Remembering My Hero

I’ve been thinking about my Daddy a lot in the last week, which makes sense because the anniversary of his death is coming up. How do you make sense of your hero dying on a national holiday? I haven’t figured it out. I am thankful that it’s a day off from work where I can allow my body to grieve in which ever way it needs to, but then most years I’m left with two days of sadness. MLK Day and the actual date as it moves through the calendar. Like all things, of course the actual date changes year after year, but the feeling that hangs over MLK day never does. My Daddy died on January 19, 2004, which in that year happened to be the third Monday in January, also known as MLK Day.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. My Daddy had been getting over the flu, so when my Mommy decided to take me and Plank (my best friend) to Fredericksburg to visit family, he decided to stay home. He said that he would see us when we got home. Ever the jokester, he said something funny as we were leaving from upstairs, and he was nestling back into bed. I hugged him and told him I loved him. (After his death I couldn’t remember the last words I said to him. I worried that it had been something stupid like “shut up” or the often said “you’re silly.” It was my Mommy who reminded me that an “I love you,” was the words I exchanged with my giant teddy bear of a father.)

We went to Fredericksburg and spent time with my family as we often did back then and at lunch my aunt kept staring at the window and looking at the birds. Now if you know anything about Black families, you know that we are all connected to the ancestors and spirits in some ways. There’s always someone amongst us who knows what’s happening. That day, it was my aunt. She would later tell us that she knew something bad was happening, but didn’t want to scare anyone.

The thing is, she didn’t have to tell me, because my body was also telling me something was wrong. At lunch (Olive Garden to be exact - and which I’ve never gone back to since that day), I became ill with a migraine. This wasn’t my first migraine, but it was one that came out of nowhere and made me nauseous. I couldn’t finish my food. I felt like I was in a haze. And if you get migraines, you know once they hit, there’s not much you can do, but ride the wave. For about two hours I felt like I was having an out of body experience. It hurt to move. After leaving the restaurant we slowly walked around, hoping to distract my brain from the pain. Eventually, I began to normalize some, but kept my migraine hangover… not knowing it was my empath spirit letting me know half of my heart was no longer among the living.

After dropping off Plank, I remember the growing concern my Mommy and I had around not talking to my Daddy all day. We called his cell and the house number a few times, but he didn’t answer. We thought he might’ve been sleep, but even when sick, it wasn’t like him to sleep all day. He was a man of routine. As we drove past the 7-11 down the street from our subdivision, my Mommy got the call from my cousin that changed my life forever. I saw her body go rigid, her foot hit the accelerator, and the words come out of her mouth, “What do you mean? Is he breathing? Did you call 911?”

My Daddy, my gentle giant, died of a massive coronary in the bathroom he shared with my Mommy. As I learned, it’s not uncommon for people to think they have to use the bathroom when they’re having a heart attack. As his heart stopped pumping, he hit his head on the towel rack in the bathroom and died alone, not to be found until my cousin went to check on him because he too was worried that he hadn’t come downstairs at all that day.

As we pulled into our driveway, the ambulance and police were there and from that point through most of the night all I can remember is seeing red. Through tears and phone calls and hugs and walking outside in the dark winter air, my feelings oscillated between utter devastation and blood boiling anger. I was angry that the police have to come when someone dies in their home and isn’t found immediately. I was angry that because rigor mortis had set in, they had to break my Daddy’s bones to bring him downstairs and no matter how loud the music played to drown out the sound, I knew what they were doing. I was angry that I had spent his last day on this Earth not with him. I was angry that he died alone. I was angry that he died of a heart attack leaving me and my Mommy far too early. I was angry that he had just been at the doctor and they didn’t know something was wrong. I was angry that he hadn’t lost weight like the doctors told him to. I was angry that I couldn’t remember what I said to him. I was angry that I wanted nothing more than to hug him one more time. I was angry that somehow I hadn’t saved him. I was angry at him, myself, the world, God. That anger would stay with me for years and evolve into poor decision making and a proclivity to live as if nothing even mattered. But those are stories for other days.

I share my memories of this pivotal day in my life to help my brain remember the gravity of losing my protector, my historian, my best friend, my Daddy. As days and years pass, it becomes harder to remember the fine details, but the feelings remain. I have a big Daddy-sized hole in my heart that I’ve had to grow around. I’ve had to navigate more time on this Earth without him than I had with him. And that is the biggest mindfuck of it all. At the end of this, my Daddy will be one of the most influential people in my life, despite only getting to be in the first 16 years of it. Our Daddy-Daughter love has spanned the decades because I am resolute in keeping his memory alive. There may not be many who remember him, but if anyone ever asks, I am ready with stories and honesty and a little bit of silliness. He was the first storyteller of the Black experience I ever knew and the reason I am here sharing my story, our story, and the story of my people.

My Daddy died on MLK day when I was 16 and for the past 19 years I have grappled with remembering my Black history hero when the world is honoring another. I miss him. Always.