The loss of any parent is life altering. It is profound and rocks us at the core. My Father died when I was the younger side of 12, the summer of 1972. He had a massive coronary at a picnic for my brother's baseball team. The boys were out playing with their Dads.
My Father came in off the field complaining of not feeling well. We had no idea he but minutes to live. The paramedics were called. Back then, they really weren't EMT's like there are today. Just glorified taxi drivers. They made to my Dad but didn't know how to diagnosis a man of 34.
I remember the last words my Dad spoke to me. They will forever be written in my heart. Afterwards I was taken to the hospital to pick up his things. I will never forget the massive blood all over his clothes.
What had they done to my Dad? I was too young to absorb the violence that had been performed to try to save his life. My Mother took my younger brother to talk to the Emergency Room Doctor. My 9 year old brother wasn't processing the loss, or so they thought. I was? I wish someone had taken the time to see me and realize that I also needed to look the man who tried to save one of the most important people in my life, and ask him the questions that have gone so very long unanswered.
But I was only a daughter, not a son. Times were different then. Family and friends seemed most concerned about my brother's loss of a Father, than me and my younger sister.
It matters to a daughter too.
With aching heart
I whisper low.
God Bless you Daddy
I miss you so.
Your Daughter,
Christine
