Over the course of the next year, I slowly became resigned to how my life had changed. I missed my mother terribly and cried myself to sleep many nights. I grew closer to my father and attached myself to his side. I was always Daddy’s girl, but now even more so. I would lean on his shoulder while we watched TV every night after dinner. I became closer to him and got to know him better than I ever had before. I always loved him but now I knew why. Despite his own sorrow, he rose to fill the void that my mother’s death had left in me. He let me abandon my own bed to sleep in his. Perhaps we both found it comforting to not be alone at night.
Of course, I also had the love and support of my sisters and brother to draw on. They became a little more tolerant of their annoying baby sister and we all seemed to grow closer from the ordeal we had been through. I spent the days after school playing with my best friend and slowly became comfortable with my new reality. Once summer came, we wasted our long summer days at the swim club which was our second summer home several blocks away from our real house. The warm days eventually waned and it was back to school once again.
I remember the first day of third grade. My dad had packed my lunch in the requisite brown paper bag with my name written in black magic marker across the front. As our teacher walked us through the rules of third grade, she suggested that everyone have their mother write their name on their lunch bag or lunch box and held mine up as an example. I remember raising my hand and explaining that it was my father that had written my name on my lunch bag. I was trying to send a message in my eight year old way, but I could tell from the teacher’s reaction that she hadn’t caught on. She gave me that dismissive “oh you’re just splitting hairs” look and continued with her schpiel. After class that day I went up to her and explained that I when I mentioned that my father had written my name on my lunch, I did so for a reason. I told her that my mother had passed away the year before and I didn’t like having to correct people when they mentioned my mother. She completely got it and was so lovely and understanding to me for the rest of the year. When she would pass me walking to school while driving in her Chevrolet Bel Air, she would pull over and pick me up. She was kind and wonderful and made me feel like I had a true ally in her.
The school year went along as most of them do and before long spring was threatening to turn to summer. It was mid-May and the air smelled sweet. I remember that my Dad, who was a four pack a day smoker, began cutting back drastically on his habit. I didn’t think much of it, since I pestered him about it constantly. I thought perhaps I was finally getting through to him. He was now only smoking a few cigarettes a day. I was proud of him. One particular Saturday, after taking one of my sister’s for a check-up at the doctor, he came home not feeling well and decided to lay down for a bit. I remember he got up and joined us all for dinner, but went to lay down again afterward, still not feeling himself.
Shortly thereafter he came downstairs and was complaining of really not feeling well. I remember one of my sisters asking if he wanted her to call an ambulance. He refused. About a half hour later, she offered again and this time he said it might not be a bad idea. I remember the ambulance attendants coming into the house and them strapping him to the gurney. I remember that as they carted him out to the ambulance he was cracking jokes about how he wanted to go to the hospital in style, with lights flashing and sirens blazing. No quiet ride in a station wagon for him.
He was in the hospital for a few days and my brother and I went back to our routine of hanging out in hospital waiting rooms while the older kids went to visit him. We had been through this routine when my mother was sick, so it was all strangely familiar. It seems he had suffered a mild heart attack, but would pull through and be released in a couple of days. I missed him desperately and just wanted him back home where I could see him and hug him. The night before he was to be released, my brother and I were at our post in the hospital waiting room when my uncle came down and asked if we’d like to go for a ride. I declined, but my brother who is five years older overruled me and said “no, let’s go with him.” I didn’t want to, but I discerned that my brother knew something that I did not and so we went.
We drove in the car for awhile and eventually arrived at my uncle’s house. My Aunt warmly greeted us at the door and suggested that we might want to go up to our cousin’s bedroom and play with whatever toys were still there. Their kids were all grown. I remember playing with my brother for awhile, when my uncle interrupted us and asked if we would please come downstairs. We went into the sunroom which is where they spent most of their time. He motioned for us to sit in the chairs that my Aunt and Uncle normally occupied. He paced back and forth a couple of times before stopping with his hands clasped facing us. He looked at us and said “You may have been expecting this, but your father passed away.” WHAT? My head swam. I was NOT expecting that under any circumstances. I remember my first thought was “Who will take care of me?” before quickly deciding that I would take care of myself. And then I cried. I cried without any prompting from anyone. I remember my brother hugging me with tears in his eyes and telling me it would be okay. I didn’t see how. I was suddenly the most alone little girl in the whole entire world. I felt hoodwinked and devastated. He was supposed to come home tomorrow. How could this have happened?
I remember clinging to my brother. I remember my aunt and uncle offering to let us stay at their house for the night and protesting vehemently. I just wanted to go home. I don’t remember the ride to our house, but I remember arriving home to the rest of the family buzzing about the house trying to make sense of it all. I remember going up to my brother’s room and finding him with his head buried in the pillow. I remember leaning over him and tapping him on the shoulder as I sat on the edge of his bed. He swung around and cracked me square in the nose with his head. I saw stars and began to wail. It hurt. A lot. I remember one or several of my sisters coming to see what happened and assessing whether my nose was broken. I remember not wanting to go back to the hospital. Instead, they got me an ice pack and sat me on the couch downstairs. I remember that was the first time I ever saw Saturday Night Live and that it was the episode with Chevy Chase doing word association as President Ford with Buck Henry as the therapist.
I remember the funereal vibe around the house again. I remember the wakes, which I again, was not allowed to attend, and I remember the funeral party at my aunt and uncle’s house. I remember everyone looking at me with pain in their eyes as though it was too much to look at this little girl and think about how fate had dealt her such a horrendous blow. I remember feeling alone and totally screwed by the hands of fate. I don’t remember how long we stayed out of school this time and I don’t remember my first day back. I remember my teacher being so kind and supportive, but never piteous. I remember wondering how this would all play out. I remember that it sucked and I didn’t know what was going to happen to us all.
Of course, I also had the love and support of my sisters and brother to draw on. They became a little more tolerant of their annoying baby sister and we all seemed to grow closer from the ordeal we had been through. I spent the days after school playing with my best friend and slowly became comfortable with my new reality. Once summer came, we wasted our long summer days at the swim club which was our second summer home several blocks away from our real house. The warm days eventually waned and it was back to school once again.
I remember the first day of third grade. My dad had packed my lunch in the requisite brown paper bag with my name written in black magic marker across the front. As our teacher walked us through the rules of third grade, she suggested that everyone have their mother write their name on their lunch bag or lunch box and held mine up as an example. I remember raising my hand and explaining that it was my father that had written my name on my lunch bag. I was trying to send a message in my eight year old way, but I could tell from the teacher’s reaction that she hadn’t caught on. She gave me that dismissive “oh you’re just splitting hairs” look and continued with her schpiel. After class that day I went up to her and explained that I when I mentioned that my father had written my name on my lunch, I did so for a reason. I told her that my mother had passed away the year before and I didn’t like having to correct people when they mentioned my mother. She completely got it and was so lovely and understanding to me for the rest of the year. When she would pass me walking to school while driving in her Chevrolet Bel Air, she would pull over and pick me up. She was kind and wonderful and made me feel like I had a true ally in her.
The school year went along as most of them do and before long spring was threatening to turn to summer. It was mid-May and the air smelled sweet. I remember that my Dad, who was a four pack a day smoker, began cutting back drastically on his habit. I didn’t think much of it, since I pestered him about it constantly. I thought perhaps I was finally getting through to him. He was now only smoking a few cigarettes a day. I was proud of him. One particular Saturday, after taking one of my sister’s for a check-up at the doctor, he came home not feeling well and decided to lay down for a bit. I remember he got up and joined us all for dinner, but went to lay down again afterward, still not feeling himself.
Shortly thereafter he came downstairs and was complaining of really not feeling well. I remember one of my sisters asking if he wanted her to call an ambulance. He refused. About a half hour later, she offered again and this time he said it might not be a bad idea. I remember the ambulance attendants coming into the house and them strapping him to the gurney. I remember that as they carted him out to the ambulance he was cracking jokes about how he wanted to go to the hospital in style, with lights flashing and sirens blazing. No quiet ride in a station wagon for him.
He was in the hospital for a few days and my brother and I went back to our routine of hanging out in hospital waiting rooms while the older kids went to visit him. We had been through this routine when my mother was sick, so it was all strangely familiar. It seems he had suffered a mild heart attack, but would pull through and be released in a couple of days. I missed him desperately and just wanted him back home where I could see him and hug him. The night before he was to be released, my brother and I were at our post in the hospital waiting room when my uncle came down and asked if we’d like to go for a ride. I declined, but my brother who is five years older overruled me and said “no, let’s go with him.” I didn’t want to, but I discerned that my brother knew something that I did not and so we went.
We drove in the car for awhile and eventually arrived at my uncle’s house. My Aunt warmly greeted us at the door and suggested that we might want to go up to our cousin’s bedroom and play with whatever toys were still there. Their kids were all grown. I remember playing with my brother for awhile, when my uncle interrupted us and asked if we would please come downstairs. We went into the sunroom which is where they spent most of their time. He motioned for us to sit in the chairs that my Aunt and Uncle normally occupied. He paced back and forth a couple of times before stopping with his hands clasped facing us. He looked at us and said “You may have been expecting this, but your father passed away.” WHAT? My head swam. I was NOT expecting that under any circumstances. I remember my first thought was “Who will take care of me?” before quickly deciding that I would take care of myself. And then I cried. I cried without any prompting from anyone. I remember my brother hugging me with tears in his eyes and telling me it would be okay. I didn’t see how. I was suddenly the most alone little girl in the whole entire world. I felt hoodwinked and devastated. He was supposed to come home tomorrow. How could this have happened?
I remember clinging to my brother. I remember my aunt and uncle offering to let us stay at their house for the night and protesting vehemently. I just wanted to go home. I don’t remember the ride to our house, but I remember arriving home to the rest of the family buzzing about the house trying to make sense of it all. I remember going up to my brother’s room and finding him with his head buried in the pillow. I remember leaning over him and tapping him on the shoulder as I sat on the edge of his bed. He swung around and cracked me square in the nose with his head. I saw stars and began to wail. It hurt. A lot. I remember one or several of my sisters coming to see what happened and assessing whether my nose was broken. I remember not wanting to go back to the hospital. Instead, they got me an ice pack and sat me on the couch downstairs. I remember that was the first time I ever saw Saturday Night Live and that it was the episode with Chevy Chase doing word association as President Ford with Buck Henry as the therapist.
I remember the funereal vibe around the house again. I remember the wakes, which I again, was not allowed to attend, and I remember the funeral party at my aunt and uncle’s house. I remember everyone looking at me with pain in their eyes as though it was too much to look at this little girl and think about how fate had dealt her such a horrendous blow. I remember feeling alone and totally screwed by the hands of fate. I don’t remember how long we stayed out of school this time and I don’t remember my first day back. I remember my teacher being so kind and supportive, but never piteous. I remember wondering how this would all play out. I remember that it sucked and I didn’t know what was going to happen to us all.
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