The Last Time

Note to readers -- My blog is primarily meant to be a creative outlet for me. I love to write. I have always had words and stories and feelings pent up inside of me; ready to burst out. So I started a blog just for a chance to write about things on my heart. Writing is therapeutic. It helps me express things I could never say. It helps me to see myself. Today's entry has been a painful one to write. I have written words that I have never expressed to anyone before. Words I have held in my heart for nearly four decades. For family and close friends, it may also prove to be painful to read. My feelings certainly won't be hurt if you decide to click a link and move away now. 

We never think that any particular day may be The Last Time we see someone; especially someone we love. There will always be tomorrow. Always a final chance to see them. Always a final chance to say, "I love you." A chance to say goodbye.

No, we never think that today is The Last Time.

The Last Time sticks with us, though. How we wish we had done something differently; perhaps held that hug a moment longer, or said, "I love you," one more time. How we wish we could have that moment over again; or better yet, that it simply wouldn't have been The Last Time.

No one in my family ever dreamed that the evening of June 21, 1974 would be The Last Time we would have with Dad. He was young. He had a great job with a great company. He had just moved us into a new (to us, anyway) home in Manchester. He had planned a big barbecue for relatives to come see our new home.  Dad was there; and he was going to be there forever, it seemed. We never imagined it would be The Last Time.

The Last Time has haunted me for many years. I didn't tell him I loved him before heading to bed that night. In fact, I didn't really say anything to him at all.

It was no big deal, right? He would be there in the morning and we would get ready for the party. Mom would make her signature potato salad and Dad would grill pork steaks. It would be perfect! It would be...

I didn't tell him that I loved him. I didn't say anything to him at all.

I was awakened early the next morning by the sounds of agonal breathing as Mom and Debbie tried to rouse Dad in his recliner in the living room. I came in as they began CPR and Mom told me to call an ambulance. We didn't have 911 back then. I called the fire department number from the front of the phone book.

The list was so long and I called the wrong one.

I was twelve. I was scared.

I kept hearing the sounds of Mom and Debbie working on Dad. I kept hearing Mom crying out to him, "Elmer! Elmer!"

The dispatcher at whatever department I had called helped me find the right number; so I called again. The dispatcher wanted to know his condition. Mom shouted, "We think he's dead!"

It couldn't have been The Last Time. It just couldn't.

Mom sent me back to my room.

I watched out the window as the police arrived, followed by the ambulance and a fire engine.

I snuck out to peek as the paramedics worked on Dad's lifeless body. I watched through the window as they wheeled the stretcher out to the ambulance; Dad's body rhythmically bouncing under the thrusts of the CPR.

There had to be One More Time! There just had to be!

Gert brought Nana out to be with us. Time seemed to drag on forever; waiting for Dad to come home...

Mr. Early came over from next door to cut the grass. It didn't really need to be cut, but it was something he could do.

So I sat on the sofa with Nana; watching as a taxi pulled into the driveway. Mom walked slowly into the house clutching a brown paper bag filled with Dad's belongings. Nana fearfully asked, "Peggy; where's Elmer?"

I can still hear Mom's words ringing in my ears to this day. "He's dead, Nana. He's not coming back."

He didn't come home.

It had truly been The Last Time.

I can still see the book he had been reading; sitting beside his recliner. It was Trooper. It had a charcoal sketch of a close up of a state trooper in his trademark sunglasses and Smokey the Bear hat on the cover. It would go back to the library with his marker still stuck somewhere in its pages.

And I can still see his glasses still sitting on that old, marble-topped octagonal table beside his chair.

The empty chair. The one he had sat in for The Last Time.

The next few days are still largely a blur; punctuated by memories of brief, painful moments.

Like Debbie calling Chuck and Helen to tell them Dad was gone.

Like Aunt Mamie sitting beside me in the funeral home saying, "It should have been me."

Like Mom pulling me away from the casket during that last family time with Dad's body as I tried to burn the image of his face into my mind forever.

Like the view out the back window of the limo as we pulled away from the gravesite - wanting to prolong being with him - even if it was just his body - for The Last Time.

But, perhaps no memory remains more poignant nor more painful than standing with Aunt Dot beside the casket; gazing at the shell that used to be her brother; my Dad. She put her arm around me and said, "Scott, you are now the patriarch of the Brader family. You are the one who must carry on the name. Be proud of your name; and protect it for the rest of us."

No matter what her intent that day, Aunt Dot laid upon me a burden too great to bear. The mantle was not passed down from father to son, but thrust upon me by circumstance. Dad was a patriarch. A wise counselor; the Brader anchor. I was just a little kid.

As soon as I had opportunity, I did what every reluctant patriarch does. I ran.

I have kept those words hidden words away for nearly forty years; the very thought of them a reminder of how desperately I wished things had been different The Last Time. 

I suppose I have never gotten over The Last Time.

I'm pretty sure I never will.

I will not let The Last Time haunt my sons the way it did me. I make sure they hear the words, "I love you," every night.

Not because it's a rote saying.

Because you just never know when it might be The Last Time.