I Miss My Daddy- Alicia

Any loss we experience is difficult, but losing a parent or someone we hold in that regard is profound. It shakes our beliefs and rattles us to our core. When a daughter loses her father, she loses so much more. A protector, advisor, sounding board, and best friend. Alicia experience teaches us what fathers truly mean to their daughters

Alicia and her Dad

I lost my dad three years ago. I thought I had prepared myself. I thought I was going to be okay after he died because he was so sick and unhealthy and we had so many “close calls” before. Doctors had told us so many times they didn’t know how long he’d live and there he was weeks later, 1 year, 2 years later. He was a fighter that’s for sure. I learned so much from my own perspective of Anticipatory Grief and grief after death. I knew my dad was going to die. It wasn’t a shock. He was unhealthy most of his life. He was sick and in and out of the hospital for years before he died. He went from working 40+ hours a week for the city driving everywhere to not even being able to walk or live alone. He lived a horrible last year of life suffering. It was unbearable to watch. It broke my heart. He made it very clear that he didn’t want to die and he was scared of dying.

The last time he was in the hospital the social worker told him it was best that he went into hospice but that it wasn’t a death sentence. They would try to help him get out of there and go home. I watched them wheel him off in an ambulance and I knew at that moment he knew he wasn’t leaving. I told him as they wheeled him off “You’re just going there to get better! Don’t worry. I’ll be there when you get there.” He nodded and I knew he was broken. I saw him break in that moment. I got in the car and sobbed. I cried, then cried again and again. I met him at the hospice center. The center was literally everything I had ever prayed for. They were the NICEST people on the planet. They knew what to say, what not to say, they treated him kindly, and with respect. They took him out of his hospital gown and put him in a spiffy-colored shirt with a slit cut out of the back so that he felt good. He was there for 3-4 weeks. Some days were great. He would sit up, talking to all of his visitors, and sometimes I listened to him gasp for air and go a solid minute without breathing. We talked and I listened to him tell me he was scared. I was scared too. I listened to him tell me what he wanted and what he didn’t want. And I had to be completely unselfish and tell him “I’m going to be okay dad. We all are. It’s ok… if you have to go it’s ok. I’ll be ok”. I lied. I wasn’t going to be okay. But I knew what I had to do to

On the 3rd week, they said he could go home! I thought “In true dad fashion, he’s going to leave here and go on with his life.” A piece of me felt really really guilty for thinking “Is it really best for him to leave?” He’s suffering! Do I want him to die?? Absolutely not. But do I want him to continue on in life like this? No!” I just want him to stay here for my selfish reasons. I remember crying on his chest for the first time in YEARS. I told him I loved him and he looked at me and said “Mija, you know who you are. I love you.” Those were his last words to me.

My dad always made us go home at night. I hated it but I think it stressed him out worrying about us while he was there. I went back the next morning to figure out our next action of how to get him home and when I walked in they told us he couldn’t leave. He declined overnight. His lungs filled up fast, and he needed morphine because of the pain. They said he could live hours….or days. But he wasn’t going to wake up from there. I ran to Target, grabbed clothes, and I stayed up all night listening for his last breath. Not know which one it was. It was brutal. I prayed. I cried. I listened. I talked to him… Hoping maybe he’d hear me and wake up? I don’t know what I hoped for at that moment.

I knew I had already prepared myself for this moment. At 6:15 am I held his hand, laid on his chest and my Tia walked through the door; She grabbed his other hand and in that exact moment…. my dad took his last breath. I felt it stop. I felt the breath never start again. I got a nurse and I remember saying… “Um excuse me… I think my dad just died…” And she came in and said, “He’s gone.” I called my brother and said, “He’s gone.” I texted my friends and my family because I couldn’t talk anymore.

He was gone. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t talk. I was simply just there: numb. I kept saying “He’s gone.” The words “He’s gone”, haunt me. But I prepared myself, right? I broke as they carried him out in a body bag zipped up. I couldn’t look. I never did look, but I knew what was happening.

After that, I didn’t know what to do. Do I cry? Am I supposed to act a specific way? How do I tell my kids!? If I’m relieved that he isn’t suffering anymore, am I a horrible person? I didn’t know if I wanted people around. I didn’t know if I wanted calls or texts, or if I just wanted to lay in bed and never get up again. I had two friends that came over and my husband of course and they all sat with me on the couch. If I wanted to cry? Great. If I wanted to laugh? Perfect. Talk? OKAY! Silence? That’s fine too. Want to sleep? Let’s do that. Want to watch a movie? Venture out? Let’s go. It was the support for me. It was the I’ll sit here and stand by you and grieve with you how you want to. My husband never left my side and to this day is very sensitive to the grieving process and helps me in any way possible. I’m sure some people pick one of those things and that’s how they grieve the entire time, But I went through ALL of those things. Literally, all of them.

Then I remembered how I lied to my dad. I wasn’t okay. I had nightmares. I cried. I was depressed and could not get up. Immediately after he died, I asked the nurse to cut his hospital band off so I could take it. I held on to it, physically in my hand, for weeks. I didn’t let go. I showered with it and all. One night I woke up and couldn’t feel it in my hand. I freaked out. I was crying, throwing blankets frantically searching looking for it and finally, we found it. My husband convinced me to put it in my nightstand because if I lost it he didn’t know what I would do. I did. It still sits there today.

What I didn’t know, until I went to a grief counselor, was that I had already begun the grief process years prior. Knowing what was GOING to happen. I was so confused. I was heartbroken that my dad was gone, but I was also so happy that he wasn’t suffering anymore.

I knew grief was different for everyone but I really thought I was prepared for this moment. I had doctors telling me sometimes weekly that he’s going to die. I held those emotions and grief within me for years.

I learned you aren’t ever fully prepared for that moment. Whether it’s your mental state, your feelings or even the people around you. You aren’t ever prepared for what you learn at that moment. I learned that for ME I hate getting flowers for someone dying. Why do you ask? Because they die too and then I’m angry about that. (Then again what else are people supposed to get you? I’m grateful they’re thinking of me too.) I learned that a lot of things people say to you at this moment can work and make you feel better one day and then anger you the next. I learned that you have to let it ride and let the feelings you have be felt.

I learned that questions I never thought of before began to take over my head: Is it better to watch your loved one suffer and say your goodbyes? Is it better for them to go suddenly and you don’t get to say bye but they never suffered and it was quick? What does someone say when someone dies?! This angers me. Nothing anyone said made it better and most everything anyone said made me angry. And I’ve been through this and still don’t know what to say to someone when they are dealing with a death. What do you give someone when someone dies? Who knows… Grief is confusing a lot of the time. I’ve only had to grieve a few people in my life and each and every one was different emotions, thoughts, and feelings. I learned that it’s ok. I learned that it’s okay to be sad when you drive by their old house or when something reminds you of them. It’s ok to be sad on specific dates.

I also learned along the way that it’s also okay to NOT be sad too. I had to be told this though and she was right. It took a while for me to really believe her (I’m still working on that) But she’s right. My dad wouldn’t want me to be sad, ever. In fact, he spoiled me rotten to be sure I was never ever sad. So I know for a fact he wouldn’t want me to be sad if I can help it. Sometimes I can’t help it, but I try.

To me, grief is something you can’t plan for or tackle a certain way. To me, grief is like a wave you have to ride. Sometimes with support and other times by yourself. When others get on that wave to support you it’s your wave, not theirs. This wave will take you through ups and downs. It will make you laugh and will certainly make you cry. It can be a short wave for some or a HUGE wave for others. It’s important that you ride your wave all the way to the shore as fast or as slow as you need. But never fall off and get lost in the water.