A Tribute to my Dad
On October 12th, 2023, my dad died. I’ve written that sentence countless times over, desperate to write the tragedy of my own life in a way that feels more comfortable for those who might read this. I’ve come to understand that comfort is rarely found in death. At night, I lie awake thinking about death’s promise — that, at some point or another, it will find us all. No one can outrun something that is guaranteed, though I still wonder why death’s promise takes some before their stories are fully written. I don’t understand why death’s persistence took my father when he was only 42. Maybe my cries weren’t loud enough for God to hear; maybe I didn’t pray hard enough to convince God to let him stay.
My father deserved much more time in this world. Still, he was here, and that matters. Before I tell you how he died, I must first tell you how he lived. This list can’t possibly do him justice, but it’s a start.
His name was Michael. He was deeply loyal and uncommonly kind. He was funny — I miss the way he made me laugh most of all. He cared deeply about others and it didn’t matter if you knew him or not. He offered a helping hand to everyone he could during his time here. He considered himself the biggest Denver Broncos fan. He loved Bob Seger, but really, any classic rock song would do. He believed in hard work. He was a handy man, and I swear he could fix anything with his bare hands. I still picture my father exactly as he was — in a paint-covered white t-shirt, dusty blue jeans, and brown work boots.
He loved being a dad.
I remember when I was about eight years old, I had won first place in my field day’s basketball competition. Before I knew it, he and I were playing basketball every night after school, just because he thought I liked it. Really, I just liked hanging out with him. In middle school, he took me to TP our neighbor’s house. We started an entire prank war with our neighbors. Nearly every Friday night, we would order pepperoni pizza and watch corny ‘80s movies. When it snowed, he would take me and my little brother to go night sledding.
When I made my high school’s volleyball team, he researched everything there was to know about the sport and practiced drills with me after practice. He never once missed a game. At my high school graduation party, while everyone else was partying, the two of us danced to “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay.” When I started college, I was originally attending Metropolitan State University. I was still living at home and my car broke down, so my dad drove me to Denver nearly every day. Before class started, he would take me to an old diner so we could just talk about life.
I wasn’t done being his child, and he wasn’t done being my father. When he died, I just wanted to scream — We had more plans. I wasn’t done. Give him back to me.
It’s been three years since I last saw my father. Sometimes I forget that I will never see him again. I used to tell myself that this was all a bad dream; that once I woke up I would be back in his arms once more. I know better now. I know he’s not coming back, but sometimes I think he’ll hear my cries and come home.
He was supposed to come home.
August 2023. I remember how that August air felt — familiar as ever, but also different, as if the Earth knew something I hadn’t figured out yet. My dad was first admitted to the hospital on August 8th of that year. I had noticed all summer that he was sleeping more than usual, that his eyes carried a hint of yellow that hadn’t been there before. I pushed these concerns to the back of my mind — my dad was strong, even invincible. If I had said something sooner maybe he would still be here today.
September 2023. I remember the first time I visited my father in the ICU. I did not recognize the man laying in the hospital bed before me. My father was strong and tough. This man was not. I looked at my mother’s eyes, searching for even just a glimpse of hope. They looked tired — as if they were preparing to mourn. We went home that night and I asked her if he was going to die. She didn’t have to speak, her eyes told me everything I needed to know.
October 2023. For a fleeting moment, there was hope. My father had been transferred to a new hospital in Denver and was on the waitlist for a liver transplant. By October 9th, we were in hospice. I now understand that hope does not guarantee survival.
On the final day of my father’s life, my mother asked him if there was anything he wished he had done that he didn’t get to do. He responded, “marry you.”
My parents had been together since they were 19. My mom already had a two-year-old little boy when they first started dating. He was not my father’s blood, but he was my father’s son. I was brought into this world when they were 23. Somewhere along the way, they adopted my little brother and eventually gave life to my little sister in 2014. Despite spending 23 years together and having four children, they never actually married.
On what would be his last morning, the two of them got married in that little hospice room. I studied my moms face while the pastor read God’s word. I saw the tears that ran down her face, as if each one fell for its own distinct memory. Suddenly, my mother was no longer a 42 year old woman. She was 19 again, looking into her lover’s eyes. They said their vows, and my dad never spoke again.
That was the last day I ever saw my father. I knew his death drew near, but knowing something doesn’t make it feel real. His body looked like it belonged to an old man. His once calloused and sturdy hands were now fragile. His freckled skin was now yellowed and worn. I looked at him — and while he did not resemble the man I once knew, my daddy was in there somewhere.
I laid over his dying body and screamed. I screamed like there was a monster in my chest and I had to get it out. I needed my father to wake up. I needed him to tell me everything was going to be alright like he had done so many times before. I just needed him.
I’m not sure how I said goodbye. In my mind, I left claw marks on the walls as I was being dragged out the door. But that’s not how it works. Instead, I kissed his forehead and told him I’d see him later.
Flowers and cards were waiting on my desk when I returned home that night. I stared at them numbly before ripping the flowers in half. I shattered the glass vase all over my floor and threw the cards at the wall.
He was gone and I couldn’t save him.
Grief is strange. Sometimes I am certain that it’s the only thing I am made of. I was only 19 when my father died, and I swear I died right there with him — which is to say, I mourn the person I once was, and the person I could have been. Grief is not always sadness; sometimes it’s looking in the mirror and no longer recognizing the person staring back at you. It’s wondering if you would have been softer if you had been dealt kinder cards.
I felt like everything I had ever known was being stripped away from me all at once. I was helpless because life was cruel. I felt fragile despite the constant reminders of my strength. Everyone was telling me how strong I was, as if I were supposed to be grateful for my newfound resilience. I had no choice in being strong, I just had to be.
To carry such a great loss so early in life is to speak a language that no one else quite understands. I don’t know many people my age who have lost a parent, other than my friend Holly, who lost hers around the same time I lost mine. It is a bitter sweet comfort to share the crushing weight of young grief — a feeling I wish was foreign to us both. We all face grief eventually, but it never takes the same shape in two people. Holly’s grief is her own — shaped by memories I never knew. Yet we don’t have to explain the weight of it to each other. We just know what it means to lose our dads.
“I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.”
Grief often disguises itself as anger. I discovered a capacity of rage in myself that I didn’t know existed. The shame of it sits heavy on my chest. I’m angry with the world for moving on, as if my father was never a part of it. I’m angry with the false promises and temporary empathy from people who said they would show up after he died. I’m angry with myself for not realizing he was sick sooner. In the most tucked away corner of my heart, I’m even angry with my dad. I’m angry that he left me.
I am not sure who I have become in my fathers absence, but I do know that all of this grief was once love. Grief may be the only thing I am made of, but grief is also just love in a heavy coat. It’s the price we pay for love, and I would spend lifetimes feeling this grief if it meant I got to be his daughter in every single one. I am made of my fathers love, and I will carry him with me everywhere I go. This will never change.
“I wish time was kind to you.”
My dads clothes remain just as he left them. His hospital bag sits on his dresser, filled with a half-empty toothpaste bottle and expired deodorant. His wallet is still filled with spare change and partially-spent Home Depot cards. His night stand has not been cleared out. His love notes to my mom go untouched. His work boots are still placed by the front door.
In his dresser drawer, I found a journal of things he’d like to do someday. He wrote this list while he was still in the hospital. He wanted to go to Scotland, he wanted to go shark diving, he wanted to see the world. But more than anything, I think my dad wanted to spend another 40 years with my mom. I think he wanted to attend my brother’s wedding this upcoming June, see my little sister graduate elementary school, and walk through my little brother’s art gallery. I think he just wanted to see us grow up. There are still so many things he wanted to do.
How do we make our time on Earth mean something?
My dad never saw the Eiffel Tower at night. He never traveled to see the Great Pyramids of Egypt like he always wanted. He didn’t get to roadtrip across America with my mom like they had planned. There are many things he never got the chance to do. But I think my dad lived more in his 42 years of life than most do in 100 years. Here’s how I measure the meaningfulness of our time in this world — love. My dad touched the lives of many during his short time here. He loved hard and let others love him. When our time comes, we will be remembered for the ways in which we loved.
I’m not sure when death’s promise will decide my time is up. It could be with the next sunrise, or it could wait to find me for another 60 years. Whenever it happens, I’d like to wake up in my childhood room. I hope that I look in the mirror and see my 19-year-old self staring back at me. I hope that my father is waiting in the kitchen, and my mom is dancing with him like they had done so many times before. He’d be wearing his paint-covered white t-shirt and old blue jeans, as if nothing had changed. I want him to see me and not realize how long we’ve been missing each other. Never to be separated again; this is my version of Heaven.
Many years ago, when my dad was alive, I wrote him a letter. The following is just a small excerpt:
All I can say is that I love you. I always will. And I mean that with everything inside of me. There are so many things I got from you and yet there are still so many things to learn from you. I love you forever and always, Dad. When I am at my best, I am my father’s daughter.
Nothing has changed. When I am at my best, I am still my father’s daughter.
I love you more, dad.