If you know me, you know I sleep like the dead. Apparently, I must be sleeping like my father, who died yesterday morning, and must be in as much shock as me.
Yesterday, my phone rang at 7:42 am. It was sort of quiet—like loud enough to wake me, but soft enough that I didn’t think much of it. That was until Sweeties phone rang right afterward. Same unrecognizable number. Well fuck. They left a voicemail… all I heard was “hello Rachel, this is Nancy from Fairview Southdale Hospital. Your father …” click, return call. Hurry, return the effing call. “Yes, may I speak to Nancy, my name is Rachel Swan, Phil Swan’s daughter.”
Hold. Really crappy hold music. Still holding.
“Rachel, ahhh, hi, this is Nancy a nurse a Fairview Southdale. There really is no good way of telling you this. I am sorry…”
(Total freak out.)
Sunrise. Drive. Hospital. Cardiac arrest. Heart attack. Wailing. Bad hospital coffee. Lay at the feet of my fathers beloved. Holding and held. Flood of kindness. Family. Phones and bings and beeps and bongs on the clock striking each hour that passes. Fuck. Church, yes, church. Drive. Tears and laughter, tears and laughter. Exhaustion. Sunset.
Its sunrise at the house I grew up in. The light is coming over the lily-pads on the lake. The thunder and lightening has stopped, and a bird is singing outside of my dad and step-mom’s window.