They told us he’s in the intensive care unit. What am I supposed to think? My mother, my sister, and I have our arms linked and we are squished against one another. We’re staring down at my father on the hospital bed, wrapped up in cords, breathing tube down his throat, and an “x” on each foot.

So what am I supposed to think? He is being cooled down to a temperature not meant for September and being monitored closely. I can do nothing but stare at him, wondering what is going to happen to my black hair, brown-eyed father that I did everything with.

While my mother and sister listen to the doctors explain what exactly happened with the tears streaming down their identical cheeks, I stand alone. I am trying to stand as close to my father as I can choking back the tears that are starting to rise and burn my eyes.

I thought that this hospital visit would be just like the last one three years ago. My grandpa met my sister and I at dads house only to tell us that he is in the hospital. After we arrived, my sister and I rushed to his room; when I say room I mean the single bed with a curtain acting as a wall. As soon as dad saw his two daughters, his expression explained it all. He was scared, he didn’t have to say it, his tears told us. My dad explained to us that he finally decided to get his heart checked out. My sister was balling her eyes out. But I did not shed a tear. I was devastated though, but relieved that my dad was being taken care of. It wasn’t until two days before my dads heart surgery that I finally broke down. I was at school and I needed to hear my fathers voice, sure that his voice would fix all my fears. It did just that. Five hours after my dad’s surgery, I got a call from him. He told me the one thing I will never forget “it’s so good to hear your voice” but it was his voice that saved me.

Unfortunately this visit was not like that. After the doctors explained as much as they could to us, we decided to leave his room and get some food. Two men met us on our way. They told us that they are my dads co-workers and were the ones to dial 911. They continued telling us the tale I wish I never heard. Telling us exactly what was going on and what people were trying to do to save him.

After we finally came back upstairs my aunt Glorie, one of my dad’s best friends, greeted us. She was very upset and telling us “don’t worry guys, he’s going to make it. He has to.” But the moment came. A doctor in a suit came out of the hallway and greeted us. He also told us a tale. A story about how my dad no longer had a heart beat. It barely even fluttered he said. He continued his horror story. While we were getting something to eat and taking a breather, my dad had another heart attack. He said they did everything they could. “And that was that,” that was the way the doctor told us my father has died.

No longer would I hear his voice laughing at me as I asked all of my dumb questions. No longer would I be able to snowmobile on the paths he took me on. No longer was I able to have a conversation with him.

It’s been two and a half months since my dad has left this place. But I cannot think that he is gone. And now I am mixing my dreams with reality and can barely remember what I had said yesterday. I miss my dad and I realize that therapy won’t help. Talking about him being gone won’t help. I am too stubborn to accept help from anyone. I think maybe because my dad always believed that the only way to move on from something is to do it on your own. I think I will do almost exactly that. I want to be just like my dad. Act like him. Eat like him. Think like him. Almost like I want him back so bad, I am willing to give up my life so he can be back here with his family.
So you tell me, what am I supposed to think?