The Night My World Shifted

I have never publicly told the story of my father's passing. I believe I am ready now.

On July 20, 2015, my dad finally went to the doctor after months of struggling to breathe and experiencing severe shortness of breath. We had EMTs at our house almost once a week. My father knew his time might be near because of his many years of smoking cigarettes and drinking.

He did not like doctors. He believed he could cure himself.

That day, my dad took Hendrix for a walk and came home completely out of breath. He asked my mother to take him to the doctor. I watched my dad walk out of his home, never knowing it would be the last time.

Later, he called me.

"I have bad news," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"I have to go to the hospital. My blood pressure is very low."

I remember telling him, "I am so glad you are going. That is where you need to be."

I took a cab to the hospital in Brooklyn. My dad was preparing to retire from the United States Postal Service, where he worked as a custodian at the large post office on 10th Street in Manhattan in five days.

I remember sitting beside him while he was on the gurney. He looked at me and said, "If I make it out alive, I'm not retiring just yet."

He was admitted and underwent several tests. The doctors told us he needed a stent placed in one of his arteries. They did not believe emergency surgery was necessary, so they scheduled his transfer to NYC and procedure for July 22, 2015.

If I knew then what I know now, things would have been different.

We visited my dad on July 21 and brought him word puzzles and coffee. I wish I had stayed with him, but I felt as though I did not belong there.

My mother and I were so nervous that we ended up arguing in front of him. We eventually calmed down, but I am still sorry.

I am so sorry, Dad, that one of your final moments with us was like that.

When it was time to leave, I kissed him and told him how much I loved him.

"If you feel scared or need anything, press this button," I said, pointing to the call button beside his bed.

We spoke with the nurse and began walking away.

I suddenly found myself standing in front of his room again because I wanted to give him one more kiss.

I saw him sitting there, staring blankly at his crossword puzzle book. I told myself to leave him alone because he was already frightened.

My mother and I went home.

I took a shower, and while washing my hair, a thought came into my mind out of nowhere:

How am I going to live without this man?

How am I going to tell people that he died?

I did not hesitate or tell myself to stop thinking that way.

After my shower, I went into his bedroom, lay down on his bed, and tried to sleep.

At approximately 1 a.m., my cellphone rang. It was a doctor from the hospital.

"Hello?"

"Is this Melissa Clark?"

"Yes."

"This is Dr. _ from the hospital."

"Don't you dare say it."

"We are so sorry."

"Don't."

"Your father, William, has passed away. We worked on him for two hours."

"No."

I walked toward the living room, calling for my mother as I moved through the hallway.

"Mom. Mom."

She had been researching the procedure my father was supposed to have the following morning. She stood up, and we met near the front door.

"Mommy, Daddy died."

Her lips went from pink to white, like a blank sheet of printer paper. I will never forget watching that happen in real time.

"No. Please, no," she said.

She asked to speak with the doctor. Then she called my father's primary care physician and pleaded with him, unable to accept what she had just been told.

She was in complete shock and denial.

We told the hospital we wanted to see him.

My mother suggested taking a cab. I was suffering from so much anxiety and felt out of control that I needed to be in control and drive.

Before we got into the car, my mother said, "He is going to know we are there, and he is going to wake up."

When we arrived, I remember walking into the room and seeing his feet first.

The tube was still down his throat, and his eyes were open. He was lifeless, yet somehow still right there in front of me.

I asked the hospital staff to remove the tube and close his beautiful blue eyes.

I could still feel him. I could feel his energy. He was looking at me, looking at him.

I kissed him, held his hand, told him how much I loved him, and thanked him for everything he had done for me.

He was sincerely the best father and the best friend I could have ever asked for.

My mother stood there silently, frozen in shock and disbelief. She could not utter a single word.

Eighteen months later, she would meet him in heaven. They call it Lung Cancer; I call it a broken heart.

Somehow, I knew it even then.

We had a closed-casket wake to honor my father because he hated when people stared at him. When the casket was opened privately for immediate family, I went into another room.

My dad and I were so close that we had spoken about that day long before it ever came.

He always told me, "I never want you to see me that way."

When it was time to take him to the crematory, I lay halfway across his closed casket. I told the mortuary worker he would have to remove me physically.

After about 15 minutes, they lifted me from my dad's coffin like a pancake.

Letting him go was the worst feeling I had ever experienced.

For six nights after my father's funeral, I dreamt of him. In those dreams, he told me he was not gone.

I will keep the rest of those conversations to myself.

It has been 11 years today since my father passed away.

Does it still hurt? Of course it does.

But we have remained best friends.

I smell him. I hear him. I dream of him. During spiritual readings, I am reminded that he continues to walk beside me. I know that.

I used to ask my father what would happen to me when he died.

He always gave me the same answer:

"As long as you are connected to God, I am right by your side."

- William Arthur Clark, May 23, 1940 - July 22, 2015

I dedicate this to everyone who has ever lost someone dear to their heart. It is okay not to be okay, but always remember: they are never truly gone—they are simply in the other room.