Half Mast
Dear Dad, I haven’t seen you since Tuesday, April 23, 2024. I think I saw you Tuesday but I can’t remember for sure. We were supposed to be at NIH Monday the 22nd, but you were still sick and I was vomiting, so we bailed on our trip and I wasn’t well enough to even take the train down. I don’t remember our last conversation, the words we exchanged. I remember making you an appointment for blood work the Friday before and making sure you went, and I fed you, and picked you up meals from Wegmans…I don’t know. The days are a blur. I hadn’t vomited since January, so I remember you were bummed that I had puked again and ruined my remission, so maybe I saw you Monday or Tuesday…now that I type this, I think you came up here and said you were sorry I was sick on Monday. Yes! You did. You came up here and helped Mom with the trash, but you felt pretty shitty and short of breath.And then Tuesday night, Mom encouraged me to come in and see you, as if you were dying or something. I kind of scoffed and declined because I was declining, not you. I could handle me being sick, but not you. I didn’t come in! What an asshole move that was, now that I’m looking back. Obviously I couldn’t have known, but it was weird Mom asked if I wanted to see you. So I didn’t see you that Tuesday. So I haven’t seen you since Monday, April 22. What. the. Fuck. I would’ve come in but you just had a virus, the end of the flu. It wasn’t even covid. Yes, you were short of breath but you’d been battling anxiety since we came home from Sloan. Surely it wasn’t blood clots filling your lungs and heart. There was no way to know.
And then Wednesday I slept late. And Mom texted that she was taking you to the ER. The last texts exchanged on our “Fam” text are about you being admitted. I kept asking “regular or ICU?” and calling Mom, but it would go straight to voicemail. She was ignoring my calls. My anxiety deepened. And then she called me, anguish filling her voice. She said you were doing really terribly and I needed to come quick. “Just get here.” “Park at valet,” I heard someone say and I thought it was you who said it, so I calmed down a bit. But I was really freaking out by the time I got out of bed and wiped my face. I was peeing before I left, and I shouted out in the bathroom. “Please, God. Don’t take him! Please! Please!” not knowing you were coding at that moment. That they’d come out into the hallway, after 20 minutes, after so many shocks to your heart, that they looked stricken and aghast, these doctors who were your cardiologists and Mom’s coworkers for years, and asked what Mom wanted to do. But your brain would’ve been gone by then. And we both knew that being brain dead on a breathing tube is something you never wanted.
So they called time of death. On you. My FATHER. My DAD. My best friend. Why, Dad?
I guess there are plenty of medical explanations. We didn’t opt for an autopsy. I didn’t want anyone touching you again. We’re all smart enough to figure it out. Mom has been a cardiac ICU nurse for most of her 40 years in the game. We get how you died. But we will never know why.
And now it’s May and everyone’s lives are getting back to normal. Kristie went back to work and Greg goes back to work next week. Mom is taking another week or two off but you know her, she can’t sit still alone. She’s not built to be in that house alone, but she knows it’s best for our relationship if I stay in the apartment, which is where I am now because Rachel and Grandma left today. They were both crying as they left. I wish she could. I wish she could come back right now because being alone in this sucks. I have no partner. I have no one to comfort me like a partner or children can. I am all alone now, just like Mom.
And things don’t make sense. I just walked your favorite nightmare, Pete, and none of the flags in town are at half mast. Like it’s a normal fucking day. Like the worst day of my life hasn’t been on repeat since Wednesday, April 24, at 4:27pm. How can schools be open? Why is the postman bringing the mail? Why is Amazon delivering boxes you’d be pissed about?
This is stupid. I’m 38 years old. I’m a full grown adult. But I’m sick and I need my daddy. I haven’t called you that in 28 years, probably, but I need him. I need you. I need you to come home from work and have a beer and let me sit on your feet as you lie on the couch because it’s 1998, and the Yankees are winning every game, and you’re saying it’s going to be a historic season. David Wells is pitching and you’re explaining what a perfect game is, and we hold our breath at every ball. (subscribe here: https://buttondown.email/kellybergin)
This is so dumb! Just come back! Mom and I can’t figure out the ADT. I don’t know my AT&T account number. What’s your pin number? Where do you want us to spread your ashes? Should we go to Ireland for your 45th wedding anniversary in a couple years like we’d planned?
There will be grandchildren you never meet. Maybe a partner for me who will never know the distinct pleasure of having their balls busted by you.
But you also got to go out on top. You got to see your son get married. You got to be with your friends and family for one glorious night in mid-April. You got to see Leo in a tux and dance with Sadie and Adelaide and Leo and Mom and me and Greg and Nikki and Cliff.
Right now the best minute of my day is when I wake up and forget you’re dead. And then I remember, and it sucks so bad. I miss you, Dad. I love you. Please come back.
Love, Pookie