Every moment counts

In 2002, I met a family who forever changed my life. They had endured one of the hardest trials I could ever imagine. They lost two of their teenage children in a tragic car accident while driving back home together after a family trip.

I attended the funeral and watched as the parents stood up and hand-in-hand went to the front of the church’s congregation to share the sweetest and most tender memories of their children’s lives.

Their overall message? Every moment counts.

They shared intimate details of their lives, about the years of family activities like the water gun fights and the movie nights, blowing out candles on dozens of birthday cakes, and the times they laughed and cried together. They shared about how special the thousands of meals they spent together as a family were. There were so many precious memories. Their strength and their faithful words were forever etched onto my heart and mind on that day.

 I honestly had no idea how their story would have an even greater impact on me only a few years later.

It was my idea to run. It was my idea to pick up the pace.

On a warm Saturday morning in June 2006, I woke up to the sound of a familiar ring tone next to my head, on my bedside table. It was my dad. I heard that ring tone all the time. My Dad and I talked every day.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Dad asked me.

(Yawning) “Hey dad, just getting up. What are you guys up to?” I replied.

“We’re going to the park for a walk. Do you want to come?”

“Umm, ok…” (not as eager-sounded as I would’ve liked).

“C’mon…come with us.”

“Alright- I'll meet you guys there” (trying to sound a little more convincing).

I rolled over and asked BBH if he wanted to come with us. He said he had to run an errand, but would meet up with us after. I reluctantly got out of bed, did a quick stretch, and put on some workout clothes and running shoes.

After a 10-15 minute drive, I had made it to the park. I remember seeing my Dad walking closer to my car, with a big, cheesy grin on his face. Why is he wearing those spandex biking shorts again? I thought to myself. I made a mental note to tell him how “uncool” they were and how we were not biking in the park. We were walking in the park. I rolled my eyes and laughed to myself.

As I got out of the car, dad made a funny comment and we all said “hi” to each other. I was happy to be there with my parents. We were only walking two miles into the park, two miles back. Enough time to chat about the usual: my job, things that were going on in life, and of course, there were always the Dad-jokes.

About a mile in, I suggested that maybe we should jog a little. I smiled at my dad and told him that since he was doing so well lately with his exercise routine, maybe he should take it up a notch and start to jog. I challenged both my parents to jog with me and jokingly said they might not be able to "keep up". I ran a mile and then stopped at the water & rest station. I watched as both my parents slowly jogged closer and closer to me.

My dad was the first one to reach me. He was panting and was sweaty, but laughing. He got a drink of water from the cooler on the table next to the benches as we waited for my mom. Mom arrived soon after and got some water from the same cooler. My dad sat down on the bench opposite from me to rest a little. I stood in front of him as we laughed about something silly. Then, his laugh slowed down. He gave me a strange look, sat up a little straighter, and then fell to the ground. I screamed and dropped next to him, trying to turn him over. My mom turned around and screamed my dad’s name. A few seconds seemed to last an eternity. I started to call 911 while hailing down a cyclist passing by. He ran towards us and immediately started to help my mom while she performed CPR. I tried to calmly tell the 911 dispatcher what happened.

As the dispatcher talked to me, people started to gather around my dad. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt like I was dreaming. I listened intently for the ambulance siren. Where are they? I remember thinking. What if they can’t find us? We’re a couple of miles into the park… I asked and thought to myself. Every moment counts.

Finally the ambulance came. I wasn’t allowed to ride with them, so I watched as they lifted my dad into the ambulance and as my mom jumped in beside them. By this time the crowd had grown and people started to ask me questions about my dad. I couldn’t process what was being said. Finally, someone came up to me and kindly asked me if I was ok. I looked up and as if my trance had broken said: “I don’t know.”  The park ranger gave me a ride back to my car.

The only thing I could think of was: It was my idea to run. It was my idea to pick up the pace.

I rushed to the hospital all the while calling my husband to tell him what happened and where to meet me. When I arrived at the hospital, I somehow found my mom waiting for me near the ER. BBH came into the room soon after. Then, we waited for what seemed like forever.

I’ll never forget the doctor on call who came into that room only a few minutes later. His face was solemn. He said a few things to us, nothing of which I remember. The only thing I did remember were the words: “I’m sorry, he didn’t make it.”

Have you ever felt so hot and then so very, very cold? One second I was sweating and burning up and the next I was cold and shivering. I’ve never felt a sensation like that since that day. My head started to pound and all the voices and noises of a busy ER faded into silence.

I fell silent. I couldn’t feel my hands, I couldn’t feel me feel my feet, I couldn’t feel.

The only thoughts that came into mind were ones of disbelief. I asked the doctor: “What happened?”  He shook his head. Oh my gosh, he doesn’t know, I thought. How does he not know how my dad died?  He tried to explain that a thorough autopsy was the only way to know what exactly happened to my dad.

My confused thoughts were interrupted as someone finally ushered us into an ER room where he was. I looked at him and held my mom’s hand. How could life be so fragile? How could someone pass away so fast? How could I be talking to him one second and in the very next, he collapses and passes away? What if I hadn’t suggested that we run? What if…? Many questions and “what if” scenarios flooded my mind all at once. And a familiar thought I heard several years ago came into my thoughts once again: Every moment counts.  

We went back to my parents’ house to recollect our thoughts and to kind of deal with the shock of everything. As we entered the garage, I saw that the broom Dad had been using was still in the same place where he had left it. “Right before we left for the park he had been sweeping the garage,” my mom said in a numb-like voice .

An unfinished basket of unfolded laundry lay on the living room couch. I folded the rest of the clothes. I calmly walked around the house to see what tasks dad had started and had most likely meant to complete. Dishes, sweeping, laundry- I finished them all. As I obediently placed his clothes in his closet, I dropped to my knees and sobbed. What am I doing? I could smell his familiar cologne on his suit. I could see his old knick-knacks and jewelry on his dresser. I looked up and saw that his wallet was partially open. I saw some wallet-sized pictures of us (his kids), my mom, and my uncle and him when they were younger.

He lived a life full of love and rich with laughter, I thought.

 As I sat in my parents’ closet for a while, I reminisced about a time in college when I sat talking with my dad while eating ice cream. He was giving me a pep talk after what I thought at the time was a real “heartbreak” with a boyfriend who didn’t work out. I remember him saying, “Faye, this too shall pass…” His kind and familiar voice penetrates my thoughts even now.

My Dad was right. Even the hardest trials do eventually pass and as I’ve continued to live on without my dad, there are still so many lessons I’ve learned from the experience.

I've learned to cherish the moments spent with my family and friends and to seek after moments when I can spend time with them.

I've learned to forgive often and to apologize even more often.

I've learned to enjoy the “mundane” moments of life together: the cleaning, the cooking, the child-rearing, the chatting about whatever, or the snuggling with my kids and BBH just a few minutes longer in the mornings.

I’ve learned to find things to laugh about each and every day and then to share our laughter with our loved ones.

I‘ve learned to pay compliments when I think of them, because I never know what impact they could have on my family members or friends.

I’ve learned the importance of unselfishly serving my family and friends with a happy and grateful heart.

I’ve learned to say “I love you” even more.

I’ve learned the importance of striving to make each and every moment of my life count, to live with no regrets, and to push forward with optimism.  

There is not one day that I don’t think about my dad. And even though he is no longer here with me to share another joke or to let me cry on his shoulder, I continue to learn from him every day. Thank you, Dad.

“No pain that we suffer, no trial that we experience is wasted. It ministers to our education, to the development of such qualities as patience, faith, fortitude and humility. All that we suffer and all that we endure, especially when we endure it patiently, builds up our characters, purifies our hearts, expands our souls, and makes us more tender and charitable, more worthy to be called the children of God …" Spencer W. Kimball

(And thank you so much for reading. There is something completely vulnerable about sharing and writing about a trial we've passed through. Although difficult, my hope is that I have helped maybe even one person to persevere through the trial of losing a loved one a little longer and to push forward with a little more faith and optimism).