Sometimes for me, writing about things, helps me to process them. Back in November, when my dad passed away, I wrote a couple of entries that were short on details because, quite frankly, I was feeling so incredibly numb. It was on my old graphicubsf LJ account.http://graphicubsf.livejournal.com/2008/11/06/http://graphicubsf.livejournal.com/2008/11/07/There is nothing wrong with the Sweet and Sour Pork
Recently, a couple of days before father's day, I was having sweet and sour pork downtown. It was in a fast food chinese place that I like and frequent. My brain went to November and I choked up a little, in public, in a chinese fast food place. I got it under control and got out of there. Folks, there is nothing wrong with the sweet and sour pork, it's quite good. You know, I don't think I ever really noticed all the Father's Day marketing (email blasts, newspaper and internet Ads) until this year.
I almost lost two people that weekend.
I took L.I.R.R. to Penn Station, then the Subway to Soho. I was beat. Upon exiting the Houstan street subway, I grabbed my cellphone, called my brother to let him know I was in and he said, "Good we're meeting dad at the hospital early." I said fine, then texted my friend Robert, who I've known for years and was putting me up. The text back was kind of a word salad and didn't make sense. I got to the front of his building and called. It rang a few times before he picked up, he wasn't making too much sense and kind of rambling about being in pain. Something wasn't right.
Fortunately for both of us, he was functional enough to leave the door open. When I entered he was on the floor, grabbing his stomach and moaning. He was complaining about some new meds he was on. He had all his pills on a table, it was an impressive quantity. Then he passed out. I leaned over, made sure he was breathing and I went to the phone. He came to as I hit the number 9. "What are you doing?" "Calling 911, " I said. He pleaded, "no, no, I'll be fine lets give it time." In 5 seconds he was back on the floor writhing in pain. "Did you call your doctor?" He nodded. "What did he say?" "He said I should call 911." I looked at him, "that's good enough for me, " I said and dialed. He passed out again. I watched his breathing, described everything to the person on the phone. I walked over to the front window to make sure I can see out of it, he started to get up wobbly. I indicated that to the woman on the phone and she quickly said, "don't let him move." "Rob, stay where you are." "You're calling 911. got to get ready, got to go to Bathroom," He said sprinting upright and falling headfirst in the hallway leading to the bathroom. He fell flat on his face, knocking himself unconscious and now he was bleeding.
I stayed with Robert at St. Vincent's until about 4 a.m. I remember looking at the clock thinking, I'll be seeing dad in a few hours. It was at that time, on the eastside in Beth Israel Hospital, dad had his last heart attack. At 4 a.m. I walked back down to Soho, New York was quite, dark and cold. I secretly planned on getting dad a copy of the New York Post and would read him all the headlines. That would wake anybody up and he liked that rag.