Fear is interesting. You can spend your entire life afraid of something and when it happens feel something just short of relief. As if all the energy you put into worrying wasn't in waste, as if every last word was just as important as you made it out to be.
I know a lot of people say "you never know when it's the last time" but my parents have literally said that to me and my siblings almost every single day of our lives. If it wasn't that much it was still pretty darn close considering how often I say it to myself as an adult.
This blessing/curse rings in my ears constantly. In fact, when I was a teenager I remember getting in fights on the phone with someone in my family and still hanging up saying "I love you." I remember doing this specifically when I was with a close friend because she said "I thought you were mad at them." And yes, I was. But... you never know when it's the last time.
This mentality helped me with disregarding what my peers thought in high school, too. I know a lot of kids go through that embarrassment stage with their parents. Ya know, the "just drop me off around the corner" type of thing. But I remember being dropped off directly in front of groups of kids and kissing my Mom and my Dad goodbye. Sure, the fact that I never made the bus helped because it made these farewells more public, but it was the phrase "This could be the last time" that really made the situation what it was.
On this year's infamous Tax Day (April 15th) I realized I may have said the last words to my Dad. It was 11:30 a.m. on Monday and I was getting ready to leave Brian's apartment to go home and do my dreaded taxes; yea, I waited until the last minute. I had been doing the dishes before I left because 1- Brian never does them and it grosses me out and 2- I actually like doing the dishes, I find it therapeutic. So as I'm getting my stuff together after the dishes, feeling accomplished and ready to tackle the rest of the day, I glance at my phone. Missed call? Voicemail? Bad feeling.
I listen to the voicemail and it's my eldest sister Jackie telling me to call her right away, barely mentioning any reason why, just simply emphasizing the immediacy of the situation. So I call her back.
"Dad's been in a car accident and they're taking him to the University of Penn hospital. He passed out while driving and crashed into a pole. We don't know much but he is in serious condition."
I can't say I believed her. I mean, clearly this was happening but I remember just listening and not reacting. That is until Jackie put my Mom on the phone. And we both started sobbing. Of course Jackie quickly took the phone back and said, "Now I know why I'm the oldest." Leave it to my family to have the darkest sense of humor in times of distress.
I called Brian (he was at work) to tell him what was happening. I had to leave him a voicemail and let's just say mine was not as vague and calm as Jackie's had been.
Brian immediately called me back and said he was on his way to my house. I asked him a few days later what he had thought when he heard my message and he said, "I thought your life was about to change forever."
Okay, so now I'm driving to my house ignoring Jackie's instructions of "Don't speed." My family already had one car accident today, what were the chances of two? Apparently none, because I made it home just fine, or at least alive... "fine" was not the best description of my condition.
My brother Frankie and my Mom were already on their way to the hospital and Jackie was watching her boys and babysitting another little girl at my house. My other sister Kathleen was home and decided to graciously help me with my taxes. (Because yes, the government was still looming overhead and I had to do the crappy paperwork before I could see my Dad.)
By the time we were done Brian had arrived and he, Kathleen, and myself drove down to HUP together. We first went to the ER and heard he was in Trauma. I remember feeling so worried, as if my Dad was a child. How could he go through this experience alone?
I was even more amazed by my Dad's survival when Frankie, Brian, and I went to take a look at the car. It had been towed to a lot just up the street from the cafe I work(ed) at and the proximity was haunting. However, the car was more haunting. The beautiful, quiet, smooth driving Toyota was now unrecognizable. The front was smashed and hung off the body of the car like a child's tooth about to come loose, except there was no reassuring promise of another tooth.
Eventually he was placed in a room at HUP and they set up camp for him to stay for what would be 5 days. We heard different things: "It's his heart," "He has sleep apnea," "We're not sure if his Diabetes were a part of the reason..."
But for each possible reason we just wanted the real reason even more. And you know what? I don't think we even have one YET. But they have made sure it won't happen again. We hope.
We found some solace after they worked on his heart. He had A Fib on one side of his heart and the medicine wasn't working while he was at HUP. So eventually they had to do surgery to fix the condition. I was told it wasn't too invasive but apparently this isn't too true. They sent my Dad home Saturday and we were all a bit apprehensive about such a quick turnover. Apparently this was validated because when the home nurse came to check on my Dad on Monday she said he needed to see the cardiologist as soon as possible. So he went on Tuesday and was immediately sent to Bryn Mawr hospital, he had A Fib on the other part of his heart now. HUH? I thought they fixed him!
Thank God, the medicine worked this time and another surgery wasn't necessary. However, while we were still waiting on that conclusion, I went to visit him at Bryn Mawr and we talked in the sun room. A serious, deep talk that took almost dying for my Dad and I to find the time for. He told me about his gambling days before he met my mom, he told me about his family, he told me what he thought of me getting married one day, and so on. We've had talks like this a couple times before, and really only a couple times. But this time I felt like I had gone back in time and forward simultaneously.
We were sitting in the sun room of the 4th floor of the hospital, the same sun room I remember visiting my sick grandmother in when I was a kid... my Dad's mom. I was just a kid then but I could still picture that room. So bright and positive, like you're not in a hospital. And now I was there for my Dad and I was an adult talking about marriage within only "5 years," according to my Dad. Where did the time go?
My Dad is not allowed to drive for 6 months and I wouldn't want him to anyway. The situation could have been even worse. My Dad could have died, he could have killed someone, he could have done both. I don't want to take the chance that one of those possibilities could ever come true.
My family survived the first "last time" and I feel a little less worrisome waiting for the next bad news. Because we got past this one. We were blessed with avoiding this one.
