Richard Charles Blade 1/1/44 - 1/27/12
Yesterday morning, I was sitting at the ktichen table, working on our taxes - I just put the babies to bed, and Dave was getting ready to go out.My phone rings - it's my mom. I didn't think too much of it, because I just got off the phone with her, telling her how Jonathan started signing yesterday - the word for "more". "Your father fell out at the barn, he still has a pulse, they're working on him now." Relaxed to panic mode in 0.25 seconds. "I'll meet you at the hospital - no, wait, I'll go to the barn first, just in case they are still working on him there." I throw some clothes on, brush my teeth really quick - crying every 30 seconds, and I'm out the door. Dave is calling his parents to watch the kids. I start heading towards the barn, flashing my lights and honking my horn at anyone who is going under 60 mph (mind you, the speed limit is much lower than that). I talk to God. I plead with God. Please, God, please save my dad. Just keep him alive long enough for me to get there. Just let me say goodbye. I knew God couldn't accommodate me, because I felt it in my heart - he was gone. I get to the barn, and the barn folk say they took him to Kent County Hospital. They look at me and say they're sorry. I'm heading to the hospital - long ride on back roads to the hospital. I'm not dumb - I was an ER nurse for years. They don't work on a person at the seen if they are stable. I'm 1 exit away from the hospital and my Mom calls. "Michelle, he's gone. They couldn't save him." No, no, no, no,no - I'll be there in a few seconds. I get to the hospital, park in a handicap spot because I can't think enough to find a legal parking spot, and run in. They direct me to the family room - never a good sign.
I hug my mom and brother. Mom and I head back to see him. The medical examiner didn't see him yet, so they kept all the IVs and intubation tubes in. We walk into the room, and there he is. He's still warm. I adjust his head, and wrap a towel around the intubation tube (they did this for James when he was intubated, and it was a little better). I gave my mom a moment alone, and stood outside the room frantically trying to call my husband, Dave. I go back in - I hold his hand, I touch his head, I kiss his forehead. I pray for him, I tell him I love him, and I've always been daddy's little girl. I apologize for ever making him angry. Dave then walks in and I break down crying. Later on, Dave said he could actually feel my pain before he went into the room - it was that palpable.
I wish they had a grief counselor there - I think the RN was a bit out of her realm. She didn't know when the medical examiner was going to be there, and I asked her to call the priest, and she seemed a bit shocked we would ask that. Once the medical examiner came, and they removed the intubation tube, we all went in. The minister came and she was good - not Catholic, but she gave the last rites. When mom is ready, we leave. I tuck him in, and we go. I'm numb. I alternate between crying and just being comatose. No matter how old you are, you always feel too young to loose a parent.
The rest of the day is spent comforting my mom and brother, going through his safes to get his military paperwork so he can have the veteran's funeral he wanted, scripting his obituary and finding a picture. I'm going to miss him terribly, but I am also scared of the future. The rest of my life is a long time to live without him. My mother has never been alone - she literally went from her father's house to her husband's house. They were married 43 yeas on Wednesday - they were planning on going out to dinner on Friday to celebrate their anniversary.
One of the barn people called. She told us he looked blue when he got out of the car that day - they told him to see a doctor, he said "I've got to feed Misha." He loved that horse more than anything. If he was going to die, I'm glad it was there with the horse. They saw him go down, and they started CPR right away. He wasn't alone (which is what I was afraid of). They did everything they could. It was his time.
It's such a strange feeling to be so helpless. When my mom had cancer, it was a different type of anxiety and fear - but I felt like I had a little control, as to chemo and such. This was so incredibly sudden. It was all over by the time we knew anything was going on. No time for anything.
I love you, Dad. Rest in Peace.
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