by Kathy Panicola

Created on: January 20, 2010   Last Updated: January 21, 2010

It was on a cold winters night that my father left us. In the snap of a finger, in the blink of an eye, gone. I wish I could say he walked out on us, but no such luck. He was gone and he was gone for good. At forty two years old a massive heart attack took him from this world, and from us. I remember that day as if it was yesterday: January 20, 1978.

It wasn't any different then any other day, except for the snow. We had gotten a lot of snow that year. I can still smell the coffee brewing that morning, just as it did every morning. Everyone scampering around getting ready for the day. My father grabbed the broom and started sweeping the snow away from the front door, and my mom telling him not to do it that way. At the time I was only twelve, and I remember thinking, " why is she saying that ?" I didn't know he wasn't suppose to do things like that because of his heart. The rest of the day was like I said no different then any other day, my father went to work, my mom, my sisters and I went about our normal cold, snowy day routine.

My dad had stopped at home for lunch and snowplowed the snow in front of the house. Later he was home for the evening, we ate dinner, watched the news, and out we went to shovel the snow from the drive-way. We were almost done when we were called into the house for hot chocolate. We were in the house for only a moment, when a friend came running in yelling," he's down, he's down." As the others were calling 911, I ran out and found my father down in the drive-way, moaning with his eyes rolled back into his head. A neighbor came and started CPR, than the ambulance came and I was taken back into the house. My aunt and uncle came and we just waited. When the waiting was over, we were told he was gone.

I say I wish he had walked out on us, because if that were the case I would know what kind of man he was. A man without morals, a man who could care less about his family, but no, that's not the case at all. If he had walked out on us there would be hope. Hope that we would see him again, maybe run into him on the street. A chance to look for him in a different town. Anything, the list could go on for ever.

Being twelve and having a father who had died, is one of the worst things that could happen to a kid. Being a ' tween is hard enough, and living the rest of your life without a father makes it even harder. And for me, he died twenty one days after my birthday. I hated being twelve.

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