What I Couldn’t Say

I got the call from the hospital at 4:33am

“Is this Michelle Simasko?” he asked

“Yes.”

“I am calling from Beaumont hospital to inform you that Robert Peterson has expired.”

Expired.

The word hung in the air.

Expired. 

“Do you mean that he died?” I asked.

“Yes.”

My dad was 58 years-old and had aggressive early onset Alzheimer’s disease.  He lived only three years after his diagnosis.

I tried to go back to sleep after I hung up the phone.  I was seven months pregnant with my first child.

This was June 24, 1994

His illness was a nightmare.  His body was young and healthy; his brain was falling apart. 

He was an only child.  I am an only child.

His mother, Katy, adored him.

I lay awake until 8am and then called my mother.  She and my dad had been divorced for 19 years.  She came over right away.

I was devastated, but the thing that tore me up the most was that I had to tell my grandma that her son had died.

We were the three musketeers.  We loved each other so fiercely… me, my dad and my grandma.  Telling her that her only child was gone was going to be the worst thing I had ever done.

I begged my mother to do it.  She wouldn’t.

I could not speak the words.  I could not pick up the phone.  She wouldn’t do it.

“Call Margaret,” my mom said.

Margaret was my grandma’s sister.

Margaret was not part of our “team.”  My grandma was often mad a Margaret, she could be selfish.  When my grandma needed help, Margaret was not the one she called first.

But I was so incapable of telling my grandma that it seemed the only way.  I think my mom may have even called Margaret.  I don’t remember doing it myself.

A few years later, my grandma told me that Margaret called her and said nothing more than, “Robert is dead.”

I have carried a tremendous guilt over this for 25 years.

I think about it all the time.

I have three adult children now.  I put myself in my grandmas’ shoes and imagine someone not very close to me calling and telling me that my child is dead.  It utterly breaks my heart.

It’s interesting that there were so many hard things that I could do back then.  I managed my dad’s care, visited him, bought his clothes, took him to doctors, did all of the things he needed me to do.  But in the end, it was one phone call that I just could not do.

I remember at the funeral home, my grandma was brought down the aisle in her wheelchair; it was the first time she had seen my dad in a year.  It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.  A mother, seeing her only child.  Gone.

My grandma and I were always close, and we became even closer after that.  She adored me and I her.  She delighted in my babies.  But she was never the same after losing her son.  She lived for four years after my dad passed away. 

On October 29, 1998, my phone rang at 5:19am

“Is this Michelle Simasko?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Oakwood hospital.  You should come here as soon as possible.  Katherine is not doing well; we don’t think she has much time left.”

My husband and children slept warm in their beds, and I raced out the door.

She died moments before I arrived.

The nurse said, “We tried to intervene, but she kept pushing us away, she said she wanted her son.”

I slowly walked into the room; she looked so peaceful.  I held her hand.

“It’s the end of an era,” I said.  “I will love you forever.”

Kids of divorce have two lives; this side of my life was now completely gone.

It’s 25 years later, and my biggest regret of my life is that I didn’t call her myself when my dad passed away. 

I am asking for her forgiveness now.  She lives in my heart and occupies my dreams. 

Just now, I am feeling the amount of love I had for them, and they had for me.  There was nothing but love between us.  It is the same kind of love I have for my children.  I would never want my children to agonize over one moment, one choice, one thing, when the sum of our relationship is love.

She forgives me.

I forgive myself.