I’ve been wondering for weeks now if I’m supposed to acknowledge today and it’s significance or pretend it’s just a day like any other.

The first option sucks in that I’ve Really Got to Get to the Dentist to Get this Cavity Filled kind of way (immediate pain lessened by the relief of finally getting beyond the initial hump of resistance) and the second just seems wrong.

But I don’t know how to say differently what has been said before. So I’m just going to use the same words.

It might be a different day and a different year, but no matter how far forward time takes me, a piece of me is still standing in that hospital room crying because I want my dad back.

***

I make sad things funny. It’s a coping mechanism, I am sure. But it’s also an engrained part of my culture.
Sometimes, though, sad things make themselves funny. Like when my aunt told my father to look into the light.
As he lay on his death bed.
She didn’t mean it that way. But English isn’t her first language. So while my sisters and I were fighting tears and laughter for two separate reasons, my father’s sisters were rallying my him to stay with us as they rubbed his hands and patted his feet and reminded my father of all the reasons he needed to focus on living.
He was 50 and had gone into the hospital to have heart valve replacement surgery (the original surgery a result of rheumatic fever he suffered as a child). Being the cocky stereotype he was, it hadn’t really entered his mind that he might not come home. And because we all believed him to be the strongest man in the world, we had only focused on making fun of him while he recovered.
But problems arose after the surgery. And after a few close calls, the doctors finally told me and my mother to call everyone to the hospital. He wouldn’t make it more than a few hours.
There were only a few people to call. If you break your toe in my family, we are required to turn the waiting room into an ethnic stereotype. Every tia, tio, prima, and primo within driving distance is called to appear at the hospital, waiting for the afflicted to emerge, triumphant and cured. I am sure the hospital staff groans when we all arrive; a Spanglish three ring circus. Even as the doctor quietly urged us to notify friends and family, he looked around at the standing room only crowd already present.
Five daughters.
Two son-in-laws.
One Godson.
One grandfather.
Two brother-in-laws.
Three of four sisters.
One Niece.
One (or was it two?) long time friends.
One uncle who had flown in from Texas.
One aunt who had delayed her trip back to Mexico.
One wife of thirty years…who just happened to be celebrating her 49th birthday that very day on November 27, 2007.

But we made calls. My in-laws were at my house taking care of 5 month old Buttercup, but everyone else we could get a hold of did their best to arrive before my father left us. And while we waited for the inevitable, my aunts continued to rally my father.
“Rene! Rene! Stay with us! You have your daughter’s Rene. Pauline, Veronica, Sonya, Maria, Patricia!”

Stay with us, Rene! You have the grandchildren! Nicholas, Caleb, Aiden, and Buttercup!”

“Rene! Dorothy is here, Rene. It’s her birthday, Rene. She needs you to take care of her, Rene!”

His signs were fading.
The beeping was slowing.
The tears were flowing.
I kept my eyes closed. Easier to block the tears that way. I needed to stay focused on catching my mother before she hit the ground when the last beep would eventually fade away. And that damned light over his bed was harsh enough to sting my already tired eyes.
I stood in between Pati and Sonya, with one arm around each of their shoulders. Being six inches taller than both of them, I was able to offer them a place to rest their heads while I used them for support to keep standing.
None of us spoke. We just let my dad’s sisters cry and wail and toggle between English and Spanish while they tried to break through to his spirit. His body may have been failing, but he was strong. Maybe strong enough to make the impossible possible. If only they could reach him.
“Rene!” One of his sister’s cried out. “Rene! Look into the light, Rene! Look into the light!”

My eyes shot open as my face crumpled into a pained expression that had nothing to do with my father and everything to do with me trying to bite back a “What the HELL?” at what had just been uttered.

“Really?

Really?”

She, of course, meant the light over his bed. The one harnessing the power of the sun. The one we would have joked was bright enough to wake the dead had my father not been dying.
But a chuckle, which came out as a muffled sob, escaped one of my sisters. Sonya and Pati, tears streaming down their cheeks, both looked up at me. They wanted to laugh. My father would have laughed. He would have laughed his ass off.  But it wasn’t the right time. Later. We could laugh after we got home. After we had signed off on the autopsy. After we got my mother into bed. While  we sat huddled together waiting to leave for the funeral home. After we got home from the service. We could, and would laugh about it often. All it took was one of us to dramatically call out, “Look into the light!”

But not now. Not yet.

I pursed my lips and silently shook my head slowly. It was as much an admonition for them as it was a reminder to me not to lose it. Because good fucking God, I needed to laugh.

“Rene! Look into the light!” She cried out, as the beeping slowed even more. “Look into light!”

My father had never listened to his sisters. He never listened to anyone. But as the beep, beep, beep finally drew itself out into a heart-wrenching “beeeeeeeeeeep” until one of the nurses (thankfully) turned off the machines, as I let go of my sisters to catch my mother before she fell to the floor…I had one thought.

“Damn it, Dad! Fifty years! And you listen to them now?”