My dad died 40 years ago today.
I had just found out my mission papers were being sent in that day (there had been a problem with the photos on my initial submission - I didn't know you were supposed to send identical passport style photos so I just included to random snapshots I liked.
In any case, my dad who was not an actively participating Mormon, nevertheless was supportive of the idea of a mission. Yet the cost was a concern (his printing business in WV had gone under and he had accepted going back to his previous job at AT&T/Bell Atlantic (C&P Telephone in those days). He had left his executive job there in 1978 to take us all back to WV to start a business. It was going pretty well until the recession combined with my dad's alcohol/drug abuse caused everything to fall apart.
C&P had been consulting with him anyway and said he could return to his old job, but we'd have to come back to the DC area.
So financially, while not in devastation, costs were a concern. He had been talking to a friend of his who was a branch president in Maryland and found out that Mexican missions were cheap. In those days every mission had it's own cost instead of the way they do it now which is make everyone pay the same thing. He learned that one mission was $65/month. So as I was heading up to my room after that phone call about my papers, dad said "Well, I guess you'll get your mission call to Mexico soon." He was needling me because he knew I wanted to go to England and pretty much anywhere but Mexico. It had been a running joke for him for months. I said, "Drop dead, I'm not going to Mexico." Those were the last words I ever said to him. He had a massive heart attack probably 10 minutes later. The funny thing was we had that kind of jokey relationship, but when I said it he gave me a funny look. In retrospect now, it was almost like he knew what was about to happen.
I went to my room and was playing the guitar along with a Clash album. REALLY loud. But I was trying to learn these songs, so when someone knocked on my door, I assumed it was to complain about my volume. It was my younger brother who said, "Hey, come down stairs dad's doing something funny." I kind of blew it off and kept playing, but he came back and said, "You really should come downstairs."
I was annoyed. I got up and headed downstairs. As I descended the stairs, I could hear my mom's frantic voice on the phone. I rounded the corner and saw him laying there on the floor, motionless. I ran to his side, struggling to remember the CPR I had taken in 10th grade. I checked his carotid artery and felt a frantic pulse, but as soon as I touched him he gasped really loudly and opened his eyes and looked right into mine. I saw panic. But I didn't know what to do. The only thing I remembered about chest compressions was that they really emphasized that "If you don't do this right, you can break their ribs!" I've since learned that you almost always break their ribs. I also know CPR has a really low effectiveness rate when done outside of a hospital (5-10%). Still I harbored some guilt (not a ton, but a bit) because I didn't do anything.
The paramedics were there within minutes (the EMTs were really close) and they worked on him. To this day, I cringe when a movie or tv show shows the use of defibrillators. I heard them say he was stable when they were wheeling him out, so I was telling people he would probably be fine, but he wasn't.
Memories of dad are complicated. He had been sober for nearly 2 years when he died, but he still had a tendency to be verbally abusive although less so than when he was drunk. The funny thing is that although I was sad when he died, I looked at him pretty realistically. My mom and brother were both kind of canonizing him in the immediate aftermath of his death, while I was like, "Yeah, but he was kind of a dick sometimes." Now, it's the exact opposite. I'm more positive about him while they rarely remember anything good.
Mom and my older brother bore the brunt of my dad's abusive personality. And while I didn't escape it the way they think I did, I knew how to handle him better than they did so I got a lot less of it. Plus, we had a reconciliation (post sobriety) that none of the others really did in the same way. So while I can recognize the wrongs and abuse he committed, my memories of him are generally positive (while not being pollyanna about it).
So on my latest song, Hiraeth, I included a snippet of one of his songs after the fade in mine. His song was called "If You Were Here" which fits with the nostalgic element of mine: https://on.soundcloud.com/9m6pT
Mom used to joke that Dad was so anal that of course he'd die on the last day of the year. I think he'd get a kick out of the fact that the 40 year anniversary of his death is 123-123.
