35 Years Ago Today -- the Worst Day of My Life

So July 14, 1982, I was on top of the world.  I was about to turn 21 4 days later, had found myself intellectually at UM by changing my major to English, from Biology, and I was enjoying a terrific summer.  I had a gig at Jordan Marsh in the Town Center Mall, and Boca back then was still very seasonal -- young guys like me were in short supply, and I had quite a few ladies to date at the store...

I was looking MOST forward to my senior year of college -- living that exquisite time of life when the only cares and concerns were my own.  I owed no money to anyone, and was even given a full tuition scholarship due to my student activity work -- so my retired parents wouldn't even have to come up with the half tuition they had been paying.  Yes -- I was cooking with gas, as the expression goes.

Dad had had a heart attack, a serious one, which scared the hell out of my Mom and me, but he had gotten through, and it looked as if he'd have plenty more years on the earth to enjoy.  His only real worry was one of his kids -- my California sister, who had married bad and just had a baby boy -- her new husband made it crystal clear he was not going to support his family, and Dad was looking into going back to work to acquit that unexpected responsibility.  The heart attack had put any of those plans on hold.

He had an appointment with his doctor, and asked me to go along.  I was uncharacteristically annoyed with him -- I had already given up a good deal of party time due to his hospitalization, but the night before, as we lay in his bed watching baseball, he asked me to please come along -- what if the doc said he needed to go back to Bethesda Hospital -- Mom would be stressed.  Fine -- I called my friend girl Donna and canceled the plans I had to take her and her Wisconsin cousins to Miami for the day.  I never turned down my Dad's requests.

The visit went fine -- Dr. Heller, who I always suspected graduated from the bottom of his class, said all was ok -- maybe Dad should go easy on the meat and eat more fish.  We left with the happy good health news, and headed to a local cafeteria -- maybe Morrisons? -- for lunch.  Sure enough, Dad got the fish, even though the meatloaf and brisket called to him.  I much later realized that his final meal would be one he didn't like -- even a condemned guy on death row gets to enjoy that final treat.

We were going to head home, but Dad wanted a haircut.  My Miami plans were ruined anyway, so I drove us, in his boat-sized '75 Olds 98, to the shopping center where his barber was.  Mom left to walk to the next door Publix, and I read Sports Illustrated while the haircutter, a punk-looking young girl, probably my age, started her work.  She had piercings and a purple streak.  My Dad didn't care.

Next I heard, she was yelling "Sir! Sir!"  Dad had slumped over in the chair.  Even then, I was cool in a crisis, and started CPR.  She called 911.  But as I breathed into his mouth, I knew.  He was gone.

The paramedics were there fast, and took over.  They put him on a "thumper" which did the chest compressions.  Poor Mom walked in.  She looked like a scared little girl.  I hugged her and lied that everything was ok.

An old man stood at the door rubbernecking as they wheeled my father out.  Get lost, I yelled to the ghoul.  He started arguing me that he had a right to be there and observe.  I still remember him -- small and bald.  As I led Mom to the car, to follow the fire rescue truck, I hissed at him to go fuck himself.

We got to the hospital, and a few minutes later, I saw a young doc trying to assemble a team out of our view.  I knew what was going on.  They pulled us into a small room -- the doc and a nurse and a social worker, and started to stutter out platitudes.  I interrupted them -- "My Dad died, right?"  The young doc seemed relieved to be saved having to actually say the words.

The rest of the day, and summer, was a blur.  I slept walked through much of my senior year -- somehow keeping up my grades.  I dulled the psychic pain mostly with early 80s sanctioned promiscuity.

I made many trips to Delray, to try to get my WWII era Mom independent.  She had never paid a bill or balanced a checkbook.  Neither had I , really, but I learned and taught her.  Little by little she got on with her life.

I was dissuaded by faculty mentors against a grad degree in English -- this was the end of the Boomer generation in college, and academic jobs were scarce as hens' teeth.  I settled on law school instead -- figuring it was reading and writing and I could do both serviceably.  I applied to UF and UM, and got into both, but I knew it would be Miami, since Gville was too far from the widowed Mom -- she still needed a lot more care and feeding.

So I grew up too fast on this Bastille Day, now three and a half decades ago.  My life's blessings since have been almost comically manifold -- starting with two daughters who have turned out beyond any Dad's dreams, and Wifey, a life partner who made that dream a reality.

I have friends I savor and adore.  I acquitted the responsibilities I assumed, when Dad left, mostly seeing Mom through to her end, which would come over 30 years after he died.  I'd often deal with an issue by saying "WWHD," or What Would Hy Do?

I recently relieved myself of this burden vis a vis the extended family -- I figure 35 years of partly filling in for Dad was enough.

D2 called this am, from Hoboken -- saying she knew today was a tough one for me.  She's right -- it was the worst day of my life.  But I moved on.  And I savor each day since...