My Daddy’s Heart

By Carol D. O’Dell

The italicized portions of this article are excerpts from Mothering Mother by Carol D. O’Dell

“Carol, come to the hospital.”
I knew from Mama’s voice, the exhaustion, and the flat lack of hope, that Daddy had had another heart attack. This was his fourth: the one he had when I was thirteen, and two in the three years I had been married. It happened in the middle of the night. He grabbed Mama’s hand and clutched so tight she thought her bones would break.
I raced to the hospital, hoping and praying I would make it in time. Being newly married and having two young daughters had left me with little time to sit outside on warm summer nights and talk to him the way I had as a child. I wanted to make up for that lost time. I needed a good, long conversation about the stars, sitting next to Daddy, his legs crossed in the too-small lawn chair, both of us falling quiet, thinking.
Mama and I sat with Daddy in the drab hospital room day after day, waiting for the doctors to decide what to do. We knew we didn’t have much longer.
I turned towards Daddy, the mound of his body under the sheet and thin blanket, and I began to doze, dreaming about the times when I was a little girl and my Daddy would come home from work. I’d hide and giggle and wait for him to find me.

The year was 1985. I was 24 years old, newly married with two young daughters. My Daddy’s heart had worried Mama and me for more than ten years. It started with chest pains, and then I watched him gasp for air, stop every few feet and hold onto a chair, or a tree, or the door jamb. Wherever we were, he had to stop. Then came the nitro-glycerin tablets popped in his mouth like Tic Tacs. I worried. My own heart ached for him. He was the strongest, sweetest man in the world to me. But I also witnessed him continue to salt his food, make poor choices of fried and fatty foods, and do little, if any exercise. As much as I loved him and as much as he loved Mama and me, his actions didn’t show it. Habit was stronger than resolution.

“Where’s my little sweety-pie? I know she’s hiding. Could she be under the table? Behind the couch? In the closet?” He started the game even before he got his coat off.
I giggle, giving myself away, and in my dream I am four.
“Is she in the pantry? Is my little sweety-pie behind the door?”
I opened my eyes and looked at Mama. A loose strand of hair fell from her French twist, her teased front collapsing. I noticed the gray hairs in with the red ones, hanging in her eyes. She let them, too tired to care.
“I don’t know why the Lord allows us to be separated from each other in our old age. It seems cruel to spend a whole lifetime together only to be torn apart when we need each other the most. I don’t understand.” She got up and tucked the blanket under his chin, running her fingers through his hair.
“At least I have the assurance we’ll be together again.”

Heart disease continues to ravage our loved ones. We’ve made much medical advancement in 22 years and still, the statistics are staggering. Over 80 milllion Americans have one or more forms of cardiovascular disease (CVD). Eight million will suffer a myocardial infarction (acute heart attack). The good news is that the numbers are dropping due to education and an arsenal of preventative measures. Cholesterol blocking drugs are plentiful. The artery and valve replacement surgery my dad endured followed by many m
onths of recovery is now down to weeks. And yet, one thing remains: personal responsibility.

I drove home sometime after midnight and kissed my daughter’s soft toddler cheeks while they slept. My arms ached to scoop them up and rock them on that black, rainy night. I’d caught only snippets of them these past few weeks. I needed to do mommy things—take them to the park and feel my hand on their backs as I pushed them on the swing. I rubbed their chubby fingers until they stirred and left before I woke them.
I stripped down and crawled into bed beside my husband, Phillip. He held a pillow in his arms where I was supposed to be. I kissed his back and neck until he woke and turned over, whispering inaudible words as he drew me to him. We made love, silent, with our eyes closed. I drifted off to sleep, only to wake to the telephone.
“This is the nurse on sixth tower. Your father’s had another heart attack.”
Phillip drove me to the hospital, our girls asleep in their car seats, their heads drooped to one side. I pulled the visor down and looked at their cherub faces in the mirror.
They probably won’t even remember their Papa.
The world blurred. Every streetlamp, every lighted billboard zoomed by, and I noticed each one as if important.
I prayed for time.

Daddy sat on the side of the bed; his thin hospital gown did little good to cover this massive man. He glanced at me as I entered, then looked down to the floor. His hands, on his knees, braced his body.
The oxygen cord wrapped over Daddy’s ears and into his nostrils, irritating him. He adjusted it again and again. I couldn’t believe that after yet another massive heart attack he could still be sitting up.
Phillip stepped in front of me and held my mother in his arms. I knelt in front of Daddy, afraid to touch him and break the immense concentration he needed to control the pain.
“I want ya’ll… to promise me one thing,” he said with ragged breath. “I want you to promise… me… to be good… and… take care of… each other. Promise.”

Daddy passed away February 10, 1985.

This Father’s Day, make a promise to your family and to yourself. Take responsibility. Go for annual check-ups. Choose lean meats, veggies and fruits. Walk every night. Break a sweat. Go for the 94% fat-free popcorn, pretzels and frozen low-fat yogurt for treats. Start with the simple things. Do it first for yourself. And for those who adore you.

Take it from me--a daughter who misses her Daddy every single day.

Statistics are from http://www.americanheart.org.