When my father died, I felt the white picket fence snap, lodging shards of splintering
wood in my heart. Nobody told me that the fragments would make a permanent home in my
chest, puncturing my lungs and cracking my ribs. When my father died, everybody told me I
would realize that there were certain premonitions that could have warned me about it all.
Nobody told me that apprehension would peel my burning eyes open into the early morning
hours, leaving me feverishly searching for signs that the universe would take away someone else
that I love. When my father died, everybody told me time would heal the wounds that Death
slashed in my bones with its scythe. Nobody told me that the abrasions would sever my insides
and creep their way to my heart, kindling a lasting fear that I’d die from a heart attack, too. When
my father died, everybody told me it was okay to cry and it was okay to feel what I felt. Nobody
told me those feelings would entail fear that throttles my throat and anxiety that steals my breath
on a daily basis. Nobody told me I would sob sporadically, feel alone in a room full of people,
and feel utterly empty more often than not. Nobody told me I would lose myself in the grieving
process.
Nobody prepared me for the realization that my father would never walk me down the
aisle or have a father-daughter dance with me. Nobody prepared me for the jolt that rattles my
heart every time I hear my alarm or when the clock chimes 6:44am, because that’s when I awoke
to my mother’s screams. Nobody prepared me for the suffocating anguish, the prying therapists,
the pain in my little sisters’ eyes, or the sight of my father’s body ablaze in the crematory. But
are you ever prepared? Death does not discriminate. It takes anyone at any time, disregarding the
families it destroys. Despite warning signs and medical diagnoses, it is human nature to hope and
pray for the best. You never think Death will bestow its gut-wrenching torment onto you.
Why did I not recognize the signs? Why can I not remember the last thing I said to him?
Why do I still kick myself for not being a better daughter? Whys are all we have. We have
questions, not closure. We have regrets, not reassurance. We have what will never be, not what
will or could be. These unfortunate circumstances are irreversible. Moving on does not feel like a
viable option. But accepting harsh reality, while it is painstakingly excruciating, was the hardest
thing I have ever had to do. No matter how much I beg God, desperately wishing for an
alternative to the horrors of that day, he is gone. He had a fulfilled life with so much more to live
for, like retirement and his daughters’ graduations, and now he has laid down to rest eternally.
I’m telling myself that I have not done anything wrong. I am a grieving daughter, who
has grieving sisters and a grieving mother. I’m telling myself that it is okay that January 9, 2020
is a day that will haunt me forever. That mundane things, like the smell of my father’s cologne,
will forever be harrowing to me. Every single day that I rise from bed, with a heart full of
gratitude and confidence, I have done enough. I continue to pursue my goals and dreams,
because all he’d ever wanted was for me to be happy. I will keep dancing, laughing, and smiling
a jubilant smile that could light up the room just like he did. I will keep loving with all my heart.
I’m telling myself that I have conquered so much and I am still continuing to heal. I’m telling the
world that I am strong. I am resilient. I am a fighter.