The Unraveling

My hero wore no cape, had no fame, although he did have superhuman strength. He wore steel-toed Redwing boots, they were extra wide. He worked on trains, and cut the necks from his T-shirts to fit his misproportioned frame.

His hands, too, defied symmetry,

With fingers like gnarled roots,

Fists like blocks of rough-hewn concrete, and they were calloused like 60-grit sandpaper.

There’s a lot to unpack. The time before my father passed away feels like a different life. I was two weeks from turning 22 when his heart stopped. My childhood had its challenges, but to avoid dwelling on trivial wounds, I'll start with the day I learned about the accident.

August 2006:

It’s a Thursday, and I’m on the early shift. I work as a waiter at Cracker Barrel in Richmond, Kentucky. My cousin Tyler works here too, but he's off today. Thursdays are usually slow, but I don’t worry much about money back then. I like this job; it’s easy. The women do my side work, and sometimes I get them high in return. Mostly, they just do it without asking for anything back. I seemed to have a way of getting people to do things for me. Honestly, I don’t do it on purpose, my dad was the same way.

My manager calls me over. “You have a phone call,” he says.

“Hello?” I ask, a bit puzzled. Who would call me at work? I hear sporadic, quick inhalations, like the caller can't catch their breath. My heart sinks as I hear muffled sobs and screams of terror on the other end.

“J...Jay, it’s Uncle Mike.”

A sense of dread washes over me. My stomach churns, my knees buckle. I think I drop the phone. I don’t remember leaving, but I must have run out because the next thing I remember is calling my boss after the fact. I don’t think I said anything back to the voice on the phone. I could tell, through the cracking attempt at my name, that it was my cousin Tyler.

The next thing I remember is being at the gas station, probably because I was riding around on empty like usual. It’s not that I can’t get gas; I’m just so used to everyone doing things for me that I never pay attention to stuff like that. I still forget to pay bills sometimes. I think I talk to my stepmom at the gas station, and we discuss plane tickets. There isn’t much news yet—just that he’s unconscious and has to be life-flighted to the closest trauma center.

The news of the accident hit me with a brutal force, shattering my world. He was my guide, always ensuring I was prepared for life's challenges. He went above and beyond what a father’s duty is. Just a few weeks earlier, he had helped me move into my new apartment. The irony was cruel and bitter—he had just gotten a new tattoo after 35 years since his last, a tattoo of Jesus nailed to the cross with the word “Savior” beneath the mournful eyes. It felt like a cruel joke, a twisted narrative spun by a merciless deity. Jesus's sad eyes stared back at me, tormenting me with His presence yet offering no miracles for His most devoted follower. I felt abandoned and furious. I hated God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit—where were they when I needed them most?

I arrived home, my new apartment suddenly feeling foreign and empty. The weight of losing him began to sink into my bones, a suffocating anchor that threatened to pull me under and drowned me. He was the strongest person I knew, surviving a heart attack just 13 months before. I half-expected him to pull through, like he always did. There was a cold sensation in my heart, an unsettling feeling churning my insides, the dreadful truth I refused to believe.

Dad was on a bike trip with his friends, riding their motorcycles from Corbin, Kentucky to Sturgis, South Dakota—the mecca for motorcycle enthusiasts. It was bizarre, the strange feeling I had when he left, as if the universe itself was trying to warn me. 2006 was a cold year for everyone, the atmosphere seemed eerily stoic that year. The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, the largest gathering of its kind, became the scene for my personal tragedy. Nickelback played there just two days later, a mockery of my life that was slipping away. Kid Rock had been on stage the night we arrived, a cruel juxtaposition to the somber reality we faced. Two of the bands I despise were relishing in their glory, while I listened to the saddest song ever played for me. The cab driver, oblivious to our pain, had asked if we were there for the show, only to be met with the harsh truth that our visit was anything but leisurely.

Dad and his friends had just finished a long ride and were diving into the festivities when I spoke to him on the morning of the crash. I was eager to tell him about my A in Algebra 2, a subject I had failed twice before. He was proud of me and often spoke highly of me to others, but he never let my ego get too big. He was tough on me about school and my future because he didn’t want me to face failure the hard way. That was the last time I would ever hear his voice or exchange words with him. The reality of that loss still hasn't fully settled. I often find myself wanting to call him to talk about Jennifer or Jaxon, only to be hit with the realization that he's gone.

After our call, I got stoned, as I did every day. Meanwhile, Dad went riding. They had a few Bloody Marys and set out for the Buffalo Chip, a popular spot at the rally. He got his tattoo there, and the last picture taken of him was snapped at that very moment. I kept that picture in my wallet for about ten years until it became so faded his face is barely visible. Now, it sits in my closet, where I see him every morning. His big grin and his thumbs-up sign, saying "I'm good," are the only good mornings I can derive from him now.

According to the local newspapers, Dad and his friend Donnie were heading back on Highway 34 just outside of town. Donnie was in front, and as he slowed to make a left turn, Dad, ever the one to lose focus while driving, crashed into the back of him. He was probably distracted, looking at a paint job on a bike or some big tits bouncing for beads. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. The doctor explained that even at a slower speed, the force could have broken his neck if a helmet had protected his skull. So, I couldn’t blame the helmet or Donnie. I was left listening to doctors talk about survival chances and brain damage, the kind of conversations you see in sad movies where the main character's wife gets cancer. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a nightmare. But it only got worse.

Dad was stronger than anyone, with an unnatural strength for his smaller size. But that strength didn’t protect his vital organs. He fought to keep living for three days after I arrived. On August 6th, as I was dozing off in a half-awake slumber, the alarms and buzzers went off. The doctors rushed in and quickly ushered us out. I have no idea how long it took, or what time it was. The kind and understanding doctor spoke to my stepmother and me. God, that poor doctor. He had one of the most difficult, stressful jobs, and in an area where motorcycle fatalities were common. He was brutally honest, giving no false hope but giving my dad a chance. But I could see it in his eyes. The swelling in Dad’s brain wouldn’t decrease. The progress we thought had been made in the last two days was just his immense strength holding on. There was another man who had been in the waiting room with us for the last few days. We never spoke, but there was a silent understanding that we were in the fight of our lives, watching from the sidelines. We also felt the support of each other through knowing looks and nods at the coffee maker. I found out, by his crys, his young wife was in the room next to my father. The cruelty of motorcycle a crash is profound. The very essence of riding—a symbol of freedom and the exhilarating thrill of the open road—had turned into a trail of death. The wind that once whispered promises of liberation now carried the chilling reminder of mortality. Motorcycle riders live on the edge, where the line between life and death is as thin as the tires that grip the asphalt, and the cold grip of reality is always just a heartbeat away.

Lost in a haze of disbelief, I found myself outside the hospital, smoking a cigarette. A woman, in her self-righteous duty, informed me that it was a smoke-free campus. Her words barely registered as I stared into the nothingness, my eyes glossed over with a thousand-yard stare. My world had transformed into an unrecognizable nightmare. I called my Uncle Tommy, my voice unnaturally calm, the severity of the situation not fully dawning on me. But Uncle Tommy knew. I heard his voice crack, the sorrow piercing through his usual calm demeanor. Probably the first time I had heard that man cry. He called me "honey" like he always did and told me he loved me. The call was longer, but I only remember those words. The rest is a blurred, fragmented memory.

When I returned to my father's bedside, his hands were cold. Yet I clung to the hope that he would still make it, that he would defy the odds once again. Because he always did. But as I watched his heart rate drop, each beat counting down from 75 to 0, the finality hit me. This was no triumphant return from the brink of death. This was the end, the first real tragedy I had ever faced in my 21 years and 351 days on this earth.

The funeral was a gathering like no other. The small town of Corbin had never seen so many people in one place. They came from all over, faces I had only heard about in my father's stories, now standing before me, offering their condolences. It was like meeting characters from a novel I wasn't sure existed. I shook hands for over six hours, my mother finally coaxing me to leave. When I saw the casket being loaded into the hearse, a twisted parade of death, it hit me with devastating clarity. This was real. There would be no miracle, no resurrection. My father wasn't coming back. I tried to fight the truth, but I was overwhelmed by sorrow and consumed by anger. The joy and happiness he brought into my life were buried along with him off State Route 25 in Lilly, Kentucky. The best part of me was lost that day. It’s hard to articulate the feelings I have for my dad. I long to hear his voice again, to feel his bone breaking bear hug that always left me struggling to breathe. We often take those little everyday moments for granted, and it’s a painful reality when we realize just how precious they were. I’m fortunate to have had almost 22 years with the greatest human being I've ever known.

In the days that followed, the world seemed muted and distant. I wandered through the motions of daily life, a ghost. Every corner of my apartment, every item I touched, was a reminder of him. The silence was deafening, the absence of his voice, his laughter, a gaping wound that refused to heal. I missed his rough, graveled hands, his insanely tight grip when he wished me good morning. Those simple, everyday moments now felt like treasures I had taken for granted.

As I grappled with my grief, I found no peace, only anger. I didn’t want to be around anyone but I couldn’t be alone. He had always pushed me to be better, to strive for more, and now, in his absence, I felt a fear. A fear he protected me from.