Throughout our lives we hold different jobs or roles.
I was a student for 16 years.
I've been a mother for almost 13 years.
I've been a wife for 16 years.
I've been a daughter (or child) for 38 years.
Being a daughter is the longest job I've had so far in my life.
Around this time last year my dad had a mild attack. He needed a stent and eventually a bypass, but the doctor didn't feel my dad needed the bypass immediately.
In April 2021 he had his bypass. A quadruple bypass. My dad came through it just fine and was able to go home after a couple days. I decided to return home and stay a few days so I could meal prep/stock their freezer, provide support and just plain spend time at home.
While driving the four hours west a thought hit me: I'm not a kid anymore.
I was going to be the adult and primary caregiver on this visit. My mom hadn't been cooking and was spending a lot of time napping.
My dad looked good for having major surgery days prior. Said he was feeling ok and had some soreness of course. Sleeping was uncomfortable lying down so he was sleeping in his recliner.
I helped with doling out his daily meds, browning several pounds of ground turkey to make casseroles or just bag up to put in the freezer and took dad to their church to walk laps around the hall.
After four days I packed up my stuff, showed my mom all the food I had made/froze and instructions on how to prepare it and came back to my house and my family.
In the weeks following, dad went to physical therapy weekly and limited his "work" time. He was feeling great; his doctors were very impressed with how well he was doing. One weekend in May he and my mom came to visit us for a weekend. Eric took dad and a family friend to an air show in Wichita.
Then on May 26, 2021, I got the phone call no child wants to answer. My dad was dead.
My mom found him in the backyard then called my brother and 911. He was already gone; they weren't going to try and resuscitate him. My brother called Eric (who was out of town), and Eric called me.
That phone call keeps replaying over and over in my head.
In the days following dad's death there was a lot to deal with, which is expected after such an event. My mom was in no way capable of making such decisions by herself. Writing dad's obituary, accepting food and visits from friends (and writing it all down), while also trying to keep out of town relatives informed via text/phone call, not to mention keeping my kids occupied.
Every day for at least a week mom's house was full of family; sharing stories, pictures, eating food, playing cards, and taking out the trash. Every night with our family at the house for meals, the kids always filled their plates first (10-12 kids) and sat at the dining room table. Us adults would move back and forth, getting drinks, refilling plates, handing out napkins, silverware, etc. The very jobs my two aunts and my mom would do when I was a kid.
My dad will never see my kids play another soccer game, basketball game or softball game.
He won't see my kids graduate and get married. Meet any great grandkids.
When I eventually get something written and published, he won't be able to read it.
We can no longer discuss why an actor left NCIS or whether or not we were going to watch Law & Order: UK.
I never gave much thought to one of my parents dying. I was still just a naive little girl. Then I had to grow up overnight.
