My First Death

“17!” he yelled.

“17!” he yelled again.

“17, what??” I said

“17…” he closed.

I was 15 when my Pa passed. He had been in bed for hours, rolling around in discomfort and pain, and saying things that made no sense to the common ear.

Earlier that morning, my grandma Baba, had taken Pa to get a routine checkup with his doctor. These routine checkups were pretty regular since Pa was slowly dying of what I called ‘a broken liver’. You see, Pa was an alcoholic most of his life. He drank when he was happy, he drank when he was mad and sad, he drank morning, noon and night, really. For many years leading up to his death, the doctor told Pa that his drinking would have a dramatic impact on his body at a young age if he did not get control of these habits. These were more than habits, though. Alcoholism is a disease. But still, we watched Pa drink at parties and holidays, while watching football games, in the kitchen while making breakfast, and in the garage listening to Patsy Cline.

In the Summer of 2001, Pa was given an ultimatum. His doctor said he needed to either stop drinking and live for a bit…or keep drinking and die soon. Pa’s choice was both. He kept drinking because that was the life he wanted to live, even if it meant he would only last a few more months.

The morning of October 25, 2001, Baba took Pa to what would be his final doctor’s appointment. The doctor gave him 6 months to live, at most, and sent him on his way. I was sick from school that day, and watched the car pull back into the driveway. Baba helped Pa out of the car and as they walked towards the front steps, Pa stopped. In the blink of an eye, he fell on the sidewalk. I ran outside to see if I could help him up, but his weightless body made it impossible.

I would like to point out that the remainder of this story is a little grey, a little patchy. This is when my mind tries to piece together exactly how the rest of that day and night would turn out. The rest of this story is what happened, as best as I can remember.

Pa made it to his recliner in the living room with the help of a family friend, whom we called to come over. Something that I remember most was that Pa was no longer having realistic conversations with us. I couldn’t even tell if he knew who I was anymore. These delusional conversations lasted all afternoon and more and more people stopped by to see Pa throughout the day.

Around sundown we moved Pa to his bed to see if we could better comfort him. His pain and discomfort seemed to worsen, and the delusions were more intense. I laid with Pa. There were times I really, really felt like he was getting better. He would say something to me that just made sense, just like the day’s past. But Pa wasn’t getting better. He was getting worse. I could tell by the sadness on Baba’s face that she knew something that I could not quite grasp. I did not feel the sadness like I was seeing on my family’s faces.

I remember my Aunt Janice laying with us in bed. She spoke so sweetly to Pa. “It’s OK Dave, it’s OK to go now. We Love you very much.” He seemed to hear her, as we watched his body calm down the more she spoke to him.

The night grew darker and darker, and Pa seemed to be getting worse.

“17!” he yelled.

“17?” we asked?

“17!” he yelled again.

“What is 17? What does that mean?” we responded.

It started to get late and I had school the next day. I trusted that my family would lay with Pa and that he would be in good hands until morning. I kissed Pa goodnight, told him I loved him very much, and I snuck off to bed.

“Nicole…honey…wake up.”

I opened my eyes and it was still dark out.

“Honey, Pa passed away.”

My grandfather, David Leroy Troup, passed away that night. He took me under his wing when I was just 3 years old and raised me, with my Baba, until the day he died. Pa taught me to be bold and courageous and to stand up for myself. He taught me to always be myself, because the Self is all I ever really need. Pa loved me more than most. He was my best friend.

It has been 20 years (as of 2021) since my Pa died. I think about him all the time. I see him in my dreams, I think of him when I hear Patsy Cline, and I will never forget the pure and genuine kindness he showed to others. I see this in myself every day. This was his legacy. And this is my first death story.

(You may be wondering what the number 17 was all about. Well, to this day I have no idea. The number 17 has no significant meaning in our family. I like to think that he left us with that mystery on purpose. And now when I see that number, I think of Pa and it brings a smile to my face).