The Daily Item has many dedicated readers who have probably received this paper for decades. It gained another when I was hired last year.
My father read every story I had in the paper, immediately getting his own subscription so he could reread them online. He would send stories to his friends and always tell them how proud he was of me.
Thursday morning, at around 7 a.m., my dad died after fighting in the ICU for over a month. One of the last times I visited him, he made me hold his phone up to his face so he could read what I had last written, and on my final day with him, he asked me right away, “What are you working on?”
I knew immediately that the best way I could honor him was with a front-page story.
Writing about what he went through is difficult, but I want everyone who reads this to know that he fought like Hell. He went blow for blow against aspiration pneumonia, secretions, kidney problems, multiple intubations, and a cardiac arrest that took him from us for 5 minutes. It was an uphill battle, and he pushed until he knew he was ready to go. Through all this, he was never alone.
My mom was there almost 24/7. She would stay overnight, not wanting to leave him alone. My dad has been sick in different ways his whole life, and I think he would agree with me when I say she’s the reason he made it this far. She was his rock, and he was hers.
My dad also had a rotation of friends visiting him in the hospital. From grade school to his days at John Hancock, they came to show their support. They stood at his bed and held his hand, sharing stories of when they were young. Seeing him in the ICU was hard, but his room was full of love. He laughed with everyone, smiled, and shook his head at the stories being told about him.
It’s hard to understand that he’s gone. Truthfully, my dad had a heart of gold. Maybe that’s easy to say because he’s my dad, but I think everyone who knew him would agree. He was always putting others above himself. Even on that last night, with a room full of family, he turned to my mom and said, “Take the gang out for pizza.” When she said, “Not tonight,” he immediately asked, “Why not?”
It was a quiet ride home from Mass General on Thursday, but at noon, my aunt and uncle walked through the door with pizza, and for a moment, things felt a little lighter.
I don’t want to remember my dad by the sounds of machines beeping, rushing oxygen, and the hum of his blood pressure being taken. I don’t want to remember the dark circles and the strong voice that turned into a whisper.
Instead, I’ll remember him playing with our dog, whom he’d always call “My buddy Percy,” making sausage, pepper, and onions for the Patriots game, and how happy he was at my brother’s wedding just last year. I’ll remember the late-night trips to Kelly’s Roast Beef, him racing to an away game because I forgot my basketball sneakers, and him blowing out his birthday candles just five days before being taken to the hospital.
My dad won’t be logging on to itemlive to read this story, but I know he’s reading it over my shoulder as I write it.
Thank you for everything you did for us. I love you. Rest easy.
