Death of a Patriarch

On June 10, 1997, my mother returned home from work, discovered that she had forgotten her house keys and rang the doorbell repeatedly. My father, retired for several years, was home but never came to the door that day. Panicky, she ran to a neighbor's house and called my brother, he in turn called me. Both of us assumed that the other had a key to our parent's house; we were both wrong and after several attempts to gain entry, my brother went back to the neighbor's house to call 911.

The fire department arrived on the scene first and used a crowbar to pry open the locked security screen door; upon entering the house, they found father's naked body lying unconscious on the tiled kitchen floor and radioed for the paramedics. They allowed my brother to enter the house while my mother and I waited outside in the hot sticky heat of a humid Hawaiian evening, our moist hands tightly intertwined. The paramedics were unable to revive father and soon brought out his lifeless body on a wheeled stretcher, draped in a sheet, which went immediately into the waiting ambulance. They turned on their sirens and headed to a nearby hospital as my brother, mother, and I followed behind in one car riding in silence. We would later learn that father had suffered massive heart failure, however, we would never know what caused it; a husband and a father were pronounced dead on arrival.

My parents were married forty years and, for mother, the last three years leading up to father's death had been tumultuous due to his debilitating mental health. But, mother, acting as the dutiful wife believed her prayers and unwavering love would act as the catalyst for father's recovery. I became her confidante as she shared her feelings about his condition and without telling her so, I thought that the day he died would be her salvation; she would be free to live her life independent of his mood swings. I expected mother to move on with her life and begin enjoying the things she often talked about. I did not expect her to feel sad, alone, and confused as she tried to understand her new role as a single woman and widow after four decades of marriage; father's death was not, as I had anticipated, a sense of relief for my mother.

Father's grave lies in a veteran's cemetery in Hawaii surrounded by lush green mountains accented with water falls that gush freely after a heavy rain. Unfortunately, this resting place is only accessible by car and mother, who

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