posted on Oct, 15 2007 @ 07:12 PM
When I was 16, I had to deal with the death of my step-father. I lived with him and my mother since I was a baby, so he was just as much of a father
to me, as was my biological father.
I can remember that night as if it was yesterday. I awoke to a blood curdling scream at about 2:30am. My mother was screaming his name, over and
over. Then she began to scream my name. Initially, I had thought my cat was dying, and I didn't want to see it. So I didn't move. Then the
screams continued, and it got worse. So I jumped up, and just outside my bedroom door, I found my step-father unconscious on the floor. Without
thinking, I dove to the floor and tried to do whatever I could. I don't remember calling 911, but I can remember being on the phone with them and
performing CPR. What seemed like hours later, the ambulance arrived and quickly took over.
I joined my mother in the living room, and we listened to them use the defibrillator over and over. Feeling hopeless, I went to the doorway and I
seen this gray body, laying lifeless. They did manage to get a heart beat back, and they quickly rushed him to the hospital.
I spent the next week on his bed side, as he rested in a coma. Every time his eyes flickered, I rushed to the doctors only to be reminded that it was
common. Seven days later with his kidneys and liver failing, and his body being poisoned, bed sores from head to toe, and confirmation that he had
gone an extended period of time without oxygen, it was decided that the medication keeping him alive would be stopped, and the machines turned off.
Even if we continued down this path, his body would of been poisoned within the week.
We were all called into the room, and we watched that color of gray return. Words can not describe watching the life exit a body. It's been over
five years, and I can still vividly remember it. I watched him die twice, and even today I find it very difficult to think about it.
What had happened that night at home was a massive heart attack. He had the heart attack in bed, but did not want to die in the bed next to my
mother. So he managed to get out of the bed, and as he went to the kitchen, he collapsed to the floor. All of this after beating cancer four months
I remember going back to the house, for the first time after it happened. And there was a large blood stain on the kitchen floor, from where he had
hit his head. I turned around and left, and never went back to the house. We had no choice but to move out. I could never go back into that house
after going through such an episode.
The death of a loved one is never easy. But having to deal with it at such a young age, it's not right. It took me a long time to effectively think
about what had happened, and even more to be able to talk about it. After two years, I would still break into tears without notice.
My biological father, whom I have always very close with, lost his father when he was eight. A die hard hockey fan, he died of a heart attack twenty
minutes after his team won the Stanley Cup. He was only 38.