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Remembering: February 28th, 2009
Sunday, February 28, 2010
I had woken a few minutes before with a sense of panic. I would like to think my subconscious heard him saying goodbye. I went to his room and Uncle Manny was reading him the lords prayer. I kissed Dad's head and went to lay back down. A few minutes later Uncle Manny called us into the room and I knew.
Michael Rico died on February 28th at 3:42am. Surrounded by friends and family, Dad left this world and went home. I'm not exactly sure what his home looks like, but I know it isn't here anymore. We all lay next to him in the bed for a long time. My father in law said a prayer, and it was reverent and perfect.
The reality of what was happening saddened me. I was beginning to sense the subtle cold that was already taking hold of his lifeless body. People always say lifeless, but I never fully understood what it meant until I saw it, and felt it. It's an emptiness in the air, like an unnatural winter. And it's just as cold. His body stayed there for longer than anyone was comfortable, and I fear it took its toll on Uncle Manny.
This next part is difficult to write and I fear even more damaging to read. When the men in suits came to get him (they really were in suits), Dad wore a stiff frown. Because of the frame in his bedroom door, the stretcher was unable to be rolled into the room. Dad had to be carried to it. Upon realizing what that meant, I ran from the room and I am better for it. Some things a daughter just can't see. But poor Uncle Manny had to help, and this is when he broke. You can't always hear when a person breaks, but you can see it in their eyes. If they are the window to the soul, then what you saw when you looked at Uncle Manny was a storm of detrimental proportions.
Once the men made their arrangements for when I would come see them, I closed the door on one problem but was quickly being overrun by so many others. Uncle Manny had collapsed right outside Dad's bedroom. Unable to return to the room, but unwilling to admit what happened and leave. It was as though his spine had become overwhelmingly dexterous and he could circle in on himself. He just kept saying:
He was my brother, my baby brother
I on the other hand couldn't stop moving. Dad liked a clean house, I had to clean. Time to strip the bed, start the laundry, do the dishes, sweep the floor. All I kept thinking was that he would be upset that the house wasn't clean. The house was clean, I just couldn't see that. I literally ran around for 20 minute before I finally collapsed in his closet, holding the new sheets with tears streaming down my face.
It was the smell of his cologne, and innocent wisp had caught the air and targeted my nose. I had been flooded with memories, and the pain was almost too much to bear. It had attacked me so surprisingly that my knees forgot how to keep my body upright. One of the most powerful memories I have of my Dad was how he always smelled so nice, I think he even sprayed his business cards. Later, at his funeral, I would spray him one last time with cologne. An innocent gesture that had the same impact on everyone that mourned with us that day.
More family arrived that day, and minutes turned into hours. I began having to play the family politics game, and I hated it. I had to pick out a casket, my Dad's final resting place and I hated that even more. My friends and loved ones offered me comfort, but I wore my brave face all day. I had suited up in the shower that morning, and my armour was thick. I had to be the strong one, lead by example. I think some perceived it as me not being as devastated as I was, but it was the only way to make the decisions that I had to and stay sane.
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