Time After Time

Time. It's funny, in a way, that I cannot remember what I ate for lunch today; and somehow, I can recall that sunny, crisp, and cloudless Monday morning nine years ago, like it just happened.

Time. It seems to stand still while moving along. A grand paradox, to feel frozen in a moment and watching the world continue to turn around you.

Time. They say it heals all wounds.

But does it?

I was 20 years old when my father passed away. It happened suddenly, a heart attack. He was 41.

It still amazes me that my recollection is so vivid; I awoke early that day - a rarity considering I had gone to bed just hours before the alarm would sound. I went home to Chicago for Halloween weekend and did not make the two hour drive back to Normal, Illinois until after midnight.

I rummaged through my duffel bag, got dressed, and decided to treat myself to some coffee from the McDonalds down the street. I felt the cool autumn air brush my face as I walked to my car. I rolled down the windows, turned up the music, and let out an anxious breath to intake the peace of the morning.

I was pulling up to the drive thru as my phone rang. I noticed it was my little brother calling. That was odd. It was about 8:20 AM and being 15, I knew he should be getting ready for school - if not already there. I picked up, curiously. "Hey! Shouldn't you be at school dude?"

"Dad's dead."

"What?" It was all I could choke out as my brother kept repeating those horrid words. "Sis, Dad's dead! He's dead!"

Every time I think back to this moment, I am amazed that my body was able to drive in default, because my brain was not in a state of comprehending which pedal was gas or which direction I was attempting to navigate. Honestly, in hindsight, it had to be God leading the way. I didn't - couldn't - drive that morning.

And somehow I made it back down the street, into the school parking lot, still questioning my baby brother, silently pleading it was just a bad joke.

As I opened my car door, frantically trying to deport this cursed vehicle, I was aware of every breath I was striving to breathe. I was clinging to my phone against my ear. My eyes closed and I could feel tears burning down my cheeks - but I wasn't crying. I could vaguely see my friends and almost hear their concerning murmurs. I took a step out, and the weight of my heart breaking allowed my knees to buckle. Friends and classmates ran to my side. All I could blurt out as they lifted me back to my weakening feet, was "My Dad's dead." The phone slipped through my fingers as my hands searched for my face, my brother still crying on the end.

My brother - my baby brother who had lived with my Dad solely after our parents divorced - who I was supposed to protect, was over 200 miles away. Two hours away.

I wish I could remember how many girls it took to walk me into our Director's office - but this moment has become a blur. I stuttered something about my dad and (being the overachiever that I am) anxiously asked what I was supposed to do.

They were allowing me a leave of absence. At least the weight of school was lifted. Now I had to figure out how to get home.

Looking back, I am always thankful for the girls God had brought in my life. Like Jenna. We had only become friends about a month before, and she willingly offered to drive me the two hour ride home.

I finally got a hold of my mother and learned what had happened. My brother woke up, my dad was on the couch, my brother tried to wake him up, but with failed attempts. He called 9-1-1 and then our Aunt Ce. When they got to the hospital, they ignorantly told my brother - who was 15 years old and all alone - that our Dad was dead.

I always wish there is a way to go back in time. To somehow arrange it so I would be the one to find our father. Or to at least be there to hold my brother as we cried together. My Dad was my brother's best friend. They were inseparable. The relationship I had always hoped for, was the relationship they shared.

I can recall the trees on the drive back to Chicago; they were starting to shift from green to gold. Change was hovering outside like a cloud that is about to expel a storm, just swelling up before it burst. Red Hot Chili Peppers "Snow" danced through the speakers of the vehicle, like a soundtrack to my sorrow.

We drove straight to the hospital where they had taken my father. I met my brother, mother, and great aunt and uncle. I was brought to a cold, sterile room filled with steel and a large white sheet. My dad.

The doctor advised us to leave the sheet on, but my brother - in all his anguish - tore the veil. The last image I have of my father haunts me to this day. Eyes wide open and lifeless, mouth drawn, and the modest trickle of blood falling from his lips.

I turned, ever so quickly, into the arms of Aunt Ce. There was no mistaking the wet rush on my cheeks - I couldn't stop crying. I could hear my brother sobbing next to me. It felt like we were in that room for hours, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes.

We left the room, and I knew; life would never be the same.

Even after all this time, that feeling lingers. I can no more remember what it was like before my dad passed away.

I feel a sense of dejavu as I write these words. Maybe because time after time I long to put the thoughts and memories in writing. But truth is, it hurts. Remembering this day doesn't just cause me to recall the hurt of losing my dad, it rekindles a longing of a relationship I never had, it triggers wounds that will never be healed, apologies never spoken. Time I will never have and can not get back.

I wish my father could have met my son, and vice versa. We're blessed because we have my step-dad - who is no step at all. But when this time of the year approaches, I would be lying if I didn't acknowledge the feelings that seem to arise.

Nine years is a long time. And yet, nine years is no time at all.