• Death

    My father died in 2012 due a Cranial Aneurysm. It came out of the blue with little warning. He was our rock for so many years, and to see him lying in a hospital bed unable to hear or see any of his family, or friends gathering around his bed side; tore me up inside. He was placed in ICU for two weeks. I can still remember when the doctors gathered all of us in a small room at the back of the hospital wing and told us that my father wouldn't pull through. For the first time in my life I was truly scared of the future.

    I was holding my parental grandmother hand while doubled over, I don't remember having issues breathing, but when I looked up my mother, Aunt and, uncle had flocked to me. A nurse was quickly at my side asking if I had any history of asthma, or bronchitis. I couldn't answer, my airways squeezed tight, my lungs worked overtime to supply my body with much needed oxygen, my chest felt so tight. I felt like the slightest wind would blow me a away, but at the same time I felt heavy with grief. Later I came to realize that I had a sever panic attack. It wouldn't be my only one.

    On December 4, 2012 we pulled my fathers life support and watched as he slipped away. My mother the women my father had been married to for the last 28 years; was broken. She mourned my fathers loss with all her heart and soul. My grandmother watched as she lost another son too soon. As we were leaving the hospital is when I realized that my father wouldn't be around for so many important events. Christmas, and New years, my sisters and brothers birthdays, my little sisters graduation.

    That night my aunt flew in from California hoping that she would get her chance to say goodbye. She missed his departure by an hour or two. She felt so guilty. She stayed with the family for a couple of weeks before going back to California. Those couple of weeks were soo tough to get through.

    Mourning
    Normally when a family mourns they draw strength from each other and try to stay as near each other as possible. That didn't happen in this case. My Uncle and Aunt took it upon themselves to alienate my mother during this time. Accusing her of horrible deeds. Their first call was only hours after my father died. In their exact words the told my mother:

    "You aren't apart of this family, and you'll never be! You killed him!"
    I was floored to hear these words. From outside appearances they genuinely seemed to love and accept my mom. But my mother wasn't surprised at all. She told me that because she was Hispanic and had two children from a previous marriage my fathers brother and his wife didn't readily accept "Her Kind" as she they told her in numerous conversations. It took heavy threats by my father for my uncle and his wife to finally accept (all be it hesitantly ) that my mother was to be his wife, and the mother of his future children. I couldn't believe that my uncle was a bigot and he had passed it on to his wife and children. We weren't welcome to my fathers own wake. My grandmother the matriarch of my family stepped in and shielded us from the "talk" from other members of the family. Although she doesn't actually know why My brothers and sisters refuse to talk to my uncle she still makes it a habit of standing tall and ready to talk on anybody who even thinks of so much as hurting any of us.

    Emptiness

    For months I went trough the motions of living. I laughed in all the right places, I smiled when social ques were given, but I wasn't really apart of the world. It took me a long time to figure out that I was in a rut. I actually forgot how to smile without those social ques. I couldn't carry on conversations without thinking what would "Dad have to say?" I had nothing left to give. I could see that my family needed me, but it felt like I was outside peering in. All I could hear were muffled voices. Nothing held my interest; even the books I once read to escape my life hadn't aided me. I was empty. I could give nothing and in return I received nothing. Some people might say that I was depressed, others would say that all I needed was a swift kick in the butt, but for me I was just Empty.

    Two years later

    I look back on my fathers death and my heart constricts with pain. I still can't talk about the hospital visits without having panic attacks. Maybe it will be that way for the rest of my life. Even writing this I feel my heart picking up its pace, I can feel my throat closing slowly, but its not as bad as my first attack. I don't look for him in crowds anymore. Although I seem to be doing better I still don't feel whole. I've forgotten what his voice sounded like, and when I look at his pictures I don't feel the connection that I once had. I'm still healing and its a daily process. I have a long road ahead of me, but when I look back every now and then I see that I've come so far. I still have days where I feel myself sinking back into that vast emptiness, and I have days where all I want to do is cry and rage, but they are fewer and far between my good days. I notice that my family is making strives and is healing. I want to be there with them. I notice that I'm not quite there and I might not be for a long time, but for now its my goal.