It was a perfect death and a nearly perfect birth. When my father, George, died hours after I had been in the hospital giving birth to my son Aidan, I didn’t quite realize that my belief system would be turned upside down. I still don’t know the meaning of life or what happens when we die, but one thing I now know for sure: we are more than our bodies.
My dad was top-notch as far as dads go. He was the kind of dad who turned up the thermostat absurdly high on a cold winter night, fired up the grill, put on shorts and a T-shirt, and pretended it was summer. He was the man who told his daughter she “should throw like a girl” because girls can do anything boys can and do it better. He was the type of guy who spent hours with his five-year-old daughter, counting leaves just to pass the time.
That level of attachment and adoration made it even more painful to watch him die a slow death. He had been declining cognitively and physically for nearly a decade due to what his doctors theorized was Atypical Parkinson’s. And I was pregnant with my second child. I am and have always been tough. It was in my DNA and I had spent almost 20 years prior to this moment as a news producer reacting to the most unpredictable and often volatile of circumstances. I told myself I could handle this.
At 5.45 am on the day of my scheduled c-section, the plan I’d produced for this moment set in motion: I brushed my teeth, finished packing my bag, got our three-year-old daughter Finn ready for our caregiver to take her to and from school. My mom would stay with her in the afternoon at our apartment in Brooklyn. The dog walker would handle the overprotective ten-year-old hundred-plus-pound Black Russian Terrier. My dad’s childhood best friend, Armond, and my mom’s closest confidant, Jane, would keep an eye on my father at his assisted living facility outside Washington, D.C.. And I even had his hospice nurse texting us regular updates.
By 6:30 am, my husband, Andrew, and I were in an Uber and headed to the hospital. I tried to call my dad. But in the last forty-eight hours, he had significantly declined, and was barely opening his eyes. I felt horrible asking my mom to leave his bedside to come and help out with Finn, but I needed her. A week prior my daughter had been really sick and landed in the emergency room after having a febrile seizure. She was fine minutes later and the doctors assured us this is more common that you would think, but it scared the hell out of us and we needed all hands on deck.
The last time I had spoken to my dad was three days prior; we FaceTimed. He had trouble speaking, and my mom anxiously kept trying to put words in his mouth, “George, George, can you hear her?” I asked him, “Are you tired, Dad?” He said, “Yes,” barely nodding his head. I looked through the camera and straight into his eyes; I said, “I love you, Dad.” He said, “I love you, Cul.”