What Still Remains

What Still Remains1

It was a hot day in June, 1997. It happened so long ago, but it feels like it was just yesterday. I was just about to go into the fourth grade. It was a time in my life where I thought things were finally going to work out for the better. After all, I found out that my new teacher was going to be a teacher that I previously had years before. She was always kind and seemed like she genuinely cared, unlike some of the other teachers there were at school. I was young and carefree. My dad had a new job, and my mom was finally healthy again. I thought that nothing would happen. Then, I found him sitting there. 2

He was hunched over next to his bed. The normal pattern of his deep breaths was gone, and his face was pale. There was no telling how long he had been like that. Hours earlier he said that he was going to take a nap. My mother had sent me in there to ask him what he wanted for dinner. I shook him a few times, and repeated the words “Dad, wake up.” But he still just sat there, hunched over and unconscious. At that point I knew something had to be wrong. 3

I walked into the kitchen and my mom asked me what he said. I told her that he wasn't waking up. I saw the fear in her eyes. She ran into the back room. My brothers had heard her quivering voice by that point and came out of their room to investigate. I stood back as i watched my mom screaming at us to call 911. Chris got to the phone first. James was still standing next to a frantic Mom, who was on the verge of tears. The hard part of having three kids is that it doesn't leave much money left in your pocket for important things, such as a working telephone. The line was dead. 4

Earlier that week our town had announced that it was mandatory for everyone to have their house numbers on their house. My family had a discussion about that just days before. We were joking about how ridiculous we thought it was that the town would fine people for not having the numbers on their house. I don't know if this was a miracle, or sheer irony, but at that very moment a police officer was walking to our house to collect our fine. As Mom opened up the door to run to the neighbors' house, the police officer greeted her and was about to explain why he was there. “Thank God!”, she cried. “You have to help my husband, he isn't responding and there's something wrong with him.” The officer told her he would check it out as she guided him to her bedroom. She told us to go over to the neighbors' house anyway. Chris dragged James and I away and made sure we stayed there. 5

Moments later an ambulance pulled up to our house. I saw a bright array of red and white lights through the trees on the other side of the neighbor's lawn. My heart sank into my stomach. I didn't exactly know what to do. It took several men to put my dad on the stretcher. When he came out there was some sort of tube that they shoved into his mouth to help him to breathe. As the ambulance pulled away, I looked at my two brothers. Tears were rolling down their cheeks as they still watched the ambulance going down the street. The next thing that happened is what still dwindles in my mind the most, and rips into me like a steel  blade, twisting and turning itself until I can no longer bare the selfish pain. James turned to me and said these exact words “Why aren't you crying? Our dad is going to die and you don't even care.” He was furious with me, for I had not shed a single tear. I didn't know why I wasn't crying. 6

That night my mom came back home. She was still shaken, and she decided by that time we must have been starving. She made us some soup and gave us bread. The soup was still slightly cold, but I didn't really feel like eating anyway. Then, she leveled with us. She told us that Dad had congestive heart failure, like a heart attack. She said that he would have to stay in the hospital, but he would be fine. I had a very large amount of respect for my mother at that point. She was so strong, and so eager to make sure that we were alright. I knew that deep down inside she had her doubts too, but for us she kept her strength and didn't break down. 7

It took several months for Dad to get well enough to come home again. We visited him almost every week in the hospital. I never liked going into hospitals. I still don't. I used to visit my mother when she was hospitalized when I was really little. I knew that she  had to be there for her own safety, but I just wanted her to be home. Some of those memories flooded back when we went to see my dad. The intensive care unit smelled like death. I saw an old man lying in a bed one time as we walked through the hallway that led to my dad's room. He wasn't moving, and there was no sound coming from his room at all. I wondered if he had died and no one had noticed it yet. It was a terrible thought, but I couldn't help to think it. 8

Years later I was lying in my bed and the words “Why aren't you crying? Our dad is going to die and you don't even care” came into my head. I was thinking about them as the salty tears rolled down to my pillow. And to this day I still don't know why.9