I’ve told a lot of stories for this newspaper over the past four years.
I’ve saved this one for last.
***
He always had dreams of moving to India.
After the life he had lived, it was the sort of extraordinary place where he belonged.
For most, a dream like that is simply a dream.
But for him, there was a sort of likelihood that came with it.
One time he backpacked by himself across Europe, from Amsterdam to Crete. Another time he bought a worn down Volkswagen van and drove around three continents, only planning to return home when he ran out of money.
He’s hitchhiked across the United States five times and he spent time during the Vietnam War in Puerto Rico, Japan and the Gulf of Tonkin while in the Navy.
Give him a list of places to see in the world, and I guarantee you he’s seen most, whether it’s the temples of Khajuraho in India, the ruins of Teotihuacan in Mexico or Machu Picchu in Peru.
Simply put, there are dreamers and there are doers. He was both, and a move to a place like India didn’t appear to be all that crazy.
“I was checking out the prices of apartments in Goa and it seemed like a possibility,” he said.
“Now, I can’t leave the East Coast.”
This is the last story I will ever tell for this newspaper. This is the story of my dad.
***
I try to remember July 19, 2009 as best as I can; much of the day has been repressed.
I remember meeting with doctor after doctor, saying goodbye to my dad while he was being carted away in a hospital gown and then being given a beeper from the nurse. We were told to expect two messages: one halfway through the surgery telling us he was OK and another telling us when it was over.
The next eight hours felt like an eternity. I don’t remember how I felt, all I remember is a tidal wave of fear taking over my body.
I try to remember July 19, 2009 as best as I can; it was the day my dad had major open-heart surgery.
I spent three weeks that summer — between my freshman and sophomore year of college — more than 1,000 miles away from home with my dad and sister living in and out of the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio.
See, for as long as I can remember, my dad has never been in the greatest health. By the time I was 11, he had already suffered three heart attacks. During his third heart attack, in December of 2001, he flatlined at one point. Thirty seconds and six defibrillation shocks later, he came back. But he hasn’t been the same since.
He saw doctors and he took medicine, but he progressively got worse.
I try to remember July 19, 2009 as best as I can; it was the day my dad was finally going to get better.
My dad, then-64, was in need of a double heart bypass and a mitrovalve repair. Some surgeons suggested he get a replacement, others recommended a repair. Ours preferred the latter and that’s the route my dad took.
In hindsight, we wish he didn’t.
“I was extremely upset and disappointed,” my dad said. “It caused a lot of anxiety and anger toward the doctors. They said it didn’t matter which way I went. If I would’ve had a replacement, it might have been successful.”
I try to forget July 19, 2009 as best as I can; it was the day things took a turn for the worse.
***
“My heart would not survive a second surgery. It would kill me”
That’s what the doctors told my dad following his procedure.
It’s been nearly three years since he found out that news that his repair was unsuccessful and there was still a dangerously high amount of leakage coming from his heart.
And it’s been two-and-a-half since he found out he would need a heart transplant.
Nowadays, my dad has been instructed he can’t leave the East Coast, needing to stay within a certain distance of the hospital should a heart become available.
This is where it becomes tricky and pretty sickening. Those who want to get better, need a functioning heart. However, the only way to get one is by moving up the list. The only way to move up the list is to get significantly worse. Therefore, the only way to eventually get better is to get sick first.
Dreams of moving to India have since been put on hold, I needed my dad to get sicker for that to happen.
But what my dad is going through now isn’t what is important.
It’s what he’s accomplished in life already that is.
Bear in mind, the man has a lot of faults and he’s far from a perfect role model. When I really need someone to look up to, I turn to my mom, the strongest person I know.
But when it comes to living life, no one tops my dad. For many, having only enough energy to run to the post office and grocery store in an afternoon can be frustrating and a crippling feeling. Not for him.
In one last interview for this newspaper, I called my dad hoping for him to open up about the entire process. I wanted him to admit being scared of saying bye to my sister and I before heading into surgery and I wanted him to admit how frustrating it is being in his current condition.
But he would give me none of that. Instead, he told me he is fine with life as it is now, waiting for the call that a heart might be a plane ride away. Maybe it’ll mean India can eventually become a possibility again. Maybe not.
Regardless, that doesn’t matter. He experienced life while he could.
“Everyday I have a million fabulous memories,” he told me.
And then he started to list them with the same enthusiasm I’ve come to know my entire life listening to him recount his life tales.
His childhood growing up poor in North Philadelphia and the mischief he got into.
His time in the navy, walking the line between — what he called — safety and danger.
His experiences traveling the world and the constant adventures he went on.
His years as a hippie, opening his mind to new things and seeing bizarre places.
His career as a criminal defense attorney in Philadelphia and Miami, living on the edge.
Simply put, the life he’s described to me was the sort of fast-paced ride you only see in movies. I was only a minor character in what seems like an epic tale.
As for the future, he doesn’t think about it.
“It would probably scare the shit out of me if I stopped and thought about it too much,” he admitted to me in a rare candid moment.
Luckily for him, he has a lot of living he’s already done to think about instead.
It scares me to think about what’s in store for my dad, one of my best friends. I’m a lot more concerned about his future than my own. But I know I can sleep safe at night knowing he’s set out to do in life what he always to do.
As for myself, I’ve always feared having a life that pales in comparison. Settling for the first job that comes my way and living the cookie-cutter life that is expected of me.
“If you’ve got the balls to walk the edge, walk it. If you don’t, don’t go near it,” my dad went on to tell me.
I graduate college in a week and then I’m off to California for my dream job. When I called my family to tell them the news, he was the first person I called. I was terrified that I was moving across the country, but I’m excited for what life has for me. I’m on the way to creating my own story.
I may not be hitchhiking through the Middle East or enlisting in the navy, but looking back on my dad’s life, I’ve come to realize the edge doesn’t scare me. It’s never coming close to it that does.
I’m following in his footsteps. I’m taking a step toward the edge and I’m starting to live my life the right way.
***
This is the last story I will ever tell for this newspaper. This is the story of my dad.
But it’s about so much more than just that.
Alex Angert is a senior majoring in journalism and was the Daily Collegian’s sports editor until 6:15 a.m. today. His email is ada147@psu.edu.
