In the early morning, my mother woke me up. She was distressed.

  “Karen, get up,” my Mom shook me awake. “Your dad pushed the Life Alert button. His chest is hurting.”

  From that point on, my life became a big blur. I remember going into my parents’ bedroom and walking over to my father’s hospital bed. I grabbed his free hand. His other hand was holding his chest, and his face was twisted in pain.

  “Hang in there, Daddy,” I whispered, as I watched my father struggle. I was struggling too, as somehow this event felt different than all the other times.

  My dad had three heart attacks before he turned fifty. By the look of pain on his face, I felt like he might be having another heart attack. I vaguely remember the EMT coming through the front door. I stood by, helplessly, as they worked on my dad.

  All my senses came alive. My entire body felt as if there was fire coursing through the inside of my veins. I tried to shake it off. I hadn’t felt that in a while. I knew God was speaking to me, but guess what I did? Yep, I shut Him all the way down. I didn’t want to hear what He had to say, but in the same breath, I tried to talk to Him. I prayed my dad would be okay.

  My father would have to have surgery. This was a surgery that was recommended before, but he was hesitant because he could go into kidney failure. They were trying to stabilize him so he could be prepared for surgery.

  My mother called and said they were taking dad in for surgery that morning instead of later that day, as was originally discussed. My mom didn’t have her car and was afraid she wouldn’t get to the hospital in time. She didn’t want my father to feel like no one was there. My husband and I quickly got ourselves together and headed to the hospital. What normally takes us about an hour and a half to drive, especially with rush hour traffic, seemed to take us less than an hour. I believe the angels were with us on that day. The roads were unusually clear as we made our way to the hospital. It was as if we were flying there.

  We arrived at the hospital in time to see my dad before surgery. They were rolling him out of his room to go to surgery when Steven and I came running down the hall.

  “Wait, wait,” I called to the attendant wheeling my father out the room. “Hey, Daddy,” I said, standing by his side.

  “Hey, Baby Girl,” my dad said. “You made it. Steven’s here too. They changed the time of the surgery. I’m sure your mother is trying to get here.”

  “I know,” I said. “I talked to her, and she is on her way.”

  The attendant said that he had to get my dad to surgery and couldn’t wait any longer.

  I kissed my father and let him know that I loved him. That would be the last time I heard his voice. My dad came through surgery but remained on a ventilator that didn’t allow him to speak.

  Sitting in the waiting room of Beth Israel Hospital in Newark, NJ for the almost four weeks my dad remained in the hospital, so many emotions were running through my mind. I looked across at my mother, what was she feeling right now, I wondered? My brothers were both talking to their friends who had come to visit. There was so much family around, it was hard to get lost in my thoughts and feelings. Even though my dad lay fighting for his life down the hall, it was hard to process. So many thoughts ran through my mind, but the one I was trying to hold on to the most was hope. We had been here before; my family and me.

  My dad had been hospitalized many times in the past. It almost became like an ebb and flow for us. I’d get a call, either from my mom or Life Alert, that my dad was taken to the hospital. I would make my way to the hospital to see him during his stay. He would smile and tell a joke, and I would leave feeling like everything would be okay. They just had to fix what was wrong, and he would come home.

  This was no different, right? So why were there so many people here? All the other times my dad had been in the hospital, it was usually just my mother there. Sometimes one or two of my aunts would come by, and my brothers and I would stop by at different times.

  I realize the bargaining stage of grief starts long before death even takes place. I promised God that I would do so many things different if he allowed this to pass over us.

  The doctors came and spoke to my mother, my brothers and myself. She explained that the heart surgery had been a success, but my dad’s kidneys weren’t functioning properly. Time would tell.

  That Sunday, I went home to get some things straight at my house. I felt a pulling telling me that I might be gone for a while. Plus, I needed to get away from the whole hospital scene and just think.

  It had been chilly in the hospital, and I was trying to shake off a cold that was trying to attack my body. That night, as I slept, I began to have a dream.

  Dream

  I was staying in what appeared to be a luxury hotel. Everything was decorated in burgundy and gold. The telephone rang in my hotel suite. I picked up the gold telephone. On the other end was my younger brother, Eric.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “Hey, Karen,” Eric said. “Where’s’ Mommy? I need to talk to both of you because I don’t want to have to say this twice.”

  “Hold on, I’ll get her,” I said, as I went to the adjoining door of my suite to get my mother. “Pick up the phone. Eric wants to talk to both of us.”

  “Hey, Eric,” my mother said, picking up the phone in her room.

  “Hey, Mommy,” Eric said. “I just talked to the doctor, and she said Daddy is struggling. His breathing is labored. She said he is suffering.”

  “I don’t want him to suffer,” My mother said through the phone. “I was okay as long as I knew he wasn’t suffering.”

  I remained quiet.

  When I awakened from my dream, my nose was so stuffy, I had to open my mouth to breath. I heard God’s voice gently saying, “this is how he is feeling all the time.” I knew immediately He was speaking of my father. As I struggled to catch my breath, I realized my cell phone was ringing. It was my brother, Eric.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “Hey, Karen,” Eric said. “Hold on. Let me get Mommy on the line. I need to talk to both of you because I don’t want to have to say this twice.”

  I waited while my brother dialed and conferenced my mother in on the call.

  “Hey, Eric,” my mother said, picking up the line.

  “Hey, Mommy,” Eric said. “I just talked to the doctor, and she said Daddy is struggling. His breathing is labored. She said he is suffering.”

  “I don’t want him to suffer,” My mother said through the phone. “I was okay as long as I knew he wasn’t suffering.”

  “Me either,” I found myself saying, as tears streamed down my face.

  I woke my husband and told him we needed to hurry back to New Jersey. My dad passed away that Tuesday on my son, Jovan’s birthday.

  Acknowledging What Is

  After my father passed away, I felt lost. It was as if a piece of my identity was now gone, and my sense of balance was off. When the world sometimes seemed cruel and hard, I could just stop by my parents’ house and visit. My father didn’t have a lot of money and couldn’t give me a lot of material things. What he gave me was much more profound. He gave me a sense of who I was in the world. I was his daughter, and that alone was enough.

  Eventually, I had to go back to work and my life, but it wasn’t easy. I felt so alone. I didn’t feel as if anyone knew or understood the pain I was in.

  One day I was in a staff meeting at work, and two co-workers were arguing about how to fill out a form (oh, the life of human resources). With the rage I was feeling, I saw myself on the verge of flipping over the conference room table. Here I was dealing with the worst pain I had ever experienced, and they were arguing about filling out a form as if it was the most important thing in the world. Thankfully, my girlfriend saw my face and motioned for me to leave the room before I got fired. The sad thing is, I didn’t care if I got fired.

  I was struggling, and I knew it. I just wasn’t sure what to do.

  Dream

  I am heading home. I am driving down the street that I live on. It is usually dark on my street at night, as I live in a rural neighborhood, and there are no street lights. I only pass four houses to get to my house. On this night as I turned the corner, there was a glow down the street near my home. As I got closer to my house, the sky was brightly lit with orange fire. Oh my God, my house was on fire. I stopped the car a little down the road from my house and jumped out. Upon further inspection, I realized it was only my garage that was on fire. The rest of the house was unscathed, which was weird, considering it’s an attached garage. I yelled to make sure my husband wasn’t inside. I called 911 and then called for my husband again.

  When I awakened, God let me know that I was dying inside spiritually. Truth be told, I had been dying a slow spiritual death for some time.

  Most people store everything in one of three places in their homes; the attic, the basement or the garage. We didn’t have a basement, so most things were in the garage.

  I was storing my feelings inside, and they were going to destroy me, which my house represented. I stored a bad divorce. I stored being hurt by people in the church when I needed them to be my spiritual family. I stored fear, unbelief, lack of faith. It was all piled up inside. I stored guilt about taking my kids out of the church because I was mad. I knew I needed help.

  I’ve always had a tendency of trying to be strong. I’m not very good at asking for help, and this was destroying me.

  The next day, I went to see the EAP department at my job. Since we worked together, the doctor would let me come down and vent whenever I needed to. After a few venting sessions, he recommended I go to grief counseling. Who me? I had a handle on my grief, didn’t I?

  I made an appointment with Dr. V, after going through the recommendations.

  Dr. V. had just lost her mother a couple of years earlier. God knows just what we need. I had an awkward experience in the past with a counselor, so my guard was up big time.

  Dr. V. was so matter of fact. There was something in the way she looked at me. I sat playing with the strap on my purse, then the pillow on the couch and back to the strap on my purse. Surely, I was struggling. My emotions were bubbling over and were going to shoot out like hot lava any minute and burn everything in its path.

  “How can I help you?” Dr. V. asked peacefully.

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “All I know is I just don’t care anymore. Nothing matters and I know that’s a dangerous place to be. I’m afraid to make a move because it will probably be the wrong one. I just don’t care anymore. I’m afraid to feel anymore.” I said all that in one breath.

  All I needed was permission to break down. I hoped she knew what she was asking for.

  “Who told you that you had to be strong?” Dr. V. asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Me. Nobody. Everybody.”

  I explained to her that I was afraid to feel what I felt, because I was afraid that I wouldn’t come back. I thought I might lose my mind. I had heard of others who had been hurt so bad, they had a nervous breakdown. I used to think that was crazy. Now, here I realized this was a very real possibility.

  Acknowledging What Is

  One day I was at home mindlessly watching television. Out of nowhere, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The enormity of my new normal became too much.

  I grabbed my car keys and left the house, without my shoes. I jumped in the car, without a clue where I was going. I just needed to get away. I didn’t even tell my husband I was leaving. I needed to breathe. I drove to my father’s favorite spot near my house to fish. I pulled between the two houses that faced the lake. I cried until I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest.

  Dream

  I’m in Beth Israel Hospital. As I’m walking down the same hallway that I walked down the last two weeks of my father’s life. I hear these alarms. I turn and run towards the sound of the alarm. As I turn the corner, I see my father laying on the floor. My heart tells me it’s my father, but the man on the floor doesn’t look exactly like my father. I run to him and fall on my knees. I lift his head and placed it on my lap. As I am holding and comforting him, I realize this is a younger version of my dad. I can hear my brothers and my mother somewhere off in the distance in the hospital, but they don’t know where I am. I scream for them so they can come to help me. As I am screaming, my father is trying to say something to me. I abruptly stop yelling and listen. I look down at this younger version of my father as he tries to speak. I strain to listen because his breathing is labored. With tears streaming down his face, he whispers, “I’m sorry.” At this point, I start crying too. “What are you sorry for?” I ask. “It’s not your fault that you died.”

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t take better care of myself,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” I said, as I wiped his tears and mine. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.” I continue to rub his head as he drifts back off. When I look back down, my dad looks like my dad, at his present age. I start yelling for my family again.

  This helped me deal with the stage of grief where I was stuck – Anger. How do you admit that you are angry at someone who has died? It seems cold and selfish. Whether I said it aloud or not, that’s exactly where my feet were firmly planted. Even though I hadn’t allowed myself to consciously think about some of the ways my dad had contributed to his early demise (yes, 70 is young), sub-consciously, it was tearing me up inside.

  After that dream, I allowed myself to think about those times that we begged my dad to stop smoking and drinking. He had a weak heart, and these things did not help his condition.

  He did eventually give those things up. It’s amazing what one will do for grandchildren. My dad always said there was something special about grandchildren. To see your children’s children was a blessing. I believe he wanted to be here to see them grow, and he was. None were born after he passed. He got to see all fourteen of them and their different personalities.

  My dream helped me to process what I wouldn’t allow myself to think. I was angry that my dad was no longer here. When I would see my uncles or my friends complain about their dads, something would stir in me that I didn’t understand. Why did my dad have to go? He was such a good and loving person. I will shamelessly admit I could have thought of several people who weren’t adding value to the world (my anger was very angry). Why were they still here and he was not? It is amazing to me when we are hurting, how hurtful we can be towards others.

  My anger was lashing out at everybody else, except for my dad. I wish he had taken better care of himself when he was younger, knowing that he had a bad heart. But I am thankful to have had him in my life for those forty-five years.

  I stopped focusing on what I lost and became grateful. I’m grateful that I had a dad who loved and adored me. I’m thankful that I had a dad who was there for me and showed me consistency in taking care of a family. My dad loved me unconditionally. I didn’t have to do or be anything else but his daughter.

  The Interruption of Everything

  I remember at my father’s funeral, I was so overcome with hurt and grief, I didn’t think I would get through the service. As I began to pray for strength, I found myself praying from the deepest place in my soul (Romans 8:26). It had been a long time since I shared that kind of intimacy with God.

  While it helped me get through, I was still determined to keep things casual with God. But it is hard to share that level of intimacy and then try to keep things casual. It’s not like I hadn’t prayed over the years.

  “God, give me strength.”

  “God, bless me with this job.”

  “God, keep my children.”

  “God, help me do better.”

  “God, help me with my temper.”

  “God, thank you for waking me up this morning.”

  “God, thank you for your protection.”

  I mean, I was taught to be respectful and have reverence for God. But to come to know God in an intimate and deep way, it was necessary for me to go through everything I had been through to help others. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. II Corinthians 1:4 (NLT)

  Dream

  I was waiting on the corner for a New Jersey Transit bus (this is where I worked). Suddenly the city streets looked like a forest. I could see the buses, but none of them were stopping where I was standing. I kept running through the forest trying to catch the bus, but they kept moving every time I got close. When I finally got on a bus, I looked out the window. The bus was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t recognize the area where the bus was traveling. I was lost.

  I wouldn’t totally understand what this dream meant until some years later. I was trying to move up in my company. I had already received one promotion, and after this, I received another. Yet, I was miserable.

  A few key incidents stand out while I was working that let me know there was a shift coming in my life.

  I had an applicant who came to see me for a job. The interview had gone well, and I was set to offer her the position. As I went over the next steps in the hiring process, I looked up, she was crying. Needless to say, I was thrown.

  I asked her what was wrong. She explained that she didn’t have the finances to complete the next steps in the process. She went on to explain that her father had recently passed away and he was a great support to her. She felt like every time she was going to get ahead she got knocked back down. She had just used her last unemployment extension.

  Normally, I would remain professional and recite the company script. I would have normally told her to contact me when she was able to continue in the hiring process.

  But my skin was feeling prickly, and my insides felt like they were electric. There had been a shift in my heart. I felt the familiar sensations I did when I had that dream at sixteen. I could feel her heart. So, I didn’t recite the company script.