My Father, My Hero

By Stephanie Barish

“Daddy had a stroke.”

Those four words—delivered stoically by my sister over the phone—forever changed our lives.

I got her call on a stormy afternoon in Missoula, Montana in 2010. I remember watching the snowflakes fall as a chill set in.

I had just moved 2000 miles from my family in Long Island, New York, after accepting a new job. My father, Joel, had helped me settle in. He was in good spirits and apparently good health. He made sure I had everything I needed—an apartment, furniture, even a washer and dryer.

My father was the type of guy who fought hard for those he cared about and loved even harder—especially when it came to my mom, my sister, and me. He was our “Mr. Fix It” and the best person to ask for advice. When a friend was diagnosed with cancer, he bought her groceries. He advocated for my grandmother while she received end-of-life care and stood by my mom’s side when she was diagnosed with and beat cancer. So when my sister called, I was in disbelief.

“He’ll be OK,” she said. “But you should probably come home immediately.”

It was eerily quiet when I arrived. My sister was sitting in the living room and my mom was sitting opposite her on the loveseat, where my dad usually sat. I could tell this was worse than I expected.

My dad was in intensive care. The doctors had removed part of his skull due to severe brain swelling. They didn’t know if he would live. Tears swelled in my eyes as I grappled with the news.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw next. My dad was unconscious on a ventilator and the right side of his head was partially caved in. “This isn’t the man who drove me to ‘Big Sky Country’ last week,” I thought.

He had suffered an ischemic stroke. His carotid artery, a blood vessel that carries blood from the heart to the brain, was blocked. The entire right side of his brain was dark; the left side of his body was paralyzed.

He emerged from coma after several months. Upon waking, his speech was slurred, his left eye permanently shut, and he was angry and confused. Doctors referred him to a rehabilitation center for people with severe traumatic brain injuries where he received occupational and physical therapy. I watched, teary-eyed, as he relearned simple tasks—combing his hair, brushing his teeth, dressing. Since he couldn’t move his left side, his progress was slow and he got frustrated easily.

The stroke also triggered his left leg to contract, so when they placed a brace on his leg he would cry in pain as he slowly walked, often with the help of multiple aides. It hurt my heart, and I knew that he would probably use a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

My father, an army veteran, was transferred to the Long Island State Veterans Home in Stony Brook. The swelling had reduced, so the doctor could reattach the part of his skull that had been removed. He settled into his new life, but was clearly unhappy. The only thing that made him truly happy was seeing family, and luckily, we were eventually able to bring him home.

We cleared the dining room to make way for his hospital bed. We had the help of nurses’ aides, but my mom, my sister, and I picked up the brunt of the work. We fed, changed, and bathed him. The man known for his independence was dependent on others, but somehow, he stayed strong.

I wanted him to remain that way, so I took time to keep his memory sharp. We read many books and I would test to make sure he was retaining information. We also practiced writing with his right hand, played memory games, and listened to his favorite music—mostly The Duprees “You Belong To Me” and Dion and the Belmonts, “Teenager in Love.”

One afternoon, he asked me if he would be this way forever—never able to walk again, or drive, or complete daily tasks. I froze, afraid to be truthful.

“Dad,” I said. “You’re perfect the way you are, but keep on fighting and you’ll get there. I promise.” I still feel bad for making that broken promise.

He became weaker over the years. Eventually, he asked to return to the Veteran’s Home so he wouldn’t be a burden. He wasn’t, but we obliged. We visited him daily, and he would always perk up and say, “I love my girls.” We loved him, too.

When COVID-19 hit, our visits were ended due to New York state laws. He had a cell phone, so we would call every day, but we were incessantly worried he wasn’t getting proper care. We learned he’d fallen and that he had bedsores. He spent holidays alone. It was an excruciating time for him—and for us.

When we finally saw him again in person, he had grown weaker, lost a lot weight, and complained of being in pain. I comforted him by holding his hand, rubbing his head, telling him jokes, and giving him three kisses on his forehead (like my grandmother used to do to us as kids). Anything to get his mind off the pain. During a candid talk, he told me that he wished to attend the weddings of my sister and me. I told him to stay strong, but knew I would never have that father-daughter dance all brides dream of.

Days later, he slipped into coma again. I visited after my overnight shift at work—and my mom and sister came at other times. Every time the phone rang, my heart sank.

On May 15, 2021, my mother and I visited my dad. It was a hot, sunny day. The kind of weather he always enjoyed—especially since he got sick. He used to run hot, but when he suffered the stroke, he was always cold. Spending time outdoors in the sun with me, my mom, and my sister turned into his favorite pastime.

When my mom and I arrived, my dad was awake, on morphine. His speech was slurred, but I pretended to understand him. I cuddled up next to him, opened a book to read to him, and rubbed his head. When my sister and my dad’s brother arrived, my mom and I headed out.

When we got home, the phone rang—and I knew. My sister said she had her hand on my dad’s chest, and as soon as my mom and I left the room, my dad took his last breath.

We were so tired—ten years of illness was draining on us all. Even so, if I had to do it again to have him here with me, I would. The nightmare of losing my dad became a reality that day. Now, the four words that run through my mind over and over are, “I love my girls.” And I love you, too dad—to infinity and beyond. Always

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This article originally appeared in Volume 16, Issue 3 of THE Challenge! published in 2022.