May 18, 1999
May 18, 2019
Dearest Solomon,
It’s 7 am here. I woke early today to share a memory. It’s one I live over and over in my mind, but with time and age, it fades a little bit more day by day. It’s a letter I’ve written over and over, but never written down. It’s a letter about this very day, precisely 20 years ago to this minute. It’s the letter about the day my dad, your grandpa, passed away.
Just after 7, my cell phone rang out, startling me to wake. 7am isn’t the time good calls come your way. On the other end, your Grandma Patsy was shrieking out to me. I could barely make out what she was saying she was crying, screaming, upset, and terrified all at the same time.
“Something’s happened to your father! You better get to the hospital” she cried. I don’t even remember if these were the words anymore, to be honest, I just remember alarm and my heart jumping up, beating as hard as it had ever before.
This day, I was living in the side office we rented and converted into an apartment at 39 W. 14th Street — home to my first official office as an adult. We couldn’t afford the rent anywhere else, so when our neighbors had space open up, we took it, threw in some futons, and it was home. It was an upgrade from sleeping in my office chair or in a sleeping bag on the floor as I had done for the two of years past.
I was still fully dressed. but disheveled and crusty. In all truth, I spent the night up crying and likely drinking. I am almost sure I had a hangover, too.
The previous 12 hours sucked.
The last time I saw Pops alive was Friday, May 14. Your Uncle Dave and I went to the hospital before we went away for the weekend. We hung out in his hospital room and chatted about a bunch of stuff. He was often sick at this point in his life, so the hospital stay was new but not unique. Looking back, not taking this moment more seriously is one of my greatest regrets in life.
During this last visit, we chatted in particular about my relationship with an ex. I said I thought I would get married, but both were a bit skeptical. I guess they knew better than I did — 3 days later, I would end up breaking up with my girlfriend.
I was supposed to go visit Pops in the hospital on Monday night. I got into an argument and epic phone call with my ex which eventually ended with us splitting up. By the time the call ended, it was already 7pm and too late to make visiting hours.
I called Pops right after that call. “Pops, I’m sorry it got late and I’m not gonna make it over tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?,” I said. “OK, son,” he replied. “We broke up,” I wimpered under my breath, both broken and ashamed to admit. I don’t think he even heard that last part. He never responded. The phone clicked off.
I jumped up and quickly figured out what I needed to take with me. I had no idea what I was to prepare for, but I did know I needed to get to Albert Einstein Hospital.
I got down to 14th Street to figure out how to get to the hospital. Can you believe that at this moment I was debating if I should take the train or a taxi? My brain caught me and I jumped into a cab from 14th Street up to the Bronx and Einstein.
I can barely remember the taxi ride. I can’t remember how long it was. I can’t remember which route we took. It was all a blur.
But there was a constant soundtrack in my mind, on repeat. My mind oscillated back and forth between 2 different places. “He’s strong, he’s OK” I would tell myself to keep firm and from crying. Instantly, though, my mind would swing straight to “OMG he’s dead.” Back and forth, back and forth, sometimes at the same time. This is what despair feels like.
I remember the row of trees lining the street as we neared Einstein. All my emotions were at their max right now as we pulled up to the circular driveway at the hospital.
I flung the door open before the car could come to a full stop. “Run! Run! Go, go, go. Faster!!” was all I could do, all I could be. I jumped from the car to the sidewalk only with instinct and emotion. I headed straight for the door.
The sky was gray with clouds, but bright that day. Somehow, I heard my name being called from behind me. I turned around and at the bottom of the driveway, I saw your Uncle Pat — the first familiar thing. He ran towards me.
“He died. Greg, he died.” Pat said out of breath. He had the misfortune to already have talked to the doctors and found out while driving over.
I wasn’t in belief or disbelief — time seemed suspended right then. I spun on my heel. My first and instant thought: “Mom. Where’s Mom? I need to get to Mom.”
Pat and I ran to the elevator. We got in, made our way to the floor and found the room. As we approached the door, I could hear the screams of my mom. This sound, I will never forget. It comes from some other place. It hollows you out and everyone who hears it. It was the worst thing I had ever heard.
We swung the door open and I saw mom leaning at the bedside. And then I saw my Pops, eyes closed with a plastic tube coming from his mouth. He was gray looking but just seemed asleep. But he wasn’t. He was gone.
On the ground, to my right, my eyes were pulled to a large red spot on the ground. I never really asked what it was, but it was clear they worked on him there to try to save him.
Pops was in the hospital to have another bypass done one his heart. He had just come back from spending time with Uncle Basil in Florida, but when he got off the plane, he wasn’t feeling well and had to go straight to the hospital.
Pops had high cholesterol and high blood pressure. He had already had a stint put in to try and help him. It wasn’t working. He needed a bypass now.
Pops also had diabetes. His blood sugar had spiked, making it impossible for them to do the surgery immediately. So he had to wait. The wait is what killed him.
Earlier that morning, he was already feeling so much better my mom said. He had talked to Mom who religiously would go to the hospital before going to the store. He apparently told her he was feeling better that morning and was already planning to go back to the office that day.
An hour later, while taking a shower, he had a heart attack and died.
I think about my poor dad, dying in the shower. I think about the rush of activity as they tried to save him on the floor of his hospital floor. I think about how much he knew or didn’t know. I remember he was alone.
But most of all, I think about him being alone. I think about him not having anyone by his side. I think about not going the night before, not saying I love you, not saying goodbye, not saying sorry, not saying something, anything, everything. It’s a guilt I always carry and can’t set aside.
On May 18, 1999 my dad died at the age of 57. It taught me two extremely important things.
First, don’t take life for granted, we all have a limited amount of time and we don’t know when that time is going to run out.
Second, don’t bottle up how you feel, say things when you mean it to the people that matter most.
This, son, is why I write you these letters. I won’t let history repeat itself. I love you.
Love Always,
Dad
