On The 10 Year Anniversary of My Father’s Death

Roy Diaz, my father, with family

Ten years ago, in the dark before dawn, I received a text from my mother that my father had died. I don’t remember the exact time, somewhere around 5:30 AM, as she had texted my brothers and me to let us know he had gone.

I had been fitfully sleeping, knowing that this text was coming at some point in the night, so when my phone went off I wasn’t surprised. I heard it chirp, I rolled over, looked at my phone and just accepted what we knew was coming.

Should I have been there by her side holding vigil? Oddly enough, I have never asked my mother this. All of his sons, our partners, my nieces & nephews, my mother, and various other family had all been there at his side as he said goodbye to each of us, in joking exasperation asking, “is it OK if I go to sleep forever now?”

I had said goodbye and knew I would never see him open his eyes again as he drifted into a morphine dream. I didn’t see the point of sitting there waiting for the inevitable end. Maybe it came from a selfish desire for the last image of my father to be of him sleeping, in seeming comfort as he passed.

I don’t recall asking my mother if she wanted me, us, to stay. Maybe I did, but I don’t think so.

But she stayed by his side until the very end.

The previous August, on his birthday no less, my father had been diagnosed with Mantle Cell Lymphoma (MCL). He has been through ups and downs, having good days and bad days, but we didn’t know that by CHristmas of 2013 that we would be spending our last holiday with him. He had fought the cancer as best that he could, but more often than not the cancer won.

Cancer often wins.

He had gone through various treatments, one that included a spinal infusion that was extremely painful. My father did not like that one, not at all. When he had found out that he would have to go through that treatment again I saw the fight fade from his eyes (detailed here).

Within two weeks he was gone.

For me this loss has never gone away. Sure, in the last decade it has faded, but it has never totally left. It shows up from time to time, often when I least expect it, and then at other times when I expect it to show up, it doesn’t.

Grief is odd that way.

I knew this 10th anniversary was approaching and was mentally preparing myself to experience it, to feel it. Now that it’s here, well, that’s it, it’s just here. It exists. To be honest, I am more affected today by the fact that I drove to Detroit and back last night to see a concert with friends and of course I haven’t had enough sleep.

That doesn’t mean I don’t care about my father, I do, it’s just that grief takes its own path and it decides when to show up and affect you. The choice isn’t yours.

In fact, I am struggling to recall an incident that happened to me in the last couple of months. I remember thinking that my first reaction, one I hadn’t had in many years, was that I wanted to tell my father. Maybe it was something about the Lions, or MSU, or something one of our kids did. At the time I told myself I should write it down so I didn’t forget what it was, but clearly I didn’t. But it was in that moment that I felt that void, when I felt his loss within my chest.

I just wanted to talk to my dad.

It is in these unscheduled, random moments when I think of him and feel that loss.

I miss him. I love him.

And now it’s been 10 years and I think of all of the events he has missed, the graduations, the holidays, just all of those everyday moments that we far too often take for granted until they’re gone.

Perhaps I was thinking something profound would strike me, but I should know better than that at this point. Loss is not profound, it is common, it is ubiquitous, it is mundane.

I just want to be able to talk to my dad.

And that’s it, really. Grief is about the inability to share the boring, everyday, mundane things about life just as much as it is about sharing the highlights and victories.

I seem to be rambling and honestly, I don’t know how to wrap this up. I fired up my computer and just started writing and this is what came out: a jumbled mess of emotion and meandering thoughts.

I will say that I am forever grateful that I was given the honor of writing my father’s obituary:

Mr. Roy Diaz, aged 62, of Rockford, bravely succumbed to his battle against Mantle Cell Lymphoma on Friday, March 21st, 2014, comfortably in his sleep and is now pain free. He is survived by his wife of 42 years, Kathie (Budnick); his sons: Michael (Shalee), Adam, Dominick (Sandra); his sisters: Linda (Morris), Karen (Ronald); his in-laws: mother Lois (Lew), Julie, Mary, Laura, Amy, and Thomas (Brenda); his grandchildren: Adah, Olivia, Daniel, Donte, Dane, Jordan, MaKenlee, Anilee; the daughter he never had, Lindsay Absi; many cousins, dozens of nieces and nephews (most of whom are wonderful), “brothers from other mothers”, Jose (Lynne) Hernandez and Ed (Adele) Zirnis, as well as several other close and dear friends. Roy was preceded in death by his parents, Martin and Elida; father-in-law, Marion Kolenda, and brothers-in-law: Don Budnick, Dan, and John Kolenda. Roy worked as a supervisor for over 30 years at the former Fisher Body Plant of General Motors on 36th Street; his most recent position was as a second-shift supervisor at Jireh Metal Products in Grandville. Roy was a life-long Spartan fan and tragic victim of the Detroit Lions, lived larger than life and had even a bigger heart; he loved so many and was loved by many. Some of his stories tended to be filled with exaggerations, which his family joyfully teased him about; Roy was successful in instilling a strong work ethic into his children as well as his most passionate of lessons: no matter what, family comes first. The Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated Friday at 11 AM at Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Belmont where there will be a visitation one hour prior to the Mass. His ashes will be spread wherever it is legal to do so. The family will receive visitors Thursday, 6-9 PM at the Arsulowicz Brothers East Chapel, 937 Michigan Avenue NE. In his memory please consider a shot of Dewar’s or your favorite libation in his honor.

I love you, dad. So much has happened in the last 10 years that you should have been here to share with us, and yet, it seems like just last night that I was saying goodbye to you.

We love you. We miss you.

Go Green!