January 2nd, 2002

The above date may not mean much to an average person reading this, but the above date, January 2nd, 2002 had a very significant meaning in my life.  On that day, ten years ago as you can see, our family lost one totally amazing man, my father, at about 5:00 am in the morning after a lengthy but courageous battle with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

I look back on that day and the days previous to that date quite regularly while going through my daily routines.  The first initial thought that enters my brain is that our family pretty much got screwed, to be blunt.  He was 58 years old when he passed.  58 fricking years old for crying out loud, way too young to have to say goodbye to any of us.

Anybody who has experienced a similar loss can likely tell you that in those last moments together things may happen that you never thought were possible, emotions are high, words get said that weren't maybe said before and some walls that maybe were up before seem to be broken down.

I remember doting on my Dad the last few days in the hospital, trying my damndest to make sure he was comfortable and that  he knew I was there for him.  The last time he ever got out of bed to go to the bathroom it took me and two nurses to walk his 95 pound body to the bathroom only about 3 feet from his bed.  He really didn't even need to go that bad, he hadn't been eating and drinking much, but I think this was his crazy and bold determination to fight the inevitable and try to convince himself this really wasn't happening.  I helped in ways I didn't think I had in me, but because it was him, and because I knew it wouldn't be long, a different part of me took over and did what was "right" and what was needed.

I'll never forget how his skin was so dry and his throat became so dry.  So along with other family members, we rubbed lotion on  his legs and arms to help him feel better, had a contanst cup of ice water handy with a little sponge-like lollipop that we would dip in the ice water and then put in his mouth to suck on.  It wasn't much I guess, but it was all we could do at that point.

I look back now, I remained rather strong through it all, broke down on occasion of course, but didn't want him to see my pain anymore than he needed to.  He was such a strong man himself, and had been in and out of the hosipital so many times before, I truthfully think most of us initally thought this time would be no different.  He'd go in, get stronger with some blood transfusions, and come back out again like he always did....I knew in my  gut right away that this time WAS different.

I'll never forget my Grandma (God bless her soul), pleading with his doctor a day or so before he passed, that there must be something more they could do to help him.  Couldn't they call Mayo Clinic and do something experimental or something, she didn't want "her Norbie" (as she always called him) to die.  This was her first born child, "No parent should have to watch their child die before them, I should go first!" she said.  She kept asking for a miracle.  I told her at that time that in a sense we had gotten a miracle already.  My Dad had battled this nasty disease off and on for 16 years!!!  That in itself was a miracle to me, we could've lost him many years sooner than we did really.

Taken in September 2001 for my parent's 40th anniversary.  My Dad, his Mom and my Mom.  This was taken roughly 4 months before he passed away.

Another thing I won't forget is that I was the one that went down to the hospital with my Mom the Monday morning before he passed and I think this was the first time my Mom realized "this was it".  We had visited him in his room as soon as we got there, he didn't look good, he looked sooooo weak.  He needed to be attended to by the staff shortly after and Mom and I decided to head to the cafeteria for a bit.  Before leaving one of the nurses approached her about all of the legal paperwork (Living Will, etc.) and it was at that moment that her expression changed and she knew it wouldn't be long.  She lost it in the cafeteria with me, she had been in denial before then.  Shortly after I called my brother and told him he needed to come down.  Our sister was called shortly after.

There was a lot of chasing the next few days.  Making sure Mom had clean clothes (she wouldn't leave the hospital), checking mail, running our kids places so I could be at the hospital.  I left briefly on Monday and came back later that day and never left his side much after that.  I was too scared to.

His room was small.  Mom had her chosen spot in the recliner right next to his bed.  There was one other chair in his room, we would take turns occupying that, and another person a lot of times would sit on the edge of his bed, then the hospital had arranged for us to have blankets and sleeping arrangements in a nearby lounge (I never stayed in there).  The hospital staff was great and had a cart with beverages and some snacks available to us too.  I didn't feel much like eating anything.  My heart hurt.

A couple of cute things I'll always remember.  That Monday, when Dad could still speak a few words and was more alert, he still managed to pester the nursing staff by pushing his button and asking for them to put lotion on his legs and stuff, he called them "massages".  It was at that moment he was still his spunky self for a little bit.  I had told Dad he needed to stop that and that the nurses had other patients to attend to.  Typical Dad, he didn't listen to me and pushed his button another time. 

At one point during some conversation, he raised his pointer finger and pointed it directly at my older brother Dion and called him a "Squirrel Killer".  Apparently while traveling to a racing event together with the motorhome, Dion splattered a squirrel on the interstate or something and that was his given nickname for that weekend and Dad remembered this.

We still aren't sure what the reason was exactly and will never know for sure, but he looked at me one time and said the word "baby".  We are thinking perhaps he said that because I am the baby in the family or possibly because I had a baby at home (Zach).  Either way, I will cherish these last few words forever.

In October (3 months before he passed away) with newborn baby, Zachary. 

And I'll never forget that at one point he lifted his head up and looked around the room and seemed to be taking a tally.  Counting everybody in the room to make sure we were all there as if it was the final thing he needed to check off his list before he could go. 

There were a few times throughout Tuesday evening/early Wednesday morning where we had false alarms and thought he was going to pass but didn't.  After those incidents my sister Delene and my sister-in-law Patti had decided to go and sleep in the nearby lounge, Dion, Mom and I camped out in Dad's room.  Mom fell asleep in her recliner, Dion was sitting on the chair and I had chose to sleep on the hard hospital room floor alongside his bed.  Not the most comfortable spot obviously, but at that point it wasn't about me really, and I wasn't leaving the room.

The last while Dad had been given morphine for pain and was wearing an oxygen mask.  I hated seeing him like this.  Nobody wants to see their loved one hooked up to machines and non-responsive but I guess it helped to comfort him so it was what it was.

I had dozed off a bit on his floor, Mom was sleeping and I'm not positive if Dion was asleep or not but all I know, and I'll never forget the moment, when Dad took his very last breathe I immediately awoke on the floor.  It was almost as if somebody up above had tapped me slightly on the shoulder and let me know what had just happened.  I glanced at my Mom who was still asleep and then looked at Dion as if asking for confirmation from him that he knew what I knew, both of us not rushing to confirm as we knew what that would mean.  Oh man, tears strolling down my cheeks now just remembering.

I awoke Mom, her immediate response was that he was still breathing she thought....I had to tell her no, he wasn't.  In the meantime Dion went and got Delene and Patti.  They came in the room.  He was gone.  No more suffering, no more pain, no more poking and prodding of needles and feeling like a pile of shit every single day of his life.  It was all done.

The very last picture I have of my Dad.  Taken exactly one month before he passed away at Zachary's baptism.  He was late getting to church that day as he was so sick then already but was bound and determined to be there.

As comforting as it was to know he would no longer have to go through anymore pain it literally broke our hearts into pieces.  Our matriarch.  Our leader.  Our husband, father and grandfather was no longer with us.

In the years since his passing rarely a day goes by where I don't think of him or think of some special times we spent together.  I hear in my head his smart ass comments and I use them myself occasionally. 

"Too bad, so sad, my Dad," he would say on occasion.

When I sneeze I say "Yachabatchee!!!!"  Not sure what that really means, but he said it, so I say it.

When I dace with the kids sometimes, I mimic his dance moves and swing my arms and legs as high as I can and really get into it, like he did.

I claim his personality, I claim his looks, I claim of his whatever I can whether it's true or not, as I want to be more like him.

I have found in life, when working with other men, that I have a tendency to compare them to my Dad and so far none have come close really.  No offense guys but most (now I say most, not all) of the men I have worked with recently don't even come close to being the man he was.

A man who loved his family, took a ton of pride in his work, enjoyed time spent with his large group of friends and loved to live life to the fullest and who never once threw in the towel on this dreaded disease called cancer.  He fought it 100% all the way.

Miss you Daddy!!!  Love you always!!!