My dad had a massive heart attack at work on Friday. Luckily his "work" was to drive a portable MRI machine around to hospitals who don't have their own. A nurse saw him slumped over in his truck and immediately started CPR. They had to shock him 3-4 times before they got any sort of heart beat, but it took 20 minutes to do so. He was flown to a different hospital where they tried a new procedure on him that involves heavy sedation, cooling the body to 33 C, and then re-warming it very slowly. This is practiced a lot overseas and is used to reduce the chance of brain damage.
Today, as they were warming him back up, his blood pressure and heart beat became very irregular. He suffered another heart attack and after receiving 9 more shocks, he was unable to be fully revived. We were told that with all his body had gone through, his value of life would most likely be nothing if he ever were to come to. He had told me so many times that if we let him live that way, he would haunt us, so we decided to let him go. He passed quickly and in his sleep early this morning.
He was such a character and could make instant friends (or enemies…there is a reason I called him Captain Asshole!) with anyone he met. He’s the reason I have such a fucked-up sense of humor, but also the quick temper that caused us to fight like crazy. I’m going to miss debating with him about stories on the news and all of our weird little inside jokes. I would give anything in the world if only I could have just one more hour with him. He could teach me how to flip pancakes bigger than your head (this really was a talent of his and those pancakes were the best in the world) and we'd eat them while watching CSI and singing along with the theme song. That and one last hug.
In the end, he was the bringer of his own downfall; not taking his medication (he’d had 2 previous heart attacks) and refusing to stop smoking. He liked to say that everyone has to die and that he was going to do what he wanted even if it cut the length of his life in half. I know that I should be pissed at him, but I just can’t find it in myself. He was only 56 years old…turning 57 in 2 weeks. It still doesn't seem real to me. He always called us throughout the day and every time the phone rings, I keep thinking he'll be on the other end.
I was looking through an old album for pictures to use during his funeral and I found the one posted here. It's from 1987 and I'm 5 years old. I miss him so much.
TL;DR: I know it’s your life and you‘re free to ruin it, but please think of those who love you first.