I wait for words to come

I was wandering around the house aimlessly most of yesterday.  It was a snow day, an unexpected gift, in the form of freezing rain and iced up roads. I’d been up since sunrise, because the school cancelation notice came late and I couldn't sleep anyhow. 

At some point I cleaned the fridge and made a half-hearted attempt to decorate for the holidays. I managed to find a couple of sparkly candles and a few odds and ends: some wrapping paper, a box of stable animals for the crèche.  I shooed the cat off the comfy chair and reread some chapters from one of my favorite books, Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, the story of Olympian Louie Zamperini, who triumphed over spiritual and bodily suffering that would have destroyed lesser souls. 

I had trouble concentrating. It wasn’t due to the impending holidays, or the pounding rain. My dad’s best friend had just passed the day before.  Sadness makes me spacey. I kept getting up for water, losing my place in the book. I rearranged a couple of piles of bills, watered the cats, fiddled with the thermostat, folded some laundry. Then blam! A micro memory flashed into my brain,slammed my throat so hard, it closed right up.   

One second I’m debating cleaning the litter box, the next, it’s April 1993. I’m standing in the dreary   hallway outside the intensive care unit at St. Vincent’s hospital. We’d just gotten news that things did not look good for my dad. He’d had a massive heart attack two days earlier, and his body wasn’t stabilizing. 

My mom was in my dad’s room, on the other side of these daunting alarmed doors. My sister and I, young, stressed out, exhausted, were being less than sisterly toward one another in this echoing wasteland while we waited for our turn to go in. Then my dad’s best friend showed up.  The two of us quieted down when we saw him, but I’m sure he heard us sniping.  

He was a tall, handsome man with twinkling eyes and a broad smile that always reminded me of Dick Van Dyke. He hugged each of us, and asked how we were doing. His voice was warm and reassuring.  He called us by the same nicknames my dad used – Mo and T. 

He’d been a standout basketball player back in college and knew about trying your best. He built up a successful insurance practice – my dad was his first customer -- and had a reputation for integrity and kindness. He had an athlete’s mindset. When he spoke, he had a way of putting a spin on things that made you feel like you could do anything you set your mind on if you just tried. I don’t remember what he said to us that night, but I remember feeling better and feeling like a better person just listening to him.  

There were several more days of craziness, but my dad survived and recovered beautifully. He’s a miracle, according to his cardiologist. Every day is a gift. We -- me, my mom, dad, sister -- all know this. 

As the time speeds by, each day slipping faster, our gratitude grows. Still, I wish this week would go away. This loss is hard – I fear heartbreaking -- for my dad.  I think of his friend and how his voice reassured us back then, and I wish I could repay the favor and heal my dad. I wait for words to come, though I know they aren't enough.