I still know the timeline by heart.

Monday, September 25th, 10am: Phone rings. “It’s time.” I throw on my blue Calvin’s and a white t-shirt, head down to the hospital.

Tuesday, September 26th: Still waiting. I pass a little time by pre-writing the obituary. The sun is hot in the little sitting room at the end of the hall, and I’m starting to smell funky.

Wednesday, September 27th, 5:40am: Joanie comes down the hall to where I’m napping upright in a chair. “Hurry!”

6:04am: With my hand on his arm, I felt the last frantic surge of blood through my father’s veins. And then… nothing.

6:18am: The on-call is finally located and calls TOD at 6:19, which I knew to be a lie.

His brother Billy tidied the room and collected his things while I went to make calls, file the obit, and sign papers. I drove Billy home, and began the 3-day circus of mourning.

To the garage because I’d fucked up my car. Until a few hours before, it had been my dad’s car.

To the funeral parlor in my boss’s car. More forms. The funeral director – a young woman named Stephanie – cried because I was so young. I just stared at her and asked for Form F13. Who had time to cry?

To the florist to waste money, because it was something one just did.

Finally, around 3pm, a much-needed shower and change of clothes.

6pm: Pick up the advance on the life insurance from my dad’s friend, who had got it from HR at work.

7:30pm: Steve took me out to ChiChis to get me drunk on tequila, hoping I’d sleep. Pfft. Sleep is for sissies!

11:15pm: I put Steve to bed, drunk. I then go out to the living room to start filling out government claim forms and filing death notices.

The funeral was on the 30th. That afternoon I finally slept. Three days later I turned 19.

Sixteen years is a long time, Daddy. I still miss you, though.

The Doctor is OUT