In June of 1999, my dad and I went to the car show at the Jacob Javits Center in New York City. My dad was never tired. He could out-walk anyone I knew, he was strong, and he’d worked two full-time jobs, 80-hour weeks, for as long as I’d been his daughter. He’d only just retired in June of 1998.
At the car show, he asked to take a break. Twice. The first time I didn’t think much of it. The second time, I knew something was wrong. I was 23 years old, and the strongest man I’d ever known needed to sit down. It was the first time in my life I’d seen that.
We stayed a little longer to look at some of the new cars, then headed home on the ferry. He went to bed that night. The next day was Father’s Day — we had plans for dinner — but he wasn’t feeling good. He figured it was the flu.
Monday, he went to the doctor. They told him they were calling an ambulance. I was at work when my mom called to tell me what was happening, and I left and went straight to the hospital. No one told us much. Monday came and went. Tuesday came, and he still wasn’t feeling any better.
The Choking
His dinner arrived Tuesday night. My dad never cut his food — he just didn’t — and he started choking on a piece of zucchini. My brother did the Heimlich. Then my dad crashed.
I ran into the hallway yelling. My mom was crying. My brother just stood there. He told me to take Mom home, so I did. Then I went straight back to the hospital, and when I got there, my dad was in surgery.
I asked why. No one — including my brother — had an answer for me. I was angry that a decision like that had been made without my mom or me, since we were the ones who’d always taken care of each other. But it was life or death, and it was the right call. After surgery, he was out of it, and fluid was building around his heart and lungs.
The Phone Call
Wednesday morning, his doctor called the house. I picked up, and my mom picked up too. I stayed on the line, listening.
The doctor told us my dad had stage 4 lung cancer. Maybe two weeks to live.
I lost it. I started yelling — who did he think he was, God? This is how you deliver news like this to my mother, about her husband? I told him he was fired, never to call our house again.
I ran upstairs from the basement, and my mom collapsed. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever heard.
My dad was my best friend. We’d spent that whole year of his retirement together — Pearl River for lotto tickets and beers, the bars or the beach on weekends. It was the best year. And then this.
What He Was Owed
I was furious thinking about everything he’d given up to work that hard for that long. He’d worked two buildings, same union, 32BJ, and still ended up robbed of one full pension. He’d opted into a higher payout instead — and it lasted him two and a half years. That was it. The city won again. My mom was left with just Social Security and her small income.
That day — the day of that phone call — was the last day I ever thought like a kid.