Leaving

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he said, as he wrapped his warm arms around me and pulled me in for one of his signature Papa Bear hugs. He kissed the top of my head gently as he so often did since I’d become an adult; when I was younger he’d smatter wet kisses all across my cheeks and forehead, causing me to squirm away, muttering “eww, gross, Dad,” as I tried to wipe the wetness off my face with my shirt sleeve. 

But this time, I didn’t want to wipe his kiss away. I wanted to stay in that warm, loving embrace forever. It was as if my soul knew. 

It was Thanksgiving 2007, and I’d spent the holiday with my parents in their winter home in Arizona. I’d been living in New York City since graduating from college in 2002, and the respite of the quiet, warm desert, in contrast to the pure chaos of The City, had been so welcome. And I’d always enjoyed falling backward – pretending for a time that I wasn’t a trying-to-be independent adult, but rather, once again, a “cared for” kid. Their kid. 

The night before I was set to fly back to New York had been a rough one. During dinner, my dad started complaining of a pain in his abdomen that grew worse as the meal went on. Not one to complain, my mom and I knew it was serious. We left without finishing our food, and took him straight to the hospital. He had kidney stones. Not serious, but exceptionally excruciating. We spent hours with him in the hospital while they managed his pain, and set him up to hopefully pass the stones at home. Though he was in the best of spirits, as he always was, joking with the nurses and telling them that he was the luckiest man in the world to have such a beautiful wife, 5 wonderful children, and a growing brood of grandchildren, I couldn’t help but cry. 

As my mom and I walked to the vending machine to grab dinner — a bag of M&M’s and a candy bar, respectively – the tears fell hard. 

“What if he’s not OK?” I cried. “I’ve never seen Dad in so much pain before. He looks so vulnerable laying there in a hospital bed. I can’t imagine a life without Dad in it.” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” my mom said, as she pulled me in for a tight squeeze. “He’s going to be just fine. Though painful, kidney stones aren’t fatal. They’re pretty common, actually. Plus, your dad’s a fighter; the strongest man I know. It’s going to be OK.” 

And so the next morning, as I was packing my things to go, and he pulled me in for that big, warm, signature Papa Bear hug, I had no idea it would be the very last time we had an in-person goodbye. 

Though my mom was right about something. The kidney stones passed, and my dad was strong. He’d come through that absolutely fine. But then he elected to have two surgeries to clear the plaque from the arteries in his legs. 

“These are standard procedures,” the doctor promised him. His name was Dr. Money. I clearly remember my dad joking about that. 

Isn’t that funny, he’d said. Dr. Money — his name is Dr. Money! 

My mom and I were nervous. My dad was 75 and any type of elective surgery at this point didn’t seem like a good idea. But he’d been having trouble walking for years, the pain and stiffness in his legs making him less mobile. Yet even at his age, he was the most energetic man I knew, wanting to golf daily and keep up with my extremely active mother. 

It’s my quality of life, he’d said. I can’t live this way for the rest of my years. If we clear the plaque, the doctor says I won’t have this pain and I’ll be able to walk normally. 

And so we agreed. He had the surgeries. 

The first one went well, but didn’t give him the relief he’d hoped for. 

“The second one will do the trick,” said Dr. Money. “It’s his femoral artery we’ll clear, that’s what’s really causing the problems.” 

And so they went in and cleaned out the femoral artery, one of the biggest and fastest pulsing arteries in the human body. 

The surgery itself went well. But the aftermath did not. He contracted an infection at the surgical site — MRSA or one of those other hospital superbugs.

Dr. Money prescribed a wound vac – like a vacuum that sits on the open wound and sucks out the infection – and sent him home to heal. 

But that’s not what happened. What happened instead is that the wound vac pulled so hard at the already weakened femoral artery, that it burst. It burst right there in their beautiful Arizona winter home. My mom, who hadn’t left his side in weeks, had gone golfing that morning at his urging. 

“You have to get out of here,” he said, almost as if he knew and was trying to protect her. “You need to do something for YOU today. Go, I’ll be fine.” 

And so she did, albeit nervously. And then, on hole 9, her phone rang. “Call 911,” my dad said. “I love you. And goodbye.” 

And that was my dad, leaving. He knew. I’m sure he knew. He knew he’d be gone before she got home. Before the paramedics would even arrive.

That was December 22, 2007; the day my dad said goodbye forever.