I was taking a shower. I needed to feel it. It took my breath away. For a moment, it also stopped me from crying.

I hopped out, got dressed, and finished packing. The suit that I’d tried not to look at went in the suitcase, even though I knew it wouldn’t get worn. Dad would’ve hated the idea of any traditional funeral or memorial service. The idea of a bunch of people dressed really nicely crying was not at all my dad’s style. I threw it in anyway, although I’m not sure why. I put a few other things in with no idea or thought of how long I’d be home. I made sure I had the essentials: wallet, phone charger, keys. My dad once said that if those things made it where I was going, I could figure out everything else. I hugged our puppy and hit the door.

Katie drove me to the airport, and it seemed surreal. We listened to NPR and talked about whatever it was they were talking about. We talked about her work and the flight and I almost convinced myself that I was going somewhere else for another reason - flying to South Florida to look at client sites or meeting investors in New York. Maybe I was going home but for a birthday or a football game or just to be there. I imagined driving around that curve on Forest Glen and seeing Dad outside waiting while Mom was inside doing whatever it was she always did. I closed my eyes and tried to make it happen.

One thing I rarely noticed when waiting for security is how many truly different people there are. Young people and old people wearing suits and sweatpants and everything in between. I wondered where they were all going. I wondered if any of them were heading into the same situation I was. I wanted to hug them and cry and take a tiny, minute amount of solace in the fact that I wasn’t alone in feeling like that. I wanted them to all be flying home from wherever they were just so they could be with their family. I wanted them to be happy and as in love with their spouse and parents and siblings and kids as I always had been. I wanted to know where everyone was going and hoping all the good, normal, boring answers would make me feel better. I hoped no one asked me.

Sitting at the gate, I wondered if it was the same gate that saw my mom’s sobbing, uncontrollable phone call just hours earlier. Had any of these people, with long layovers or normal delays, seen that? Had these gate agents, who normally are the object of scorn for a number of factors out of their control, been my mom’s guardian angels that day? I took my phone out to check the gate of the earlier flight, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I texted my best friend. I couldn’t call him and risk another stage 5 meltdown in the airport, but I’ve watched enough doctor dramas to know how to breathe those deep pregnancy-type breaths. I did it over and over again until I felt like I could stop crying. As I typed it, tears streamed down. I wondered if this was my new normal.

I so desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, what had happened. Unfortunately, the 750ish poor souls on Twitter were my unload destination of choice. I’ve gone afternoons without tweeting where people sent me DMs asking if I was okay (I may have a problem) so I wanted to let these strangers know why I may be gone for a bit. But even more than that, I so badly wanted to tell someone who could see it and then go on about their day. The ridiculousness of memes and cat pictures and people yelling about sports is what makes Twitter so frivolous and fun. But one of the reasons I love Twitter is because people can be real. (Aside: I hate the word “real” in many contexts. Carry on.) People range in anonymity anywhere from superanon to full-disclosure overshare, which is my personal pattern, but I’ve found that people can say more about themselves in 140 character bursts than anything they could do on Facebook.

It wasn’t a few seconds later that the first tweets came back. Then five more and ten more after. DMs, emails, texts, Facebook messages. There was an outpouring of support from (mostly) strangers I’d never met but knowing they were there for me however they could be. As soon as the responses started, I deleted Twitter from my phone. Every response opened up a fresh wound that hadn’t fully formed yet, much less healed. While I appreciated the support, I couldn’t bear to face the thought of what happened.

5 minutes later, I re-installed it. These were people I’d never met offering condolences, and I was about to fly an hour and face a grieving mother and sister. I needed to be strong for them, and this was minor.

Then I deleted it again. No use in practicing for something I couldn’t possibly prepare for, and every vibrate of the phone was another thought of him waiting to be discovered.

As I walked down the jetway, I re-installed it. Again, I have a problem.

I was in my seat when a uniformed Delta agent came on and asked if my name was David. I’m often called David in unfamiliar settings because it’s my first name – one that I’ve never been called by people who know me. It’s never bothered me and I’ve rarely thought much about it. In class, it was always the awkward “I go by Tyler” on the first day while the professor annoyingly scratched out his roll. I get David all the time on phone calls from banks and never bother to correct. This time, I had to pause. For the first time in my adult life, someone called me David and my immediate thought was “That’s my dad’s name.”

Marcus, the Delta agent who had come onto the plane, was incredibly nice. He said he’d helped my mom (THIS WAS THE POOR GUY) in Atlanta airport and had even arranged for a flight attendant to fly back to Richmond with my mother. He asked if I needed anything or he could help in any way. I fully expected the thousand degree face to come back, with streams of tears behind. But they didn’t. I shook his hand and thanked him for taking such good care of my mom.

The man sitting next to me made some small talk about college football and his job. He works in a very similar industry to mine (I told him I had literally days of experience) and was coming back from visiting his daughter. He asked the question I didn’t want anyone to ask, but I told him what had happened and somehow managed to keep myself relatively together. I still didn’t know much of anything about what happened to him, which somehow made it easier. When we started talking about my mom, tears welled up in my eyes. Whether it was purposeful or not, he hit me so hard on the knee in solidarity that it took my breath away. I looked over at him, and I noticed he had my dad’s piercing blue eyes. They were the kind of eyes most mortals achieve with the help of contact lenses and Photoshop. I quickly looked back down trying to keep it together. My mom would later describe her flight from Atlanta as feeling like an eternity. Mine felt like a blur. I read an ESPN The Magazine cover to cover and enjoyed being in first class. (Plane booking aside: when you book a last minute one-way flight and pay $400 for it, the corresponding $16 upgrade is cheap in comparison especially when the only seats left in Coach are middles.)

To those of you who have never had the fortune of visiting Richmond airport, here’s a rundown: your plane, regardless of airline, time of arrival, or size, will always be in the last possible gate. Both concourses are obnoxiously and unnecessarily long and lead to the same central pen of families, chain restaurants, and weird potted plants. The flight to Richmond took no time at all, but that walk from my plane, past the shops that had closed well before 9:00 on a Sunday night and the one guy on his riding buffer machine who’s worked at RIC since it opened, seemed to last forever. I slowed a bit. Maybe if I gave it time, my mom would call me and tell me it was all a mistake. I’d come around security and see my mom and sister’s smiling faces, and we’d all go see Dad in the hospital and laugh.  

I rounded the corner and saw my mom first. Her face was as white as I’ve ever seen it. Then my sister, petite and gorgeous as she always was. After that first glance, I couldn’t look at them. I walked and kept my head down and knew that I wanted to look up at the last possible second. I never did. They both consumed me. Claire-Elizabeth, who proudly sported the Dad-given nickname “Pocket” because he said she could fit in one, had her arms around my waist and her face buried in my chest. My mom, not quite as petite as my sister but pushing 5’2 on a tall day, had her arms around my chest and her head in my neck. We stayed there for what seemed like ten minutes, but was probably no more than one. They both let out deafening sobs. If I could’ve died right there and taken all their pain away, I would’ve.

At some point in all the crying and hugging, someone put some serious pressure on my bladder. Two stress Diet Cokes in the airport combined with aCranApple on the plane made for a delicate situation. As we started walking I excused myself. Washing my hands, I could barely look in the mirror, because he was all I saw. He was gone. This was my family now. I had become the man of this family. I didn’t want it. My dad had been a loving husband and father and I didn’t and don’t feel worthy of these titles he’d carried for so many years. I thought I was going to be sick. Thankfully I hadn’t eaten all day.

We walked through the airport with my aunt on my mom’s right arm, my sister on her left, and me holding Claire-Elizabeth’s hand. I can’t remember the last time I held her hand. I was probably 10 and wanted nothing to do with it and may or may not have tried to lead her into a road. Her hands are as petite as she is, and it fits perfectly wrapped into mine. I never wanted to let it go. I got my bag, walked to my uncle’s truck, and threw it in the back. The five of us drove back in the most silent car trip I’ve ever experienced with my family. We drove a half-hour through the Virginia darkness to our house.

I was perfectly fine up until the point when my uncle rounded that curve I knew so well and I saw the house I grew up in. I knew that that house was in the same place but could never be the same house without the man who made it our home. I thought about all the projects we worked on and lawns we mowed together. I saw the scrap metal chicken in the front yard (you read that correctly) that was Mom’s funky house guardian but that Dad always secretly loved. That house had never looked so big and empty and lonely. For the first time since collapsing on my apartment floor, I broke down.

I don’t remember who all was at the house when we got there, but it felt more like a receiving line. Everyone lining up to get a hug or kiss as we entered our house never struck me as odd. It was normal for our family. We’re demonstrative people. We hug, we kiss, we laugh and we cry. We did a lot of each of those that night. My first feeling when I walked in the house was how hot it was. We searched around looking for some way to make the AC kick on, messing with the decades-old thermostat the same way that Dad always had when the house was warmer than my mom’s liking (which was most times). She went downstairs to have someone call a 24 hour air service. I slammed the thermostat to off, then heat, then back to cool – just the way I’d seen Dad do it a thousand times. The lights dimmed for a split second and then I heard the compressor roar. We were back in business.

It wasn’t ten minutes later that the first of what I coined “sadness circles” formed in our living room. Someone, usually my mom or my dad’s brother, would tell a funny story about him. Every now and then a laugh would escape the circle. Mostly, it was a tear manufacturing ring. I’m aware and fully understand that people grieve in different ways, but sitting stationary in a silent circle has never been my idea of helpful. I found any excuse I could to leave. Text message from a friend? Gotta go downstairs. Need to call Katie? The front step will do. Need to send a message to someone I hadn’t talked to in fifteen years? Anywhere but the circle will do.

Eventually all that was left was the three of us. Everyone had gone home or to a hotel, and it was just my family sitting in a room talking about the man we’d lost. We talked about everyone’s competing wishes for a ceremony. My uncle wanted to officiate a memorial service. My grandmother thought a service should be held at the church we went to when I was young. (She conveniently forgets that I was asked to not come back to Sunday School there at the age of 12 for asking too many questions.) My mom wanted to leave it up to us. Claire-Elizabeth and I both knew any sort of formal ceremony is the last thing he would’ve wanted. No memorial service, just a dinner with some pictures and some music. People milling around talking about what’s going on in their lives and with their kids. That’s what Dad always did anyway, and it’s what he would’ve wanted.

At 2:30, exhaustion finally gave way. After staring at the ceiling and putting together a mental list of everything that needed to be done, I finally fell asleep. I woke up every 15 or 20 minutes wishing the dream were over and he was back home where he should’ve been. l last remembered checking my phone around 5 thinking I’d never sleep again.

Monday

I kicked awake about 7 to the sounds of either my mom or my sister sobbing in my parents’ room. I grabbed my pillow and headed in. My sister hopped over and made room, and I laid my head on her shoulder. The three of us didn’t move for an hour. Claire-Elizabeth and I would both drift to sleep for a minute before waking back up. Mom was in and out of tears. I doubted she’d slept at all.

Thinking about everything that needed to be done was enough to get me out of bed. At that moment, I was calm and collected and tried to objectively think about the list of people who needed to be informed. There were a handful of family friends, who my dad always considered more family than friends, his work, and his school. The first place I went was his wallet, where numbers on pieces of paper were always a better keeper of contact information than his phone or computer. My dad kept everything – pictures, shopping lists, phone numbers, email addresses (I know) - on folded up post-its in his wallet. We called him “techno-Dad” when he finally ditched his Blackberry five years after everyone else. Teaching him how to use WeChat, and my wife’s creation of the “Meyer Inner Circle” thread was one of the family highlights of 2013.

The first call was to our family dentist. I can understand how this seems an odd choice. I think I wanted to start with someone I knew and who loved my dad. He’d often schedule my dad as the last appointment of the day. When they were done, the two of them would walk from his office next door to the bar and have a beer watching SportsCenter. I called, but he was with a patient. The receptionist, I’m sure unused to having people ask for the dentist at work about something other than a chipped tooth, was confused. So was I. I was relieved I didn’t have to talk to him right away. Just another in the series of phone calls I didn’t want to make. He called back almost immediately.

“Tyler, I got your message. Is everything okay?”

For the second time in 24 hours, I felt like someone had kicked me in the chest. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. I wanted to hang up the phone because if I never said it out loud it couldn’t possibly be real. I wanted someone, anyone but me, to tell this man who so loved my dad that he’d died. I knew he deserved to know, and I also knew that no one else would call. I struggled through what little I knew – he called my sister and told her to call 911. He said he wasn’t feeling well. Something happened, and he died. I hated that I didn’t know any more. I knew I couldn’t do this again before I knew exactly what happened. I needed to know what happened. “They tried to save him, but couldn’t” wasn’t good enough. I think I relayed everything I knew, although I can’t recall anything that was said.

The next call was to the hospital. I choked back tears talking to the head nurse knowing I wouldn’t need to tell her what happened, only communicate a name. I was walking barefoot in our backyard, as I’d done so many times growing up, along the railroad ties my dad put in to cordon off part of the backyard. Our ancient air conditioning unit malfunctioned so often that I think my dad put rocks over the grass to keep from getting muddy every time the fuse needed to be replaced. Eventually my mother replaced the AC when my dad was out of town on business. My dad would’ve gotten to that point after ten or twelve more blown fuses. Again, my parents were a good fit. The nurse came back and said she’d have the doctor call me. It was the only phone call I’d made where I didn’t want to hang up the phone. I wanted someone to tell me what happened.

I called Dad’s boss, hoping to get his voicemail so early on a Monday. It didn’t work. I barely made it through. He told me he was loved by everyone. He said he’d just seen him on Friday in Atlantic City looking as healthy and happy as ever. This made me smile. It’s how I’ll remember my dad - a man who always looked taller than 5’8 with a huge chest and comparatively tiny little legs. He was incredibly handsome – with dark hair and those piercing blue eyes. My dad had giant, thick, weathered hands made that way by decades of working outside on the farm and inside on factory floors. His one physical “defect” were those entirely flat feet that left full footprints everywhere he walked. I had a special fondness for those feet, because mine are almost carbon copies.  

Not long after speaking to his boss, the ER doctor called me back. At that moment, I was sitting on my bed with Mom and Claire. I wanted to talk to him alone. I told them it was work. They probably knew I was lying. I went back outside in the backyard and prepared myself for what was coming.

The doctor seemed an incredibly kind man who managed to choose his words carefully without relying on euphemism. He said he’d talked to my sister yesterday but she didn’t seem to comprehend anything he was saying. I confirmed this was the case. I thanked him for telling her, and hated myself all over again for not being the first he told. He said that whenever there’s a death it hits everyone – from the EMS crew to the ER nurses to the ER doctor himself – hard. I thought about all the ER-based TV dramas and how glamorous it looked. On the shows, there was always so much to do that one death was acknowledged and dispatched in an instant. Time couldn’t be wasted on a case that couldn’t be solved. This doctor was clearly shaken up on the phone. My dad wasn’t an extra to him.

He told me he couldn’t be absolutely sure what happened to my dad, but said it was most likely what he referred to as a “massive coronary event” which was either a heart attack or an aortic aneurysm.  I thought I’d absolutely lose it when he told me. I didn’t. I wanted to know more. He explained how the walls of the heart operate and how the aorta can rupture. I asked what could cause such an event. He explained the risk factors – high cholesterol, severe stress, high blood pressure, male, over 50. My dad had issues with both his cholesterol and blood pressure, but both were getting much better than they had been.

He talked me through the paramedics report that had been filed. Since no one was home and the door was locked, they had to break down the door. My dad always left the storm door locked and the front door open. It let so much light into the house and the dogs loved to lay there and look out. I told him there wasn’t any damage. He said they might’ve picked it. EMS was in the house less than five minutes after the call. When they arrived, Dad had no pulse. They tried everything they could to get his heart restarted. He talked about a mechanical CPR machine they used which wrapped all the way around his barrel chest and pumped better than any human hands could. They administered epinephrine and other drugs to try to restart his heart chemically, and they administered shocks with a defibrillator to try to restart his heart electronically. They loaded him in the ambulance and continued CPR during the five minute drive to the hospital. The doctor was one of the first to see Dad when he arrived. He said he was purple from the shoulders up, indicating a massive disruption of oxygen. It was easy to think that my dad, always as strong and healthy as his boss described him, couldn’t have possibly been purple from the shoulders up. It was easy to think we were discussing something that had happened to a stranger.

He asked about family medical history and it snapped me back. No history of heart issues anywhere in my dad’s family although two family members had suffered from brain and heart aneurysms. His brother, who had come the night before, confirmed this. The doctor said that my sister did everything exactly right. My dad received the best care and most technologically advanced care, and the EMS crew tried to reverse everything that could’ve been reversed. I wanted to ask him if he suffered. I couldn’t. I’d rather not know than have any possible chance that he did. He answered another question I didn’t want to ask. “I don’t think it would’ve mattered had your mom or sister or you had been there with him. It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been there with him. The outcome would’ve been the same in all likelihood.” This made me feel ten pounds lighter. I know that my mom and my sister both blamed themselves for not being home when it happened. I thought about just telling them this part and trying to leave out everything else. I thanked him for all of his efforts and for the information. He gave me his number and said to call him if I had any additional questions. I said I would but knew I wouldn’t.

As more and more people came into the house, I felt for my mom. She had to play host not 24 hours after losing her husband. I wanted to tell everyone to leave and put a sign up that said “Just leave your food here and we’ll call you.” Some came in, said hi, gave my mom a hug, and left. Others seemed to linger for hours contributing their portion of doom to the sadness circle. My mom’s best friend from college showed up. I could only ever describe Kendra as my mom without the filter. She’s fun and funny and I can only imagine the hell she and my mom raised before the polish of hours my mom had spent Fortune 100 boardrooms soaked in. There was now a competing force in the living room. Kendra made it her mission to lighten the mood a bit. Against the odds, the entire energy in the room changed.

My sister came up and we sat on my bed making fun of the people coming in. The ancient woman down the street who brought up the memory of every person she’d ever known who’d passed was our primary target. We probably shouldn’t have been mocking someone who came to pay her respects, but it’s one of the first times since I was home where we were both smiling. Another neighbor said she’d just seen my dad working out in the yard and that he looked strong and sweaty. We thought about this 90 year old woman leering at our dad from her window. It made us laugh.

Kendra came in and sat on the bed with us. All three of us knew we needed to get Mom out of the house. The idea of pedicures came up – something that would seem perfectly normal on a Monday afternoon. We devised a plan. Claire would call Kendra pretending to be another one of their college friends. They’d be having car trouble up in Chesterfield and would need someone to go get them. Then it’d be a margarita and a pedicure while the sadness circle continued, or didn’t, without her. Claire made the call, Kendra played the part. It didn’t work.

Even if we couldn’t get Mom out, I knew I couldn’t stay in that house any longer. My best friend, living in Charlottesville which may as well have been another planet at the time, was my first call. The thought of driving 90 minutes to have dinner and a beer and then driving back seemed perfectly reasonable. I asked him if he was free and he said he was. I asked him if for some reason I needed a place to crash, if I could. There was a couch with my name on it. I had an escape plan.

My aunt came outside and said they were going to the hospital to pick up Dad’s wedding ring. I went with them, even though she said I didn’t need to. As much as I hate hospitals in any context, I wanted to go. Something about driving that same route an ambulance had taken just 24 hours earlier seemed like it could be cathartic. When we got to the hospital, we learned that Dad was in the organ donor surgery process. Doctors found they could use his kidneys, liver, skin, and lungs. The least surprising donation were those big blue eyes. Those eyes that could go from excited to kind to menacing in milliseconds. Those eyes that could cut you down and build you right back up. I smiled thinking about someone else getting those eyes. I was happy that they might help someone else to see. Even moreso, I was happy that someone else would get to see them. It made me happy to know another family might get the same feeling from them we always had.

His ring was taped onto his finger and wasn’t available to be picked up until later that day. What was available was a sealed bag of the clothes he was wearing when he came in. Ever-surgical and sanitary, they were in a small, white, sealed garbage bag with his name and patient ID# printed on the tag. I took it and felt around the bag. I knew we had his wallet, keys, and phone at home. I felt through the bag for anything that seemed foreign. Nothing. My aunt asked me what I wanted to do with the bag. “This seems like a good spot.” I found the first trash bin outside the door and threw it in.

I spent the next hour or so figuring out how to tell my mom that I needed to get out of the house. I couldn’t go downstairs into the sadness circle or I’d just start crying. I was tired of hiding in my bedroom and I had no one left to call. My sister told me we’d gotten the 100-seat back room of a restaurant in town on Wednesday night for Dad’s dinner. There’d be no memorial service, or funeral, or long soliloquies about why God does things the way God does and why some get to live and others die. There’d be pizza and drinks and noise and activity. It’s what Dad would’ve wanted.

I went downstairs and miraculously there was movement in the sadness circle. People were standing and gathering belongings and it appeared the circle had broken. Claire-Elizabeth told me that Kendra and my aunt would both be sleeping at the house which made me feel better about taking a night to myself. I brought my mom upstairs and told her I needed a night out of the house. We cried again. She said she understood and told me to drive safely. She said I could take her car. I told her I’d figure it out and not to worry about it. My parents had three cars but usually drove just one. My mom either worked from home or was out of town, and my dad loved her car. It had Sirius radio, which my dad would put up with indoor plumbing and the automobile itself as the best inventions of all-time. It had cooled seats. My dad, like me, was always hot. She went downstairs to get his keys and saw them in the bureau, likely touched last by my dad the morning he died. She sobbed. I closed the door from behind her and kissed her and told her to go enjoy the pedicure.

I watched the pedicure caravan roll away and immediately felt a bit better. I packed up my backpack and my suitcase and put them in the car. I imagined how many times Dad did this for Mom during all her time on the road. My mom traveled 40 weeks each year for most of her career. How many times he must’ve done exactly what I was doing for her. I came in to get the last of my things and realized I didn’t bring any sunglasses. It was 4:00 on a clear-sky day, and I’d need some. I found his prescription Ray-Bans and tried them on. They made my eyes hurt a bit, but I could see with them and they were polarized. They’d do. I got the car key from his key ring and locked the door behind me.

I turned the car on and sat in the driveway. I couldn’t help but cry. Here I was with his keys, in his car, wearing his glasses. I couldn’t look in the mirror because I might accidentally think it was his reflection. I turned on the radio. My dad loved that variety of classic rock only performed by bands named after states and cities. Chicago, Alabama, Boston – these are bands that by law can only be enjoyed by dads. I search for a song that won’t make me cry, but I was out of luck. Finally I found a Train song so generic and vanilla that it didn’t make me feel anything. When it was over, I went up a channel. Another Train song. Who knew Train’s all similar-sounding sounds were so diverse? I backed out of his driveway, around his curve, which he always took way too slow, and past his 7-11 where he knew most of the cashiers by name and vice versa. They loved my dad there, probably because while everyone else in the world wanted to get their coffee and paper and get out as fast as possible, my dad always made a point to talk to the cashiers even if it meant his Mountain Dew got a bit warmer.

I went up 295, the route that my dad took more than any other. I drove past his secret airport road (895, a big throughway) that he thought was built just for him. It’s a toll road that could’ve cost $5 each way and he still would’ve taken it every time because it was his. I drove past the exit for the airport for the mere mortals. I drove past the exit I used to take for my college girlfriend’s bay house. It made me smile because I always had fun there even though she was a bit crazy. I drove past his work exit, and I couldn’t help but think about all the unpleasantness in the coming weeks about insurance and policies and his belongings there. Who was going to go pick that stuff up? Was there anything there we’d want? My dad kept pictures mostly in his wallet, not in frames on his desk. I put it off for another day. I hate-listened to a Creed song. I went up to the rap stations and settled on something called Doughboyz Cashout. I had no idea what they’re talking about. It’s the kind of thing my dad would’ve put on and then done some dance move, which he always did in the car (and at my wedding, and in malls, and in all manner of other public places) to make us laugh. Even Doughboyz Cashout was making me cry. I had a feeling this could be a long drive.

I reached the end of 295 and pointed my dad’s car west on I-64 toward Charlottesville. I caught a break in the left lane and blew past a whole line of cars. I set the cruise control at 80, and it was as if his Volvo had achieved some sort of psychological terminal velocity. I could break free from his orbit, from everywhere that he knew so well, even if only for a little while.

I got off 64 in Charlottesville, and rolled all four windows down as I merged onto the bypass. I know Charlottesville as well if not better than I did my own college town of Blacksburg. I got off on Ivy Road, past the information center and the gas stations and the car wash which was always open but I’d never seen actually washing a car. I took a right on Alderman Road. At St. Thomas Aquinas I began to trace the route I knew so well from my days as a camp counselor. Keeping ten-year-olds on a sidewalk isn’t like herding cats. It’s harder. I smiled thinking about it. I took a right McCormick toward New Dorms. “New Dorms” were always called “new” even though I’d always known them as being, well, old. New Dorms were now all new – the dorms I’d known and sweated in for four summers replaced by air conditioned monsters that looked like hotels.

I stopped and parked by Webb (if it’s still even called that). Webb dorm is the primary dorm for the Summer Enrichment Program - the camp where I’d met my wife and her best friend and my best friend and so many others. It’s the place where I first felt at home outside of Enon. A place where both the counselors and the campers were gifted and talented (and nerdy). A place where my weirdness almost didn’t register in comparison. Webb was the embodiment of all of that. I became a man in these dorms (not like that, dirty minds). I learned how to listen and how to speak and how to lead in this dorm. What I really learned was how to emulate the things I’d seen my dad do. He was a tremendous listener, a careful speaker, and the most inspiring person I’d ever known. It was this dorm that I first tried to live up to what he’d shown me my whole life. I checked out a girl running down McCormick and past his car. It’s what Dad would’ve wanted.

I drove around Grounds a bit more, windows down, just taking it in. For a few minutes, I felt 20 again. Carefree, broke, happy, cruising around as I had in this town so many times before. I drove to Brendan’s and we decided on dinner. Qdoba was always Brendan and my thing here in town. Katie hates Qdoba. It was a perfect choice. As I sat down to eat, I realized it’d been 36 hours since I’d last had anything. We were on our way to lunch on Sunday when I got the first call from my sister, and I’d never stopped to eat anything. It’s the best burrito I’ve ever had. I couldn’t tell you what was on it. It didn’t matter.

We walked around grounds and saw all the new construction, Brendan happily playing tour guide and me happily following along. We saw the new additions and the terraforming UVa had done (nerd alert) but mostly we just walked around enjoying the night. Eventually we made it to a bar and had a few beers. I wanted to talk to him about my dad, about what happened, about my family, but I didn’t want to dump it all on him. I couldn’t help it. Something about him or the scene or the beer gave me peace talking about his death. We talked about plenty else – about our jobs and taking the bar exam and FIFA – and it felt like a normal night. For long periods of time, I forgot why I was there in the first place. It seemed like I was just here to reunite with a friend and a town that I loved. We came home and watched Hard Knocks with our friend and Brendan’s roommate Mike. We talked like three twenty-somethings should talk while watching sports at 1am. They went to bed and I wondered if my mom was asleep. I wanted her to be so badly. For the first time in hours, I cried. Then I fell sound asleep.

Tuesday

I woke up after six hours of completely dead sleep, not remembering waking up a single time. I turned on CNBC and checked Twitter and read Deadspin and it was a completely normal morning. Brendan and I went to a barbecue restaurant in Charlottesville. I’d been craving barbecue for weeks, and something always came up. We were going out for barbecue to celebrate my new job a few weeks ago, but another barbecue restaurant in town catered lunch at Katie’s work. I almost went by myself during my first week of work, but always settles on something else. We were blocks away from finally having that barbecue lunch on Sunday when I got first word that something had happened to my dad. I had a pulled pork sandwich and mac & cheese. It’s definitely what Dad would’ve wanted. After a perfectly normal 18 hours in Charlottesville, I said goodbye to Brendan and pointed the Volvo back east.

I was sad to be leaving but knew I needed to be home. Katie would be in Chester soon along with a slew of other family and friends. My mom had plenty of company. I wanted to be with my sister. My sister and my dad were as close as father and daughter could be. They were good friends, and even though Claire and I were famously funny together, I always loved (and was slightly jealous) how hard my dad could make her laugh. So much of it was silly – making a face or doing a weird voice or just making up lyrics to a song. Claire would roar back and laugh the kind of laugh no one could’ve faked. The kind of laugh that seemed to emanate from below the floor and come out from the top of her head.

I took a slightly longer route home, down 288, because I don’t like driving to and from somewhere on the exact same route (another trait I like to think I inherited from him, but I’m probably just strange). I passed the exit for my high school, where my dad never missed one of my football games in four years. I remember my first car accident just off of that exit, when a woman and I came into the same lane at the same time and made contact. I was shaking so badly that I could barely call my dad. The woman involved, who claimed she was driving a brand new truck home from the dealership, was furious at me. While on the phone with my dad I yelled out, shaking and crying, “I’m sorry!” “Don’t say that!” my dad said. “Don’t say anything. We’re on our way.” The judge eventually said it was of indeterminate fault, which is a fancy legal way of saying I did nothing wrong.

Of all the people I felt needed to know about my dad, and of all the phone calls I didn’t want to make, there was one I knew I couldn’t. Every Sunday for years, Dad went to a bar called the Sideline Café to watch his Vikings play. The owner was a Minnesota transplant who loved the Vikings and showed every game on a big screen. (Football aside: Finding the Vikings game in any bar in the South is like trying to find the figure skating channel in, well, any bar in the South.) He loved the place, and he loved those guys. No one had anyone’s number, or knew much about each other. But they all loved the Vikings, and they all drank beer and commiserated in what was equal parts entertainment and group therapy. I felt they needed to know why he wouldn’t be there on that first Sunday of the season against Detroit. I called and no one answered. For some reason, I got off at that exit and headed there. They were wheeling out the game machines when I parked. The Sideline had gone out of business. My dad’s two Coors Light gameday order wasn’t enough to hold them through the summer, I guess.

Immediately next to the Sideline is a place that is even more my dad – Encore Studio. My sister started ballet when she was two and danced her way through life (Facebook quote!) and our house ever since. With Mom travelling, it was often Dad who got the dance bag ready and made sure the correct shoes were in there. Dad was as much of a Dance Mom as any of the actual Dance Moms, and they loved him. They’d talk about TV shows and celebrity gossip while Dad would read his Sports Illustrated (even though he was TOTALLY ready to chime in on the celebs if they needed him to). I knew that Claire had talked to the head of the studio, and she’d be coming to Dad’s dinner. That a dance studio head and a Dance Dad could be good friends seems strange, yet it never was.

I pulled in the driveway, picked Claire up, and we were back off to her apartment. She had one of Dad’s old wedding bands there, and we had the one he was wearing along with one other that we wanted to size for each of the three of us. I played with the two most recent bands in my hand. They’re both so heavy, made of carbon fiber and tungsten. My wedding band, before it was unceremoniously lost/misplaced, seemed weightless in comparison. I put one on my ring finger and it looked like a piece of costume jewelry. We took it to a jeweler who said that type of ring can’t be resized, only exchanged. I asked if she would mind seeing what size the rings were. They were 10s. I wear a 7.

I got a call from Dad’s work asking if there was anything else we needed. He worked for a big grocery distributor, and they’d already sent over a van full of food for the family. By this point, we had more food than we could’ve eaten in three weeks. The HR rep, who knew my Dad personally, asked for the name of the restaurant where my dad’s dinner would be. I thought they’d send a big card or some flowers to the venue. A few minutes later, I was cc-ed on a receipt. They wrote a check for $1000 to help cover the cost of dinner and said they’d be there. I was beyond stunned.

My mom had several friends stay with us, including my aunt. It was nice to look in my parents’ room and see my mom in a full bed. Superbed had officially been convened, which entails placing a twin blow-up mattress next to the king size bed and cramming as many as possible on it. Tonight Superbed had four inhabitants – my mom, one of her best friends, my sister, and my aunt. I knew she’d sleep because Tuesday had been mentally and emotionally exhausting while I was gone. Lots of people in and out and Mom had been basically entertaining all day, on top of everything else. I thought about Dad’s dinner the next night, and in my head the longer I could stay up, the longer I could put it off. I didn’t hold out much past midnight.

Wednesday

I woke up to a house as full and loud as when I slept. Claiming the shower in a full house is always priority #1, so I rushed in before Katie. Knowing Dad’s dinner was that night left me feeling like I had an exam I’d never studied for. I’d told myself on Sunday and Monday and Tuesday that if I could just make it to Wednesday, it’d be okay. What I really wanted was to rewind and say if I could make it through instead of to. Now that it was Wednesday, I couldn’t help but feel sad.

Breakfast delivery took place, which was one perk of having tons of hungry family in the house. The energy was different than it had been. There was a gravity that Dad’s dinner meant the dream was real and that we couldn’t pretend there was another reason we were all together. Thankfully, there was plenty to do.

My aunt and cousin had separated a box of pictures from all of our boxes and boxes of random (and usually blurry/crappy) pictures. Katie’s mom wanted to scan them all so we started on that process. We tried as best as we could to identify places & people in them, but so many were before Claire or I were even born. Mom came down to try to help, but it was too much. Katie’s mother’s detailed digital scrapbook would need to wait for another day.

We also wanted some type of small brochure guests could take with them in remembrance of my dad and the night. The only three things my mom requested were that it have pictures, family shout-outs, and not be somber. Giving my wife a graphic design job is like asking Michael Jordan to play a game of HORSE for you. She’s great at it, and she loves it. My dad loved sports, so we made it all sports-themed with a roster (family, friends, etc.), vital statistics, and highlights. Some of the stats were funny, like the 5 very different jobs he had (turkey farmer, highway patrolman, spice factory, condom factory, grocery distribution) and the number of times he’s denied that Sweet Home Alabama was his favorite movie (94). Some were more serious and downright depressing, like the number of Minnesota Vikings Super Bowl wins (0). It turned out so wonderfully, and everyone loved the programs.

We also did some very inexpensive (aka redneck) photo boards. There were so many great pictures of Dad that we wanted to show them off. Some were from way before I was ever born. Others were taken just last week. There was picture in there that I didn’t remember taking. It was of me and my cousin, Lisa, who I’ve always adored. I tried to remember where it was taken and even asked my dad’s brother where it was. He said it was three summers ago at the family reunion. And it wasn’t me and Lisa in the picture. It was Lisa and my dad.

(Photo Board aside: Claire and I went to get supplies at Target for the photoboard project. These weren’t much – a few posterboards, tack, things like that. Claire also picked out a pair of shoes, because like my mother and wife her selection of every shoe known to man wasn’t enough. I had left my wallet in the car, but when we got to the register, Claire had it covered. She pulled out Dad’s American Express. Even after he was gone, he was still buying Claire things. Typical.)

After the photo boards were done, I went upstairs to get dressed. The one dress rule for the party was nothing formal or dark at all. My mom, who lives in black cotton wrap dresses for work, wore the brightest pink dress I’ve ever seen her wear. My sister, who lives in bright dresses for life, wore red. A purple checkered button down and jeans was the look of the night. The suit never made it out of the bag. I went in to wash my face. I could barely look in the mirror, because the thought of preparing to celebrate his past-tense life made me cry. I knew there’d be a ton of people there, and I knew it’d be a rough night. I just wanted it to be over.

Everyone else had rolled out, and the three of us were the last in the house. We held hands, we breathed, we all cried a bit. This was the final moment we could pretend that we were watching someone else go through what we’d been going through. We were about to go face God-only-knows-how-many of my dad’s friends and family without him. The house was so quiet. We were completely unprepared, but we were as ready as we’d ever be.

I drove to the restaurant and as we got out, we all held hands. We weren’t hand-holding people, really, but I think I held my sister’s hand more in three days than I ever had before. My mom said that if Dad were here, he’d tell us to blow all these people off and go get Bottom’s Up in the West End. It was a bit late for that now. We walked through the crowded parking lot and into the restaurant. The back room, where Dad’s dinner was being held, was spilling into the main restaurant. It was loud, almost everyone already had a glass of wine or beer, and we arrived right at 6:30.

Not a single person wore black. No one wore a suit. The lone poor friend of Claire’s who wore a tie was universally shamed. People were milling around, smiling, laughing. If you looked in from the dining room it appeared much closer to a birthday party than any sort of funeral. People were looking and laughing at the picture boards, signing the guest book (which appeared from nowhere), and filling the SPCA donation jar née flower vase. There were faces from way back that I recognized, and many, many more that I didn’t. The three of us walked in together, but each was pulled in a different direction in the crowd. There were many people to meet and many stories to hear.

One of my dad’s six brothers was the first to take the mic (sign #1 you live in a smallish town – no one had a microphone we could rent or use so we had to buy a karaoke machine from Target) and started off with a story I’d heard many times before. My dad’s oldest brother was babysitting my dad, and in a bit of a big brother power play he asked my dad to get him a glass of water. My dad, maybe 4 at the time, brought him a glass of water. Ten minutes later, he asked my dad to get him another glass of water, which he did. His brother asked twice more before realizing my dad wasn’t tall enough to reach the sink, so he followed him to see if he was using a chair or somehow climbing up on the counter. He hadn’t used either. He didn’t need to be any taller to get water out of the toilet.

Our next door neighbor, the same that had driven Claire to the hospital on Sunday, began his blessing. He is a wonderful man, and his words were inspiring and heartfelt, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a downer. Remember all that about why God takes some and leaves others and Proverbs and all that? Yeah. Our neighbor had been talking for maybe ten minutes when he was overpowered. The generic Italian house music came to life in the back room and completely drowned out the words of inspiration emanating from a $30 karaoke machine. I caught my mom’s eye probably 20 feet away and we both smiled. Dad was trying to play our neighbor off. With blessing done, pizza was served.

The room was loud and the food good. I met a group of people my dad worked with. They all said that if it were open mic, it might easily turn into a roast. I thought about plugging the karaoke machine back in just to get it going. They talked about how much fun he was to work with, how happy he always was, how happy he always made them. And they all talked about how much he talked about us. “He was so proud of his kids,” one said. “If he wasn’t complaining about the Vikings or the Twins, he was talking about you or your sister.”

I saw old football coaches, old baseball coaches, former coworkers, his dentist, his hairdresser (my dad had a hairdresser?!), people who lived on our street, people who lived on our street twenty years ago, college friends, third cousins, and, by a wide margin the most popular, people who had seen my dad in Food Lion x number of weeks ago.

Almost everyone told a story of the last time they saw Dad, or their favorite memory of him. Almost every conversation contained one phrase: “He was so loved.”

The party continued for an hour past our allotted time, and it was constantly buzzing. The number of people laughing far, far outnumbered the number of people crying. The venue, the people, the food, the drink – everything was perfect. As we were leaving, my mom verified that we had done right by our dad. The beverage bill was more than the food and venue combined. It was exactly what Dad would’ve wanted.

The after-party ended up at our house, where a circle again formed in the living room but was filled with stories about my parents and their friends from college. There wasn’t an ounce of sadness in the room. Four hours passed, but it felt like no time at all. Many more bottles of wine were consumed as was most of the food we’d accumulated. It was a perfect end to a perfect night. The after party died down after some went to bed and others went back to their hotel. I went up and changed into pajamas. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I looked in the mirror and smiled for the first time in days, because I knew my dad wasn’t gone. He never could be. He was all I could see.

At 3am, three and a half days after first learning of my father’s death, my mom, my sister, and I sat on our living room couch in our silent-but-not-empty house. My sister drifted off to sleep and I held my mom’s hand thinking about all we’d done over the past 84 hours, and all we’d have to do in all the hours, days, and months to come. We talked about the party and how insanely, perfectly perfect it was for my dad. It was the kind of party he would’ve loved to be at. It was the kind of party he would’ve loved to throw for himself. He was the catalyst, but he wasn’t the focus. The focus was everyone else in the room. It was an excuse to meet other people and share stories and experiences. It was an excuse to mill around and reunite with old friends. It was an excuse to spend time with family who were spread about the country. It was an excuse to smile. That was pure Dad.

In three and a half days, I’d retraced so many of the paths my dad had forged. I’d talked to his friends, cried with his coworkers, and drove his routes. I told his favorite jokes, wore his sunglasses, and held his wife’s and daughter’s hands. I stopped slouching so much, made sure all the doors were locked before bed, and even accidentally wore tennis shoes with jeans.

I knew that in time we’d be okay. There’d be good days and bad, and there’d be happy days and sad. And it’d be a long, long time before any of us were anywhere close to back to normal, whatever “normal” now meant. But I thought about how lucky we all were to have him in our lives, even if the time was far too short and we weren’t nearly ready to say goodbye.

How many wives can say they were married to a husband like Dad? Numerous strangers came up to Claire and me and told us how clear it was that our parents were in love. My mom recalled her grandmother who lost her husband in her 40s. One time my mom asked her why she never re-married or even dated again. Her response? “It wouldn’t be fair to any other man.” My mom now knew exactly what she meant. How many women can truly say that?

And how many sons can say they grew up every day seeing the kind of man they wanted to become? My dad showed every day what being a man was all about. It never stopped after work hours or on the weekends. He always seemed free to do the things we needed to do. Claire and I would joke that Dad didn’t have much of a life. We were wrong. 300+ people crowded into a restaurant laughing and telling stories showed us how much of a life he had when we weren’t around. And yet everyone we talked to told us how much he talked about us and Mom. We weren’t his life, but his life was us.

I looked at my mom, now asleep still holding my hand, and my sister, long asleep next to me. I told myself that we’d get through this because we have so many friends and family that care about us. But even more than that, we have Dad. Each of us has the best parts of him, and time may ease the pain but those qualities in us will never go away. I see his focus and passion in my mom. I see his heart and warmth in my sister. And I see his dedication and patience, even with the Vikings, in me. Giving him credit for these things isn’t what he would’ve wanted, but it’s what he’s getting (I might’ve inherited a bit of his stubbornness also). I thought about all this and knew that while we’d never be normal again, in time we’d be okay.

In the three and a half days after my dad’s death, I learned what I’d always assumed but hadn’t seen firsthand in a while: Dad was so incredibly well loved. But even more importantly I saw and heard from everyone I’d spoken to what I’d known all along: Dad loved us all so incredibly well.