Week 7: To Lose Is To Grow

As a child growing up, you see your parents as the strongest people on earth! The way I viewed my father was no different. He was like an immortal being in my eyes, never showing any signs of weakness or fear. My dad was short in stature but huge in heart and personality. You could recognize his loud laugh down the hall. His skin complexation was dark and mine was light, yet we look alike. From coaching three different sports, to being involved in parent after school activities, Al was a jack of all trades. A true renaissance man. When it came to caring for others my dad would go the extra mile, with a big smile on his face doing so. Although I thought the world of my dad, with certainty he would be around for the longest, he would always tell my brothers and I "I won't be around forever so prepare yourselves for when I'm not here anymore." That is some pretty solid advice to give to your young cubs but I can't say that I received it like I should have.

I can still remember all the great memories with my father that made me think so highly of him. My two brothers and I would spend summer after summer with my father playing baseball, from sun up to sun down. The hot air would smack us in our face while the dirt from the infield bounced around in our rubber cleats. 3 time champions in PAL league might I add. My dad was our coach, yet he would treat us just like every other kid when we were out there playing. My father was a fair man. Everything he would do around us had a life lesson attached to it. The “never give up” attitude I have is a direct influence from my father. No matter how stressful of a work week my dad had, he would come with all the energy needed to win a Saturday morning baseball game in a crowd full of kids. My dad played the father role for more than just us. The whole neighborhood respected him as their father figure also.

The years went by, summer turning into fall, fall into winter, and winter turning into spring, with the bond between father and son staying close. I was the youngest of three boys, and my father treated me like so. When I was 13, my family faced one of the hardest challenges to date. In April 2006, my mother became very ill. Shortly after being evaluated she found out she had lung cancer. The doctors told us she'd have about six months or less to live. The only thing that kept me from breaking down was the support of my father. 

While I visited my mom at the age of 13 as she faced her last months, weeks, and days on this earth, my father gave me space to understand the magnitude of what was going on. I was given the time to digest the changes going on in my life, time that was much needed. My dad was always in arms length if I needed a shoulder to cry on. I never felt alone, drowning in my own sorrows. They say experience can be the best teacher at times. When my dad was in his teenage years he lost his mother to a year long battle with liver disease. 10 years after his mother passed he lost his older brother from a brain aneurysm. The pain I had was deep rooted from previous family members passing on. Only a person who’ve dealt with the death of loved ones would know how important it was to let a child grieve the death of his mother. These paralleled experiences put life into perspective for me, even at a young age.

August 28th, 2006. Ten days after my 14th birthday, the first day of high school, I lost my mother after a battle with lung cancer. My dad calmly told my brothers and I that our mom had passed away earlier that day. With the pain of losing our mother, he kept us together at a low point. That moment is forever engraved in my memory, down to the bus stop I got off at on that late summer morning. Losing your mother at such a young age can take your youth right away from you. I felt like a part of my armor was ripped off that day, removing a line of protection. With the love and guidance from my dad, life went on.

Going into my high school years I excelled on the basketball team. My dad would attend all of my games with a camera in hand recording every minute. I've shared the best of times and the worst of times with my dad. He was there to watch me shoot my last hoop on varsity, and watched as I crossed the stage to graduate. As I moved on from high school into the real world, I got the chance to see how it was to be a man. I got my first job at the Palace of Auburn Hills where the Detroit Pistons once played. Sharing the news with my dad about getting hired felt special for me. I didn't get a chance to attend college straight out of high school but I still had the support from my old man. Towards the end of the year though, things began to change.

A few days after New Year’s, entering 2011, I noticed that my father was missing an unusual amount of work days. When we asked him about his health, he said to us, “It’s just a common cold; I’ll be better in no time.” Before this my pops was a man of steel, or he just hid being sick very well through the years. After missing two weeks of work, he finally returned. Ironically, my father worked at a hospital. It was the same hospital where my parents had met and worked for years, even where my mom gave birth to me. This hospital is where she took her last breath. Returning to work, my father wasn’t feeling strong enough to finish his job, so he checked himself into the ER. From there he got unexpected news that shocked us all. 

That day my father found out he had cirrhosis of the liver, the same illness his mother passed away from in 1973. When he told my brothers and I, my mind immediately went to how his mother passed, which caused me to think of the worst case scenario. The doctor told us it had only gotten to 20 percent of his liver, so with the right diet and proper medicine being taken, he would be able to manage the illness. The look in my father’s eyes was that of worry. Lying on that hospital bed, he remained calm and told us everything would be fine. A few days later, after some treatment they sent my father home. 

I never had to help take care of my father like he did for me when I was younger. It was an honor and a duty of mine to watch after him while he was sick. Weeks passed with my father's health declining at home. We tried to talk him into checking back into the hospital, which didn’t go over well for him. During the last week of him being home, we got more bad news. February 23rd 2011, his step mother had passed away. Soon after, we received another call telling us that a cousin he grew up with passed away too. Tears came pouring down my father’s eyes like a waterfall; while he shed the tears he said "I’m next to pass away". My father would always say death comes in threes. The reality of him possibly passing away started to set in.

My father and I made plans to attend the funerals of his family members the weekend after their passing. The morning of the funeral, as I got dressed, I asked my father was he ready to go. He told me it’s just too cold outside, and he didn't feel strong enough to pay his respects. I knew my father was such a loving person, so the fact that he couldn’t make it to the funerals was a sign that things had gotten progressively worse. That night we tried to get my father to check himself back into the hospital, but he wouldn't budge. He said that if he didn’t feel better by the morning he would go to the hospital. 

The following morning when I woke up my father wasn’t home. I called to see where he was. My brother told me he took him to the hospital around 4am. I rushed to the hospital to see if my father was okay. When I arrived, he was fresh out of an emergency surgery. The doctors had to drain his stomach of the fluids that leaked out of his weakened liver. I could see that this surgery physically took a lot out of my father. He still kept a smile on his face, and would comfort me, as if I was the one that went through surgery. Later that day, the doctors got my father a room that seemed way too familiar to me. The suite room number was 426, right across the hall from where I visited my mom when she was sick. 422 was her room number five years prior. This gave me a terrible feeling, knowing how everything ended with my mom. 

I spent day after day with my dad in the hospital, enjoying each other’s company. Even though he had gone through all these health issues the past few months, he still smiled and laughed as if everything was perfectly fine. Family would come to visit my father as he rested in a hospital bed, and he would call me his little partner for being by his side the whole time. To see the joy on my father’s face when I came around brightened my day. I wouldn’t replace those moments for anything. But like all good things, it had to come to an end. 

The following week, my father just couldn’t get in better health. The hospital checked him into ICU with several other patients who looked rather critical. This just didn’t sit right with me after spending all this time with my dad, sharing funny stories and watching movies. My father had gotten so bad that St. Joseph Mercy Hospital recommended that he be transferred to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. If I was dreaming up until this point, I had received my reality check.

Getting to Henry Ford Hospital with my father was an emotional time. I knew that my father’s life was in danger, seeing that they had to get him to a specialist. My dad wasn’t even there a week before my family and I got the news that would change our lives forever. The doctor, a skinny white woman with glasses, and winter pale skin told us that it was an 80 percent chance that my father wouldn’t live to the end of the week. We were faced with the decision that all families fear to go through. We either had to pull the plug on my father or have him on life support with no chance of returning to a conscious state. I cried the remainder of that day. We choose to let him leave this world in a natural way. After all these years, my biggest fear was at my doorstep, looking me directly in the face.

March 11th, 2011 is a date that follows me everywhere I go. My family and I gathered around my father’s hospital bed as he took his last breath. I held his heart as it beat for the last time. It felt as if my heart had just been removed out of my chest that moment, as I stood looking at my father as his soul left his body. 3:11pm was the official time of my father’s passing, the same time my brother was born. By the age of 18 I had lost my mother, and now my father. 

As we left the hospital on a rainy day, something special happened. The sun came bursting from behind the clouds like a running back out of the back field, shined directly in my face. It was the sign I was looking for. My father had made his grand entrance into the pearly gates. At a time of grief, I could only smile as the sun beamed in my eyes. That sign was all I needed to move forward.    

 My father knew that it was his time to go and that his youngest child had become a man. After all the pain my father faced, he was strong enough to see me transform from an energetic kid, into a man. I thank my parents for all they did for me while they were on earth. I know they are looking down on me as I take my every step. Losing both parents at a young age ultimately matured me, and created the man you see before you today. Through the pain, I became a man.

It’s funny the people you see after you’ve lost a loved one. I remember the crossing guard from my elementary school bringing over a personal size of lasagna, which I didn’t eat. When I tell you this lady bothered me for the next two weeks about returning the glass dish she put it in. She could’ve just kept the bland layers for the headache she gave me. There was a grumpy old lady who never talked to us from across the street who decided to bring over a pan of creamed corn fresh out of the can. It’s the thought that counts I guess. Those can openers can be difficult to use. This treatment goes on for about 2 to 3 weeks before everybody stops caring. You heard it here first for when you lose someone you love.

The days that followed after his passing, we have to prepare for the funeral. I’m 18 years old at the time and didn’t have the slightest clue on how to conduct a service for the beloved. At a round table it was me, my brothers, my aunt, and a friend of the family trying to decide on how we would make this memorial service work. Planning for funerals is the part they forget to teach you about in high school. The location of the funeral was arranged, as well as the pallbearers. Walking through the funeral home we picked out a casket that would be fit for a king. Looking back on it, I can’t quite remember what suit my dad was buried in.

At my dad's viewing and funeral I had felt more outgoing than I've ever been. It was like someone else had taken the wheel of my body as I watched from the sidelines. I greeted everyone who was attending the service, listening to their stories about my father. Although my dad passed away fairly young, he touched the lives of many along his journey. Up until this day, people still approach me with stories about my dad. Just last month I met a grown man who my dad baby sit for when he was a kid. These are the kinds of stories that I love to hear. It's like I learn something new about the man that raised me every year.

After the funeral service I can truly say I became a new person. The once passive, shy kid no longer had a room to reside in. My personal experience with death taught me how to be a strong independent person who has an army of angels with a birds eye view on my every move. I'm fine with that though. My dad is my daily inspiration to keep going. His life has taught me how to care a little more. How to love without expecting anything in return. The person who stands in front of you today is at peace with life and its many cycles. The energy I get from the family who walked this earth before me is the fuel this vessel needs to go on another day. I am thankful and grateful for the life I have. I dedicate this to my pops. I love you.

From,

Your youngest son.