“Celebrating” the Anniversaries of Bad Things
By: Caitlin Brown
Tags: Healing, Death, Dads

We spend so much of our year looking for reasons to celebrate anniversaries — a first date, graduations, birthdays, wedding, having victory over a disease, soberness, workiversaries. Anniversaries are days meant to remember the past in a positive way or celebrate the things accomplished in period of time. Despite my opinions on the use of the otherwise positive word “anniversary” for somber events, I have spent the last six years writing my thoughts and feelings on the anniversary of my Dad’s death.

If I’m being honest, the first few years following his death are nothing more than an absolute blur. I don’t remember how I got to age 30. In fact, I barely remember turning 25. However, ask me to tell you every detail from the 5 am phone call from my panicked Mom to the time the hospital staff told us we “could go home now” after he passed, I could. After we left the hospital room, life moved in slow motion. I assume I fed my kids a meal or two but I don’t remember eating, bringing them to school, how many days passed before we had his funeral or how long I was away from work. I can’t even tell you how there was food and organization at his funeral. What did I even do in 2015?

Monday, February 2, 2015 — 1:43 pm

My parents’ RV with the bump outs pushed out and the hoses and cords my Dad was working on.

While at work, I stepped away from my desk and wandered the nearby office hallway while I called my Dad to go over our plans for Tuesday morning. Earlier in the day, my Mom told me about how hard of a day my Dad was having with small problems on the RV. The upcoming weekend was supposed to be their first weekend staying in the RV and he wanted to make sure the water heater, satellite TV and other hookups were working perfectly for them. She said he hit his head a few times on the bump out while fiddling with the hookups and his frustration levels were getting maxed out.

The art station my Dad created at their dining room table for Logan’s visit.

Like a dummy, the first thing I said when I talked to him was “How are you?” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew I shouldn’t have asked. Facepalm. Despite the hard day he was having, he said he was looking forward to watching Logan on Tuesday to get his mind off of moving on to settling in with their new minimalist lifestyle. My Dad was supposed to spend the day with Logan, like he did every Tuesday and Thursday, and was going to drive me in to work after picking me up from the car dealer where my car would get an oil change. We made our plans on where and when to meet and I told him I loved him. Thank God I told him I loved him.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015 — 5:18 am

Cell phone log from February 3, 2015

I immediately knew something was wrong when my phone lit up with my Mom’s name — she never called that early in the morning, especially on a work day.

“I think Dad is dead.”

She continued on and told me about how he had gotten sick and threw up in the middle of the night. She said he kept apologizing for keeping her awake (walls are thin in an RV) and she told him he probably got a concussion from hitting his head on the bump out earlier. She said he went back to bed but eventually got up to throw up again and that’s when things took a turn. He collapsed backwards in the bathroom but his body was still throwing up. Worried he would choke, she tried to move him but couldn’t. She said she ran to the neighbors RV and woke an older man up to see if he could help move my Dad.

I’m sure she said more than that but that’s all I needed to jump out of bed to shrug on a hoodie and find my shoes I kicked off haphazardly the night before in the bedroom to race to get to my parents’ RV site in John’s car. I cried out. I attempted to reassure myself — my Mom could be dramatic at times (sorry, Mom). I tried to let the words from the Christian songs playing on the radio encourage me to keep it together (and my eyes dry so I could see where I was driving) until I could assess the situation for myself. I prayed a shaky, disjointed prayer out loud, made a conscious decision to keep the radio on the Christian channel hoping one of the songs they played would contain the perfect encouragement I needed (unrealistically but ideally, something that said “your dad isn’t dead”) and then cried some more.

I had never been to my parents’ RV site. They just set up their permanent site the weekend prior. With every curve in my drive, I cut across the middle line on the one-lane road to shave off time so I didn’t have to slow down. When the speed limit dropped to practically a snail’s pace to drive through a downtown area, I sped through hoping the police car I zoomed passed was just a decoy or that the officer was asleep. The further I drove, the more I got lost in my own thoughts and worries. So much so that I started to wonder if I had somehow driven passed the site and didn’t even know it. I wasn’t lost, but I didn’t know where I was at.

My strength flew out of the window when I took another curve at a high speed and the sea of emergency vehicles’ flashing lights confirmed I had not passed their RV site yet. My legs were uncontrollably bouncing. Come to think of it, it’s possible that I never adjusted the distance of the seat to the pedals when I got in John’s car. My death grip on the steering wheel was probably enough to keep me in place and close enough to reach the pedals. All I needed to focus on was trying to remain in control to maneuver the gas and brake pedals.

Lost in my concentration on safely operating my vehicle near emergency vehicles, I sped right passed the first entrance in to the RV site. I was so mad at myself for those wasted seconds. I fly through the exit-only path and parked in the first empty space I found, taking off running as hard as I could to blast through a small huddle of EMTs standing in front of the RV door to find my Mom inside.

“The ambulance is not leaving. They haven’t left to go to the hospital. He’s dead, Caitlin. I just know it. He’s dead.”

That was the first (of many) moments that I turned off my emotions. My Mom’s a wreck. She’s struggling to complete a sentence and I can’t find a single emotion in my soul. I took it upon myself to walk outside the RV to strike up a conversation with the huddle of EMTs. Thinking back, I’m shocked my shaky legs held up while I stepped down the stairs out their front door.

They knew my name. My Mom told them I was coming.

“Is my Dad dead? My Mom is very convinced he’s dead and I need to know right now. Why has the ambulance not left yet?” There’s a good chance I said all of that in one breath.

I vaguely remember one of the men sympathetically telling me about how the medicine they’re giving my Dad is the strongest out there and that they needed to do everything they could before driving off. They asked for a list of all of his prescriptions and reassured me the smartest and most capable people were helping my Dad.

No one confirmed or denied if he was alive. That’s what I asked, wasn’t it?!

Is. he. alive.

I don’t remember what I relayed to my Mom from my conversation with the EMTs but I did my best to convince her that they have everything under control. Considering the window inside the ambulance was blocked so we couldn’t see what they were doing, I had to believe this was true.

Not a moment after we found my Dad’s prescription list, a knock was at the door. I was quietly told I needed to drive my Mom to the ER as the ambulance was leaving and they were not letting her ride with them.

By the time we got to my car, the ambulance was already out of sight. I drove with my emergency flashers on, in hopes that the police I would inevitably pass would not pull me over for speeding. Unsure of which way the ambulance drove, I took familiar roads not even thinking about morning traffic. What few early drivers were on the road kindly pulled off to the side to let us pass. I often think about how I wish I could thank each person who did that. They provided me a few extra seconds with my Dad because they moved and that matters.

We let the songs from the radio fill the air and barely spoke a word until I cried out a prayer as we pulled onto the street leading to the hospital.

“Are you the family with the ambulance that recently arrived,” the ER desk attendant asked. It was obvious we were considering how out of breath we were from running through the hospital parking lot and building.

“Follow me,” she said.

We were led to a room with some chairs and a table with a box of tissues on top. Before closing the door to our room, she kindly asked if we needed a bottle of water.

Family Counseling room

The writing was literally on the wall.

The hospital pastor — who was clearly asked to rush in based on his raspy, sleepy voice and wrinkled suit — came to speak with my Dad’s growing support group that now included John, my Dad’s sister and my Dad’s brother and his wife.

The view from our Family Counseling room

It was light outside now and my emotionally-detached zombie self decided I needed to take care of everyone, especially after one of the attending doctors told us that my Dad’s heart started lightly beating on its own again. With that good news in mind, John and I took the group’s food order and bought Subway from the downstairs cafeteria so everyone could have breakfast. After returning to the room, I set out to find the ER lobby nurse that offered a free bottle of water so everyone had what they needed for breakfast.

I can’t tell you why I took a left out of the room instead of a right towards where I know the lobby is. Confused on where my feet were taking me, I turned the corner at the end of the hallway to walk around to the other side of the lobby.

I wish I would have just backtracked or turned right from the beginning.

As I neared the next corner, I came to a room of doctors and nurses rushing around while one person sat on my Dad, aggressively giving his chest compressions. I fell to the floor with overwhelming emotion and scooted myself towards a wall for support out of their sight.

My conscious was screaming at me. “Get up and walk away! Don’t let them think you need help! Don’t you dare give them a reason to stop helping Dad!”

I don’t know at what point I reached the family counseling room again or if I ever found water bottles, but I vaguely remember making a few calls and sending texts. Blake, my boss’s boss, was one of the first people I texted and later tried to explain the “he died but now his heart is beating again” phenomenon on the phone to. I called the car dealership, of all places, to tell them I would not be there for my car for my scheduled oil change. I called my dentist and said there was a chance I would not make my appointment the next day. I texted my boss to explain I would not be in. The hardest but most important and first call I made was to my brother, Josh.

One, two, three, four times I called him and he didn’t answer. He lives in Arizona so I knew it was early. My mom provided me his wife’s phone number.

One, two, three times I called. Finally, she sleepily answered. Sobbing, I explained that Dad was dying and I needed to talk to my brother.

Oh, the pain I felt listening to his heart break with every word I said. I could tell he dropped the phone at some point because his shouts sounded so distant.

As we got updates about Dad’s (slight) improvements, I called Josh immediately.

“His heart is beating but it’s not strong. Let’s wait to see how things go and book you a trip out here when he’s home. He’s probably going to need some sort of therapy for the amount of time he was unconscious and he’ll need us the most then. You know how Dad is.”

That. That right there was the biggest mistakes of my life that I will never forgive myself for.

I stopped my brother from coming.

I stopped my brother from the goodbye he didn’t know he’d need to say to his Dad’s face. I stopped him when I shouldn’t have. Who was I to suddenly provide a prognosis for my Dad’s future?! Who was I to stop him?!

The doctor working on my Dad came in a few times to provide updates. At one point, he asked if we’d like to go back to see him, suggesting that my Dad hearing our voices might help him snap out of his rough medical state. He warned that the medicine they provided my Dad would not allow him to respond to us or even open his eyes but it was worth a shot.

The room was so white. The floors, his bedding, the staff’s lab coats — everything was so white it was nearly blinding. The sea of wires mixed with beeping and printing monitors surrounding his bed were all colorless. Sterile, whiteness everywhere. The rest of the world melted away as if only his room existed.

I remember seeing a movie where a man comes to visit a sick kid in a hospital and the kid claims he left his body as an angel. To prove that the kid could see the man from above his bed, the kid comments on the man’s bald spot that otherwise he wouldn’t know existed if not from seeing him from above. Of course, the kid was using the mirror stationed in the corner of the room near the ceiling but the kid really thought he was being tricky. I might have butchered that storyline but anyone remember that movie?

That’s all I could think of. What if my Dad was in angel form and hadn’t quite left the earth yet and was watching us in the room. Watching us speak to him. Watching my eyes widen with each beep of a machine and then squint to try to make out the lines and numbers that flashed across each one (as if it was going to tell me something that was positive). I was searching for a-n-y sign that I could use to reassure myself, but most importantly, my Mom.

Would he be proud of me in that moment? Would he come back to his body and say “Geeze, did you really think I was leaving? You acted like I was already dead!”

Strategy. I needed a strategy.

I bet I could ask a nurse how things were going and he/she would be less conditioned on how to give a sugar-coated answer like the doctor would and maybe I would know what was truly going on or what to expect. Let it be known that they weren’t any more transparent than the doctor that only gave us a thread of hope.

We were eventually ushered back into our room.

After some period of time, we were told that they would wheel my Dad back for testing (of what, I have no clue) and to go to an ICU room. For some reason (that I will never understand), I interpreted that as a sign that he was stable.

“Surely they wouldn’t take him out of a room with monitors and medical equipment galore to run a test if he wasn’t at least stable,” I told myself.

Sitting in that family counseling room provided me with no concept of time, despite seeing the day change through the window. Eventually, clear thoughts started to catch up to my Mom.

“I think I left our space heater on,” she said. “I don’t think I let Buddy out of his crate.” Buddy was their new Dachshund puppy.

We both rushed through the morning so quickly that we didn’t have time to think about all the mundane things that naturally fall within our routine. Heck, I hadn’t even put on a bra in my hurry to get out of the house. I think God created hoodies for women to wear when we don’t have time to finish getting dressed, amirite?

We got a clear view from our room of a handful of nurses on either side of my Dad’s bed walking him down the hospital hallway through some double doors. I decided since everyone, including my Dad, could transition to the ICU floor, it was a good time to return to my parents’ RV to check on their puppy and turn off the space heater. The thought of them having to deal with chewed up belongings or a burned RV after today’s drama made me feel sick.

John and I drove back to the RV and did our best to straighten up the scene that was left behind in our rush to follow the ambulance. Papers and bottles were scattered all over the bed from my Mom furiously searching for my Dad’s list of prescriptions. The puppy left little messes on the floor. I avoided the bathroom where everything began but my saint of a husband cleaned everything up so my Mom wouldn’t have to relive her worst nightmare.

We crated Buddy and decided we’d bring him to our house so John and I could look after him while my Mom presumably would spend her days ahead in the hospital while my Dad recovered. I had the next few days — heck, even weeks — all figured out. I thought I was being such a good daughter taking care of cleaning up things no one thinks about when there’s an emergency.

I was driving John’s car and was about to take a right turn on to Main St. in Centerton when my Mom called.

“You have to come back right now. The doctors said they’re going to try to keep him alive for you to say goodbye but they don’t know how much longer he has. You have to come right now.”

I punched my gas pedal to get to my house to drop off the dog. What happens when you speed in Centerton? Cops find you.

I look in my mirror and realize I’m being pulled over. Crying harder than I ever have, I sob out an explanation to the officer that my Dad might have minutes left to live and I have to bring home their dog before I can go to the hospital. I could see the skepticism crossing the officer’s face with every excuse I gave as to my decision to speed.

I’m sure he gets dramatic stories all the time. The darn dog didn’t make a peep and because we put the tiniest 5 pound puppy in a huge crate, you couldn’t even tell that I was telling the truth about having a dog in the car! He took my and John’s license and walked back to his patrol car.

I don’t know if he even called us in or if he actually believed me. I suppose I’ll never know why he let us go minutes after pulling us over, but he made John take over in the driver’s seat and off we went (at the speed limit, this time).

The next memory I have is another phone call from my Mom. This time we were at the light by the highway exit ramp — less than a few minutes away.

“You’ve got to hurry!”

Next thing I know, I’m holding my Dad’s hand in an ICU room with his brother and his wife plus his sister sitting in the side of the room, hopelessly watching their brother slip into eternity.

There was no longer any planning for recovery. There was no need to think about what I needed to take care of for my Mom so she could stay at the hospital with my Dad. There was no plan for therapy or flying my brother out later. Beeps on the machine meant nothing. Every second that passed literally broke every fiber of my heart and made me aware that we had one less second with him.

We had to call my brother on an freaking video chat so he could say his goodbye to his Dad on the phone. The phone is how he got to say goodbye and it was my fault he wasn’t here in person.

Josh literally couldn’t believe what was happening. The nurse even had to get on the video chat with him to explain that there was no time left. A machine was breathing for my Dad and his heart rate just wasn’t there anymore. It was his time to go.

My Mom, my uncle, my aunt, John and I all choked out our best goodbyes and made promises I can’t remember now. “Give Mother a kiss and Dad a hug,” my Uncle said from his chair.

That was it. He was gone.

The nurse kindly came in to silence all the machines so the beeping would stop.

His stomach no longer moved up and down as the machine breathing for him pumped air through his lungs. His fight was done. The room felt empty and life so much dimmer.

I was mad. I was mad that the machine making his chest move up and down made me believe he was alive when who knows how long he was gone for before the nurse came in to tell us. That I thought the oxygen he was getting would fix everything. That my Dad’s feet were exposed from his blankets and his toes looked so cold and dried out but my shaking hands could cover them up. I was mad at the nurses who carried on a normal conversion in the hallway, laughing about something one of them said. I was mad that there were so many machines beeping, telling us he was dead. Most of all, I was mad I knew he was gone long before we got to say our goodbyes.

My nose was raw from using so many crappy tissues in his room. We were all frozen, unsure of what to do next.

My Mom and I walked out of the room trying to find the nurse who just left us, leaving behind my cousin and his wife that joined us in the room a few minutes too late.

Words like “autopsy” and “death certificate” came out of the mouth of someone that I don’t even recall their significance.

Just like that, there was no reason to stay in his room or at the hospital. I vaguely remember hugging a few people in the ICU waiting room. Crying. Hugging a few others. I might have even hugged people that were there for other patients — I don’t have a clue. On our way towards the parking lot, John, my Mom and I run in to John’s parents who were there for a test their doctor ordered for John’s Dad.

The Rest of 2015

My Dad’s funeral setup, complete with an old cowboy hat and his favorite Nebraska Cornhuskers hat.

I don’t remember the drive home, eating, getting my kids from wherever they were instead of school and with my Dad. I don’t remember who I texted or called or what I would have even said. When or how we decided what flight to book for Josh to fly home on. I don’t remember how all of my kids’ furniture moved to one room or moving my Mom in to their now vacant room.

There is so much I don’t remember about the days and weeks after he passed.

What I do remember is a few friendly faces like…

A few of my Mom’s co-workers brought so much food to my house that my pantry couldn’t hold it all.

A few long-lost friends that helped make sure food was put on plates for the reception after my Dad’s funeral.

The witty funeral director that really lightened the mood when writing my Dad’s obituary once my brother flew here. God bless him for helping draw out the comical memories.

The funeral director printed off two proofs for my Dad’s etched vase for his remains — this funny one and the one we actually chose.

Seeing my work teammates, Blake and Mallory (who was only in NWA for work purposes, not because she lived here), at his funeral. Of all the people who showed up to my Dad’s funeral, these two good souls were some that absolutely made my heart swell.

February 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020 and 2021

It’s taken me six years to write this. Some might find it uncomfortable to read or question why I shared so much detail. The truth? This isn’t for you. It’s for me. Editing and adding to this story has been my method of “therapy” every February, on my Dad’s birthday or around Father’s Day when I can’t bare the thought of opening my vacuum-sealed heart to relive the details and memories with my Mom or brother or John.

When I think about everything that happened during the hardest time in my life, I’m overwhelmed with memories of people’s kindness, like:

The stranger who tried to help move my Dad after he threw up at 5 in the morning

The cars who pulled over (maybe they mumbled something mean as I flew passed them but regardless, they moved)

The Centerton police officer who let me go quickly so I could get back in time to say “goodbye”

My husband for cleaning up the RV and, more importantly, for being my rock. I’m sure he took care of 99% of the things that I can’t remember happening.

My step-son’s Mom for watching Logan while we stayed at the hospital

The funeral director for helping my mom, Josh and I genuinely laugh

The friends who brought endless food, coffee, snack and flowers

My co-workers, old friends, and my Dad’s co-workers for showing up to his funeral

The family and friends who agreed to show up in camo or Nebraska Cornhuskers gear to my Dad’s funeral (he wouldn’t have wanted everyone to dress up in black or be overly fancy)

The teachers (especially Mr. Bob and Ms. Susan) at Logan’s day care who would give me the longest, warmest hugs when I would show up to pick up or drop off Logan and couldn’t fight back tears. I stupidly tried to think Mr. Bob’s arms were actually my Dad’s hugging me. Mr. Bob or Ms. Susan always invited me to sit in the teeny tiny pre-k chairs while the kids were outside playing so I could cry it out while they rubbed my back and told me everything would be OK.

My co-workers who removed me from email distribution lists so I wouldn’t get any notifications for work. I legitimately don’t know how long I was away from work and how long they had to cover my workload for.

The EMT who responded to the call who found me on Facebook days after my Dad passed to ask how he was doing

Kelly and Catherine who listened to me tell this entire story when they asked what happened after I finally returned to work.

Remembering those moments of kindness (plus so many more that I didn’t list) have helped me make progress. The days when I sob to bed over missing my Dad are more spread out. I force myself to think often about what my Dad’s hands felt like when he’d hold mine or what his hugs felt like when he’d scratch my back and hug me close so I don’t forget those feelings. Everytime I see someone with a Huskers hat, shirt or sticker/license plate on their car, it’s my opportunity to mumble a quick “Hi, Daddy.”

Overall, writing/editing this every “anniversary” of his passing, his birthday or on Father’s day helps. I have to keep my heart guarded or I fall in to sadness wondering what my Dad would think of 30-year-old me, or Logan and Mason when they started kindergarten, or Kiren when he plays football games wearing a sweatband on his wrist with “Grandpa Grizz” written on it (my Dad always asked Kiren “But did you have fun?” after every game), or John when he fixes things at my Mom’s new house, or Roman (who he never met). Or, what my Dad would think about for the last two Thanksgivings we’ve had which now includes my long-lost half-brother who never got to know my Dad. Or, even Buddy, their dog that’s grown and incessantly barks at everything.

If you’re reading this and made it to the end, you should know one thing: unprovoked kindness is what got me through.

If you have a friend, co-worker, neighbor, family member or anyone with a heartbeat go through a tragedy, show up for them without them asking.

The classic “I’m here for you. Let me know what I can do.” line isn’t actually being helpful. The people who showed up with k-cups of apple cider and a variety pack of coffee flavors…with a box of individual chip bags…with a meal that only needs to be warmed up….with a plant…to take the kids out…to pray…anything. Those people showed up and are part of my healing.

I doubt anyone knew what brand of coffee my family like most or what kind of chips Mason could or couldn’t have with his food allergies but they showed up anyway.

If unknowns stop you from feeling helpful, don’t limit what God can do through you. I didn’t care about the taste of anything; I felt so uplifted when I got to hug someone’s neck and see hope in another’s eyes.

Show up and be there for other humans. We need each other.