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Just like his regular phone calls, Dad was used to regular eating times and in the height of my pregnancy wanted to know when supper was going to be ready and had I put the chicken in the oven.
I was ready to scream from the cacophony of impeding childbirth and tending to their daily routines... especially getting the chicken in.
My father died eleven years ago in June of 1995. The news of his death hit me like a physical punch to the chest.
I was devastated and can remember simply slumping to the floor in our pantry and crying my eyes out till the row of cereal boxes was nothing but a blur - my young children not fully understanding why I was so sad.
There had been no illness before, no injuries, no prolonged, drawn out hospital stays.
He simply got up in the morning, went to take a shower so that he could go to the grocery store - probably to buy a chicken, and never came out of the bathroom. His death was blessed in its quickness and painlessness.
From 1988 to 1995, he phoned me every Friday night. Oh, sometimes he would miss one or we would be out and then he’d follow up the next day or so.
I counted on those phone calls, those visits with my father, and even now, after all these years, there will be Friday nights when I am waiting for the phone to ring.
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