Al to Dad, Al to Dad — Calling Dad, Come in, Dad

Your exit left a hole in my heart.

Monday, October 19, 2020

Dear Dad,

It’s been more than nine years since you left this world. But a wound like that doesn’t close quickly.

On Thursday, I went for a checkup at the new doctors’ offices across from Mountainside Hospital in Montclair, the hospital where you died. When I round the bend at Claremont Avenue and your place of death looms large on my right, I always think of that last night: Tuesday, March 8, 2011.

It was cold and dark, and I had parked a couple of blocks away —free street parking. I was eager to see you and didn’t want to bother with the parking deck. (I won’t lie. In my harried state, I also may not have had cash or a card on me to pay for it.) Things were scary and stressful at home, with health issues. I went alone.

You were in bed, in a hospital gown. Someone asked me if I wanted to swab your mouth with that little sponge-tipped wand, dipped in water. I did.

You could barely talk. You had a bad, painful infection, and a long challenge with spinal stenosis. And we (Sis and I) think you had suffered some mini strokes that had gone undiagnosed.

Yet you croaked “How’s your writing?” It didn’t register for me. “Your article. The one about cars,” you said. Your voice was hoarse, your throat dry. I was writing an article for Good Housekeeping about how to save money on car repairs.