Time does NOT heal all wounds......

Today is October 20. Today is quite possibly, out of the 365 (sometimes 366) days of the year, the one day I dread most. The following is completely true - and way too ironic for it not to be.

October 20, 1994 - my older sister Betty is pregnant with her second child. The labor starts and I am at home, awaiting the arrival of a new niece. Unfortunately, after carrying her daughter full term, Kristen May Nicolato would never breathe one breath of life. She was born, but did not survive. Her stone lies in Hyde Park Rural Cemetery with but one date on it - the day she was born and passed into Heaven. October 20, 1994.

October 20, 1995 - exactly one year later. I was working at the time for Albank in the Poughkeepsie Galleria Mall. I was supposed to have the week off, and my father was heading to Albany to have heart surgery. My boss at the time was a completely emotionless woman and would not allow my vacation time, so my entire family except for me drove up to Albany to bring my father there for his surgery. From what everyone told me on the night before his surgery, he was laughing and joking and in a fantastic mood. Perhaps he knew something we didn't know.

Dad is scheduled for his surgery - but there are major complications. He "threw a clot" on the operating table - a blood clot floated through and basically ended any hope for my father to ever be normal again. It is my understanding that in most instances, this proves immediately fatal, but you had to know how tough my father was. He somehow survived, if you want to call it that.

As the family made our way to Albany to visit, we meet with the doctor, who basically informs us in a voice that sounded like he was giving us his lunch menu that we would have some decisions to make. Dad had suffered severe brain damage, and he would have to have one leg amputated. He would never be "normal" again, but he was fighting - and still alive. We all said our "See you laters" - because I knew what "Goodbye" was going to mean. One by one we all talked to him. I grabbed his hand, and looked down at the table at this man who had been my everything growing up. I swear I felt the tiniest squeeze as I told him I loved him and I kissed his cheek. I waited by the door for my Mother, who finally said "If you can't fight anymore, that's OK - we'll be alright." This was October 20, 1995 - and before we made it home from Albany to Staatsburg, Dad listened to Mom - and finally gave up the fight.

We got home and there were about 8 messages from the hospital on the machine - and when Mom called them, she sat in his chair - Dad's chair - and all I heard as she had the phone to her ear was "He what?" As she hung up the phone, she stared straight ahead and I heard her voice quiver and all she could say was "He's gone."

In that instant, October 20th became the one day on the calendar I would dread for the rest of my time here. I lost a niece that I never had the chance to know, and I lost the man who was there for me for everything - not just sports. I was 25 years old and confused. I had never experienced a loss like that before and I didn't know how to handle it. Needless to say, I didn't handle it well. To this day, I can not hear "Amazing Grace" without crying, because that's what was played at Dad's funeral. I can hear my mother say "I can't do this" as Rob Sweet from Sweet's Funeral Home handed her a folded American Flag - my father's honor for serving in the Air Force.

16 years have passed since Kristen passed - and I wonder what kind of young lady she would have been. I was lucky in that less than a year later, my sister did try again, and my niece Lauren was born. I'd like to think that there is a lot of Kristen in her, but I will never know.

15 years have passed since Dad passed. Emily asks about her "Grandpa Winters" every now and then because his picture is up in my downstairs family room, over a shelf that has a candle, a bottle of his old cologne, and his American Flag tie tack that he wore every day for work. I told Emily that Grandpa Winters got too sick to stay here, and that for him to not feel pain, he had to go to Heaven, and he has to stay there so he doesn't hurt anymore. Unfortunately, I still hurt.

It gets pretty tough to type through eyes that are welled up with tears, but I am not ashamed to cry about it. I do every year. The tattoo of the New York Rangers logo on my left arm is my tribute to him, because we used to watch the games together all the time, and the left arm is closer to my heart.

As I end this entry, this is for you Dad. I love you - I always have, I always will. Thank you for the 25 years I got to spend with you. Someday, we'll have a catch again. I miss you so much.....