In Light of Yesterday

To those who paid any attention to my Twitter feed for most of yesterday, you'll know what I'll be talking about. To those who didn't, allow me to get some of my bottled up thoughts out into the open. (It'll make it easier for me.)

(Also, I'm taking the next several days off. The reasons are obvious.)
Yesterday started off like any other day. I got up (always before my older sister and younger brother), spend some time online and went downstairs to get something to eat. I saw a small note written by my mother saying she went out and would be back around noon. (She often left notes like that if someone woke up before she got back home.)

Some time passed after that. My sister beckoned my brother and I to the dining room. There, we were met by our mother (who looked very upset), my sister's godparents...and a police officer.

That was how we found out.

My father was dead.

My brother was immediately crushed by the news. (My paternal grandmother, who lives us, even more so.) I, in my shocked state, kept asking how did he die. (The officer said an autopsy would be performed the next day.) After some crying and hugging, I excused myself to my room where I would grieve in my own way (and broke the news on Twitter).

I kept thinking over and over, how did he die? He wasn't old to begin with (he was 56) and he was in relatively good health, especially considering his profession (he was a cardiologist). He didn't smoke (except for the occasional cigar once every three or so years), rarely drank and spent most of his free time either reading, watching TV or sleeping (sometimes combining the latter two). I really had no idea.

In the time following that, I also kept thinking that I wasn't grieving properly. I mean, yes, I cried a little when we were told what had happened, but I didn't felt as devastated as my mother, brother or grandmother. I thought it was because I wasn't as close to him as they were. Sure, my father and I had our fair share of arguments, but they weren't anything too severe.

Even in the few months before his death, I had a feeling that he viewed me as the black sheep. While my sister and brother were in their final year of college and high school, I was home having failed my first year of college. Sometimes he would accuse me of not pulling my weight around the house when he would find me either watching TV or being on the computer. I in turn would sometimes gripe to my mother that he should help around the house when he was home. (She would tell me to ease off since he had a long week at work.)

But even with our frequent petty squabbles, that didn't mean I hated him. He was willing to work so his family could live a practical life. He worked so his family could have a roof over their heads and food on the table. He worked because he cared about his family.

I'll miss the way he got overly excited when the Red Sox made a good play. I'll miss the way his messages on the answering machine started with "Helloooo? Anybody there?" I'll miss the way he left the television at full blast even when he's sleeping on the couch.

My grandmother lost her youngest child. My mother lost her husband of thirty years. And my siblings and I lost the man we were proud to call "Dad".

I'll miss you, Dad.

I love you.