To you, I beg
Treat every day with your loved ones as if it’s your last or theirs. You probably think death is something far off, you push it to the back of your mind and don’t think about it. Until it punches you right in the face. For me, it was on a rainy Tuesday morning in November. When I walked out of the office building where I had therapy, something felt off. Like the world had shifted. I sat passenger side in the car with my mother, headed home to my father whom I’d taken care of for 5 years since I was 18. Then, I had to endure the worst 3 phone calls of my life. My spouse first, hyperventilating, crying, tears endlessly streaming down their face. They could barely stutter out the words, “The house is on fire.” We were not home. My stomach fell to the ground. The next call was my friend, who was friends with my neighbor home from college at the time. He told me the same, my whole world was spinning, the cracks starting to appear in the crust of it. I let out a slow breath, it hadn’t hit me yet. I asked him, “Is my dad alive?” There was a pause, and then, finally, the news that tore me to bits. “It doesn’t appear that way, no.” I could hear my dad’s voice in my head, “Don’t panic until it’s time to panic.” I quickly hung up with my friend and then the 3rd call went to my 78-year-old grandfather, to tell him that he’d now lost a second child. He’d lost one, my aunt, just 11 years prior, to cancer. I don’t think I’ll ever make a harder phone call in my life. Arriving at the scene, our usually quiet street was lined with fire engines, police, and ambulances. I remember telling my mother, who was sobbing already, to park away from the house. I couldn’t bear to see it yet. She and my dad had been divorced for almost 17 years, but they were best friends. My mother, in hysterics, was taken to an ambulance to ensure she wasn’t having a heart attack. I stumbled to the first firefighter I could find, yelling, “Someone talk to me! Please, please, that’s my house!” When I got to him, already soaked by pouring rain, I asked him, “Is my dad dead?” He eyed me sympathetically and informed me he couldn’t give me that information. The chief was on his way over. When he came over to officially inform me, I fell back into my neighbor’s muddy grass and screamed. I screamed and sobbed until I was hoarse. My dad and I had a complicated relationship. He was Mom and Dad for most of my life, someone I could always rely on. But, he had his flaws, as we all do. As an exhausted caregiver, and him, weighed down to a bed 24/7, we often fought. But, he was a lover of music and movies, so we bonded over that a lot. We’d sing together, play Jeopardy, play fight all the time. The good times outweighed the bad in the end for me. There was no goodbye, no preparation. Only agony, pain, torturing myself. In the torched remains of my childhood home, in a fire safe, a CD was found. It’s 20 minutes of him telling me how much he loves me, how he’s proud of me and so much more. He was not a touchy-feely guy, none of the men in our family are. But, at the end of the day, he loved me and I loved him immensely. That’s what matters. I cherish that recording. My plea to you, is don’t leave anything unsaid to anyone you love, don’t go to sleep angry. Tomorrow is not promised, and I learned that in the worst way. Don’t leave this world with any regrets. I dedicate this letter to the memory of my Dad, Gene.

Corrine W. 2024