Day 14, (Day of the Dead, filed)

It's Halloween. I'm not going to tell you about the
Day of the Dead, although I recommend checking out the site. But I will tell you why I celebrate it now.

Five years ago on October 28, my sister called from Phoenix to tell me that I needed to get down there. Immediately. My dad had fluid in his lungs and was in the hospital. I was working at the wine store I owned. I grabbed Jay, who was five, and closed the big sliding metal mesh door to the store. I drove to my house like a banshee, packed a bag, and got on the road. As I packed, I did a weird thing. I threw in a black dress.

Jay and I had just been down at my parent's place the weekend before. They lived in a retirement facility, and had a small two bedroom apartment. We would stay with them two weekends a month; the two I didn't work at the store. My mom was already pretty memory sick. She would pile boxes up in front of the door at night because she thought people were going to come in. She even saw them at times and she would tell me about them later. The last time she was at my house in Flagstaff, she looked out the kitchen window and said, "Jill, look at that big white dog in the front yard." I looked out and just saw my yard. I said, "Where mom? I don't see it." My mom gave me this exasperated look and pointed, "It's right there." I put down the dish I was drying and walked outside. Man, I looked everywhere for that damn white dog.

So, we had been down to see them. Came home Sunday night. Got the call Wednesday. My sister, on the phone, had said it wasn't a life or death matter. It was just a concern. She called me back to say it would probably be fine, they just needed to deal with the lung issue and he would probably be fine. I drove like a crazy person to Phoenix. But her voice was frantic. The fear she felt came through the phone and splintered out inside my head like tempered glass, cracking.

At the hospital he looked pretty bad. Tiny. Tubes everywhere. But he could talk. We talked a bit, but it was hard for him. He seemed okay. He looked at me once, right before we were going to leave for the night and said, very clear suddenly, "So, when do we dance?" And he smiled.

We came back the next morning early, stayed at the hospital all day. My brother flew in from Kansas. My niece and her kids drove in from California. We milled around in the waiting room as only two of us could go in at a time to see him. He got better, then he got worse, then he got better again. It was the day before Halloween. We had three kids who needed costumes and candy sacks. We went to department stores, wandering up and down aisles saying, "well, do you want to be a vampire or a ninja," thinking, "is my dad going to die?"

That night, as my mom, my sister, Jay and I were walking down the hallway; you know, the wide, speckled linoleum floor, the dim lights shining out from the rooms as you passed by, the low sounds of relatives and patients, I heard my dad holler, "Jill!." I ran back to his room. "What dad?" I asked. "He looked at me and said, "Take care of your mother." "I will dad. I'll take care of mom." And then my dad slept.

On the 31st, we again spent most of the day at the hospital. My nephew was trying to get there but having flight trouble. My brother stayed at the hospital all day. We went back and fourth, making mac and cheese for the kids, trying on costumes, sitting with my dad. Sometimes he seemed so much better. He would open his eyes and talk to one of us. More family was flying in and would be there later that night. We felt okay. Optimistic. Unsure. Sad.

Occasionally I thought about my black dress in the suitcase.

We took the kids trick or treating. The night was warm and smelled like Phoenix always smells to me; mesquite and olive trees. We laughed at times, admired costumes and didn't stop thinking about dad. Somehow we all went to bed and slept.

The next morning, the phone rang at 6:00 am. It was one of the nurses. She said dad had taken a turn for the worse. We all jumped in cars and drove like crazy. I ran from the moment I shut the car door. Through the parking lot, into the lobby, down the hall and into the elevator. Out the elevator, down the hall and into my dad's room. He was already gone. The days blurred. At some point, I wore my black dress.

So anyway, you get through things you don't imagine you will. You keep going. I felt indescribably bad. I felt like the only thing that would ever make me feel good again was if my dad would just CALL me on the phone and say, "Hey, I'm okay here. Things are good." But he never did.

Over time I started to feel better. I still cried in my car every time "A Hundred Years to Live" by Five for Fighting came on. I still missed my dad all time. I still wondered EVERY DAMN DAY where he went. I still wanted to call him in the morning to see if he'd finished the jumble, and I still missed his call at night to see if my doors were locked. But I grew into his dying. I knew it wasn't against the natural progression of things. He'd lived a great, long life and been a good man. And still, I just wanted to talk to him one more time.

But I discovered Dia De Los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. It was the day he died. It was the ritual I needed. It was a belief I'd always had but just never knew the specifics. So, now, on the anniversary of his dying, I have a day to honor him. To feed him. To communicate with him. I usually make zucchini bread, which he loved, and I also have okra. I have Day of the Dead figurines (one is a golfer for him!) and candles on an altar during the month of October. I write him a letter. I talk to him. It makes me feel better. I imagine him looking through a window, tangible. This year, for the first time, I see my mom in that window too. I smile every time the phone rings.