It happens in the darkest hour of the night, when I put my tablet aside, and I try to sleep. It starts with a vision, his eyes, once blue and filled with mirth, lively, blue like the ocean, or the sky, now void of color, open and staring at nothing.
It then shifts to overwhelming, suffocating dread. Fear and anger visit too. I am terrified of the ringing telephone, the harbinger of awful things to come. As I lie there, in the dark, I think. I think of the look of surprise on his face when he sat up in his hospital bed, of the pain he must have been enduring. I think of his terror, what must he have been thinking? I worry that he didn't hear me calling his name.
I want him to know he was not alone, I was there. I think of all the things I should have said or done. I think of his red birthday card, propped up by the front door. Why didn't I send it earlier? Why didn't I call? I always called him before his birthday, this time I did not.
No call to say Happy Birthday dad! I love you!
He must have been having severe pain to call an ambulance. But I didn't send the card in time, I didn't make the call.
In the middle of the night I blink furiously, trying to keep the tears from escaping. I look at the ceiling, every night, in terror and anguish, wishing, just wishing.