Kit: Autumn Reflections by SKrapper Digitals
March 5, 1977
I was only 8 years old when my father died. I know now things I didn’t know as a child, things that would have made me angry with him, things that would have changed my feelings about him. I credit my mother with keeping those things from me; for keeping my father’s memory intact no matter how hurt she must have been. My father was with another woman the night he died in a car accident. If he’d been home with his wife and children, maybe he’d be alive today. To make things worse, I not only lost a father that night, but a week later my mother miscarried my baby brother during his funeral reception.
March 5, 2010
My Grandma Helen, my father’s mother, was 98 and living in a nursing home. I’d seen her three years earlier when I’d gone home for my high school reunion. I knew it was likely the last time I’d see her. She was getting confused, but she recognized me and cried when she was brought into the day room. I helped feed her and said my good-byes. I wasn’t surprised when my aunt called to tell me she’d had a stroke. It was decided not to take extreme measures to keep her alive. She was unconscious. She wasn’t receiving food or water, just medication to keep her comfortable. Every day we thought it would be the day she passed, but every day she held on. A week later, without food or water, it occurred to us that the fifth was approaching. Earlier that day, I called to check on her, but she was still with us. Around 9:30 that night, my mother called to tell me grandma passed away about 15 minutes earlier. I asked my mom what time my dad died, but she didn’t remember. A bit later she called again. She’d gotten curious and pulled out my dad’s death certificate. My dad died at 9:10 p.m.