The Day My Father Died

I embarrassed myself at Oktoberfest in more ways than I can imagine. I don't know if I believe in subconscious pain, but I was balling my eyes out in the middle of a tent. 11 years ago today, my father kicked the bucket in the hospital.
On the 14th of September, my father had his favorite soup: a salty sancocho. I'm probably the only Dominican who can't stomach a sancocho; the memory of what he ate has the made the taste as painful as boxing. My father and I loved boxing, and we were watching the De la Hoya vs. Vargas fight, I was on the phone with my buddy Jan, and then my father fell of his chair, started kicking.
I knew right away it was a stroke, the same thing that had killed his father. I called the ambulance, and carried him down the four flights of stairs. The paramedic thought it was a seizure, but the ambulance driver sped like I cannot imagine. In what felt like seconds, we were at Lincoln Hospital.
I thought he would recover, but he never spoke. However, I always remember how he squeezed my hand, almost as if recognizing my voice, but he never opened his eyes, and the left side of his body was paralyzed. The hardest thing for me, however, was the fact that Lincoln Hospital was right by my high school. Everyday I would stand outside the hospital, finding it too difficult to see him lying lifeless, with drill hole after drill hole in his head.
 My father was a tough Dominican guy, but I still loved him and believe that he had his heart in the right place. Today is a day that I always try to forget, but at the last minute something always reminds me. I try not to keep track of the date; 11 years later, I still feel an emptiness in my heart. Last year I took a CT scan, and there was a large, dark spot. I sometimes feel as if a CT scan of my heart would also show a dark spot, one that is permanent.