It was a Saturday in January when a police officer and Police Chaplain came to tell me my father was dead. I was 23 years old.

Vaughn Hart, 12/20/38-1/24/98. by hartcindy

My best friend, Jen, and I had spent the morning preparing for a much anticipated night out in Lawrence with friends. Our favorite band was playing that night at the Jazzhaus and we had looked forward to this night for months. We did some shopping that morning and I purchased a new shirt and jewelry to wear out that night. A shirt I never got to wear and ring that later came to have more sentimental value than the 12 dollars I paid for it.

We were pulling in to Jen’s apartment complex and stopped to pick up her mail at the mailbox. I remember noticing the police car and the two officers coming out of the main office as we passed – and I remember the ever so slight feeling that it was a little odd – that they looked at us passing with a little more attention than they should. But it was a momentary thought that didn’t stick. Those are the last memories I have before my life changed forever.

Walking in to Jen’s apartment – her roommate greeted us in hysterics. The police had been there. They were looking for us. She didn’t know what was wrong. But something was terribly, terribly wrong. With a bit of harshness to get her to breathe and make some sense, I asked her specifically – who are they looking for? For Jen – or for me?

“Cindy.”

That was the first punch in my gut.

I can still feel the numb tingling that came over my body; the autopilot that washes over your physical being in situations of extreme panic and fear. I needed some answers, some preparation for what was going to come in the next few minutes, hours, and years of my life. I instinctively went to Jen’s phone and called my home phone number to check my messages. My mother had left me a message - a routine, checking in on a Saturday message. She was fine. There was nothing unusual with her. There was one ever-so-short, ever so microscopic moment of relief.

Then the second punch in my gut.

The policemen walked in the door while I was one the phone. I kept my back to the door and would not acknowledge their presence until I had listened to all my messages. I needed all the information I could possibly find before turning around and facing them. I was searching and clinging to any nugget of data that could prepare me for what had already started to assault my subconscious. I knew before they told me. But I desperately was hanging on to not knowing.

I’m sure the introductions happened before I turned around. Because after I turned around to face the officers, I spoke the first words:

“Should I be freaking out as bad as I am right now?”

And the Chaplain had the first response:

“Yes ma’am. Yes you should.”

That was the final, debilitating blow to my gut. I crumbled to the floor before he could even get out the words that my father was dead. The rest is all a blur. There was some confusion during the explanations and the sobs. I remember asking if he was really gone or if he was just hurt. I was desperately searching for some hope when there was none. I remember pounding my hands on the floor saying “I can’t deal with this. I won’t be able to deal with this.” I remember apologizing to the Chaplain for the swear words that came out of my mouth. I remember the look on my best friend’s face and the face of the other police officer that had to witness it all. I remember asking the Chaplain if he would pray for me, pray with me. I remember not knowing what I was supposed to do, or think, or even feel.

I was 23, in my last semester of college, and my father was dead. My father; who I was extremely close to and who I had just talked to on the phone the night before.

And no one could tell me why he was dead.

That morning his friends came to get him to go to breakfast. They knocked on the door but he didn’t answer. They looked in the front window and saw him lying on the couch. They banged on the window and yelled and couldn’t get him to wake up. They called the police who broke in the house where they found him unresponsive. He was dead - with no clear reason.

I was three hours away and don’t remember who I was talking to on the phone – I don’t know if it was the police or the funeral home – but I told them I had to have answers. I was told that they don’t typically do an autopsy in these situations. There was no sign of foul play – there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary – except this 59 year-old-man was just dead. I was told they assumed his heart had just stopped. (And by the way, did I know that an autopsy would cost money?)

Really? His heart had just stopped? My world had just crumbled and I could not, and would not, accept assumptions. Assumptions bring no peace, no closure, and no comfort to a 23 year-old who has just lost her father. And I’m calling the shots. My parents had divorced 16 years prior and my older sister lived two states away. So I’m in charge and I tell them to do an autopsy so I can know why my dad is dead.

When the results came back, they showed that several of his coronary arteries were 90 percent blocked – the medical term was atherosclerosis. So yes, in a way, his heart had just stopped. It made sense – but I needed the technical and official diagnosis before I could fully accept it.

As many men from my father’s generation were – my dad was a smoker. He smoked throughout his 20s, 30s and 40s, then quit for seven years, and then when he went through treatment for alcoholism he started smoking again. However, he desperately wanted to quit once more. After trying nicotine gum, patches and everything else for many years – at the time of his death he was in the process of coming off of an anti-depressant to try another that had been shown to help people quit smoking. He was under medical care to make this transition and had just completed a cardiac stress test as part of the process - he passed with flying colors.

There were other warning signs though. He was in the hospital a month before his death for something that they attributed to his withdrawal from the medication. They were doing a slow, medically supervised tapering off of one medication so that he could start taking the other that would hopefully help him quit smoking. The ER doctor originally thought it was transient ischemic attack (TIA), which is a temporary blockage in an artery or a “mini-stroke”. But the tests were inconclusive. That day the doctor pulled me aside and said that because my father didn’t complain of any chest pain they couldn’t test his heart because insurance wouldn’t cover it if he didn’t mention it. He said that if this happened again to tell my father that he should say something about chest pain – even if he didn’t have it – so they could run some tests. The doctor had suspicions. And rightfully so because my dad had some classic risk factors: he was a smoker, he had a small “spare tire” of extra weight around his mid-section, his diet consisted of eating out or high-sodium pre-packaged soups or meals, he didn’t exercise regularly, and his mother had suffered a stroke 20 years earlier. He wanted to make changes and was slowly trying – it just wasn’t soon enough.

So here I am, 13 years later, facing the anniversary of his death. This is the first year that I’ve noticed that February is American Heart Month – and the first time that I’ve actually made the tangible connection to myself and how my life has been touched by heart disease. I guess I didn’t really make the connection to “disease” since my connection was with death. There was nothing that could be done to prevent the pain that I had in my heart from missing him so deeply; or the crushing feeling I have in my chest when I think of my beautiful children never having the chance to know their grandfather, or to hear his bear of a laugh, or to feel his scruffy beard when hugging them close.

But thinking of my kids has made me realize how important it is that I acknowledge this disease and what I can do to prevent it. Five months before my father died my maternal grandmother had a stroke and died. Ten months after my father died, my paternal grandmother who had suffered a stroke and lived with permanent disabilities because of that stroke passed away. So it goes without saying that there’s a bit of a genetic predisposition.

But genetics aside, it’s still preventable. There are risk factors I can do something about and steps I will take to make sure I do everything in my power to live as long and as healthy of a life I can for my kids. By not smoking, exercising regularly, eating fruits and vegetables - and in general taking care of my physical and mental health – hopefully I can protect my heart from this disease. And, in turn, perhaps protect my kid's hearts from breaking as mine did.

Family by hartcindy