The Call

My phone rang sometime around 7:30 in the morning, waking me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I fumbled for it on the floor, tangling my fingers in the charging cable and stems of my discarded glasses. When I finally found it, and squinted at the name on the screen, my heart rose tight into my throat.

I knew what he would say. I had wanted this call to come, for this pain to be over, for nearly a week. But that wouldn’t make the minute go by any faster.

“Hello,” I answered, groggily, wearily.

And nothing was said.

I waited. That tightness in my throat grew more urgent. My heartbeat throbbed in my chest. I closed my eyes tight, opened them again. Beside me in bed, my husband began to stir.

“Dad?” I asked, finally, softly.

I heard a noise. Something soft. Crying. I had never seen, or heard, or really even thought about my father crying before. That’s when I knew, for sure. I closed my eyes and waited, just waited, prayed for the minute to be over faster, for him to work up the courage to say it. He had to say it.

Finally, he did. I know it was hard. It was hard to hear.

“She’s gone.”

“I know, Dad.”

I waited. He did, too. And probably not by choice.

“I’m sorry,” I said, although we were both sorry for each other, because we had both lost her, not just him. We had all lost her.

“Yeah,” he said, weakly, sadly. “Can you call Sara?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, immediately; it had been hard enough for him to call me, breaking the news to my younger sister would be worse. “I’ll call her right now.”

“Okay,” he said. And then there was silence, and I could tell he was barely, just barely holding it together, and that’s when, at the end of that long, terrible minute, as my husband sat up in bed beside me, my heart just broke.

“Bye, Dad,” I said. I may have said “I love you,” but I don’t remember. If I did, he probably didn’t hear it, anyway. By that time, we were both crying too hard to say or hear anything else.

We miss you, G.B. — now, and each and every day, for the rest of our lives. Alzheimer’s took you from us long before I got that awful call, but you will always live on in our memories.