The call that broke my heart...

Four years ago today I went to work, came home and noticed that I had missed several calls on my cell phone.  Recognizing that they were all (425) area codes,  I felt weak in the knees and sick to my stomach.  I knew something was terribly wrong, and I was too afraid to find out.

I called my husband at work.  "Honey, something is terribly wrong". Then I started to cry.
"Call this number, and call me back right away".  By the time he called me back 5 minutes later, I was shaking and gripped with fear.

"Jodi, sit down, are you sitting? It's your dad...." The rest is a blur. "I'm on my way home". He said.  My husband came home from work to help me prepare for a flight from Washington to Arkansas.  A trip to say goodbye to my daddy.

The year before, Dad had open heart surgery.  I went home to help him so Karen, his wife, could go back to work after his surgery.  Dad and I watched Lucille Ball on TV in the hospital, and Karen and I made a Coconut Cream Pie to welcome him home.  He didn't have much of an appetite, so when he was hungry for his favorite pie, we eagerly made it.  It was Fall, and we laughed a lot while he "bossed" Karen and I around from the porch.  We totally took advantage of the fact he HAD to be still and we could run around on "his" golf cart collecting the Fall decor, and digging through the stuff in "his" garage.  This is a picture from that day.  I know I show it a lot on here, but its my favorite.

The Summer after his surgery I planned a trip back down to Arkansas with the kids.  I had an overwhelming feeling that I HAD to make the trip. There was also a huge family reunion planned for my maternal Aunt and Uncles 50th Anniversary near by, so we were excited to go. As much as I tried to include our entire family on the vacation, Jeff and our oldest son were unable to go.  As it turned out, Dad and Karen marked the dates wrong on their calendar, so when I called from the airport on our way they were (happily) surprised.  Karen had taken the following week off, and so she was unable to spend the daytime with us.  Dad used that time to take us all over the area. He shared stories of his youth and the trouble he and his friends found. At 62,  and retired from the Air Force, Dad lived on the farm where he grew up. Janelle and Jordon thought he was so funny and loved to hear all the stories.   The very last time I saw my dad alive  he was driving down the road  to catch us before we left  the nearby McDonalds to go to the airport.  Jordon had left his baseball cap at their house, and dad didn't want him to forget it.  With our cars stopped side by side on the road, we said "thank you" and "I love you".  I believe there was a part of me that knew I wouldn't see him again, but you never want to believe that feeling.

my niece Jessica, nephew Jeremy, Jordon, me, dad, Janelle
(My sister was taking the picture)
August 2007

I talked to my dad for the last time about 2 weeks before he had the catastrophic stroke.
It was easy for us to talk hours without effort.  I remember him saying he felt better than he had in several years.  "I have a new lease on life" he said.  He and Karen had just returned from a long desired camping trip to the Smokey Mountains. He had finally felt well enough to have a huge garden, catch up on home maintenance and take a vacation.

But on that bright, sunny, crisp Fall morning in 2007 my dad would get up like any other day and have coffee with Karen, take a shower, and give Karen a kiss goodbye as she left for work.  Sometime that morning he got a debilitating headache.  He called Karen and told her it was the worst pain he ever had.  She left work right away. He managed to call 911.  As she arrived home the paramedics were loading him into the ambulance.  By then, he had lost all use of his body. He could not speak, but he was able lock eyes with Karen. I cannot imagine her pain as she watched her husband of nearly 21 years fade away. He died on the way to the hospital, but was resuscitated.  He would never regain consciousness.

As I packed my suitcase, I didn't know what to pack. Do I pack for a funeral or will he survive? I felt guilty thinking I might need something to wear to a funeral. My head was spinning, my eyes hurt, my heart hurt worse. Jeff made flight arrangements for my sister and I.  She lives in Arizona, and I had to call her to tell her.  My heart hurt for her too.

Whidbey Island is over 2 hours from the Seattle airport. I had to arrive 2 hours early. I only remember parts, like sitting between two men on the red eye flight to Dallas. Wanting desperately to sleep, but when I dozed I would awaken with the realization it was not a dream. Nearly 12 hours after leaving my house,  I reached the Fayettville Airport.  I learned dad was on life support and wasn't coming back to us.

When I saw my dad in the hospital, I knew that his spirit was in heaven.  I held his hand, trying to memorize every crease. All the while, I knew that Jesus was holding mine. Amongst the grief, I felt His peace.  With the rhythm of the ventilator in the background, my mind drifted off to moments in my life and how those hands helped me grow. They taught me how to put a worm on my fishing line, tickled my back as a little girl, disciplined me when I misbehaved, and hugged me when I cried.  His hands showed me how to change a tire and check the oil when I began to drive. They were the hands of a man who could build and fix anything. The hands that taught me how to make the best popcorn EVER.

That afternoon we let him go. The family gathered at the farm and we shared stories. As I stood on the front porch I looked around and felt the cool Fall air on my face, inhaled the familiar smell of the farm, and was flooded with memories...fishing in the ponds, riding horses, milking cows with grampa,  riding in the tractor bucket, finding kittens under the house, huge spiders, snakes, and so much more.


I went inside to the restroom and saw my dads pajamas from the morning before lying on the floor beside his slippers.  I slid my feet into the slippers, smelled his t-shirt,  and I broke down.   I was flooded with the realization he wasn't coming home. For my entire life, the farm was where I could find my grandparents or dad.  I felt the weirdest loneliness I'd ever experienced. It was at that moment I started a new journey...what I call  "My Dirt Road Home".

The farm was the one place that was a constant. From my earliest memories to adulthood it was "home base".  We moved often with the Air Force, so from the moment our tires hit the dirt road to the farm,  I felt a sense of belonging and "going home".  With my dad gone, it left a huge void in my heart. Thankfully, time, love, faith and forgiveness has healed that void, but it has been an emotional journey. I went back for the first time last spring. I feel whole again.

One of the  hardest parts about losing my father is the fear of forgetting our stories. If you'd like to read more,  I shared more about my dad here.

Thank you for reading my stories.

xoxox
Jodi