Why September Matters To Me…

By Oscar Barajas, NewsTaco

I remember September 10th, 2007, like it was yesterday. My father was lying in a hospital bed recovering from surgery. They had just amputated part of his leg which had been affected with gangrene. If the doctors were working around the clock in order to see what they could do to save him, my mother and her comadres were asking for a miracle from God. After all, he had delivered before. There were too many times when the firefighters had to tear through the house in order to get to him. There were too many times when he was despondent. The old man always found a way to make those fourth quarter comebacks. It was hard to bet against him.

He had kept his eyes closed most of the day and into the night. The only time he had opened them was to look at my sister. He wanted to say something, but the action of making words had betrayed him. By the time I made it to his bedside all he could do was grimace. The only time the doctors came in was to drown us with realistic expectations as the nurses came in with more paperwork. After the paperwork was signed, a sullen technician would come in with additional wires that required assembly, and hook them up to my father.

I had not been doing well myself. The stress was getting to me. The doubt of a fourth quarter comeback was becoming apparent. No one slept at my house. It had become an extended waiting room, where all we did was sit and wait around for visiting hours back at the hospital. There was no reason for me to be there at the hospital. I was not made to translate awkward medical conversations. My sister was raised with that horrid gene. She was running point at the hospital.

I spent that day at work in a haze. Most of my official and unofficial breaks and lunch were spent on the linoleum floor, shaking and crying while in a fetal position. I was expecting to hear a call from the main office telling me the worst. By the time 5:00 rolled around, I realized that the call was not coming. I got off work at 6:00 and made my way to the hospital. My guts felt like they were hanging out and a fever began to set in quite nicely.

When I got to the hospital, I was greeted by a grim scene. My father had been unresponsive for hours. No one spoke much, except for the times that my father had opened his eyes. The decision was made pretty early that my mother and my father’s sister would spend the night. I said goodbye to my father who could not say it in return. When my sister drove the rest of us home, I was still shaking from the lack of sleep and too much hospital coffee. I do not even know how I got into my bed seeing how I woke up the next day with shoes on but without socks.

The next morning my sister and I received a frantic phone call from the hospital. She would not tell us what the matter was, but rather urged us to get down there. It was about then when the calls started rolling in with heartfelt condolences. My sister and I were confused, but not as confused as the callers on the other side of the phone when we asked them what loss they were referring to.

I remember the exact moment in time. My sister and I walked into the room and my father was already propped inside of a bodybag. The whole scene hit me sideways, as my aunt was frantic about having me kiss his feet while my mother cried over his body and cried even further when she saw us standing there. I put my arms around him, and the gravity of being 37 minutes late had not struck me yet. The fact that words had become pools of garbled inefficiency had not struck me yet. In the end, his death came from a pulmonary illness, although I feel that he had had enough. The Diabetes, the renal failure, and the lack of dialysis came in a close second, but I felt my father won the race by not succumbing to his fate. He had beaten the system and now the system would have to contend with him.

I called my best friend from a restroom, and the words came out in a tear filled jerk. It took her a while to respond, mainly because I feel she had no idea why I was calling. Even though the silences were punctuated by my sloppy sobs, she was able to help me maintain. It had been a while since I cried like that. There was no pain to speak of, but rather a void. The best way I could describe it, would be like having a wound that cannot be hardened by new skin.

So five years later, I am still waiting for that new skin to grow. I am optimistic, and I see my father’s mannerisms growing on me, when I bring napkins to a restaurant or by the way I use my fork. My heart has hardened a bit but the soul remains friendlier than ever – just like the old man.