Losing My Dad Before I Ever Got To Know Him

In late summer of 2020, COVID was raging, masks were donned, and my husband, girls, and I were packed up and ready to drive, leaving from our home in Las Vegas, Nevada to Yorktown, Virginia. It was also the year we would lose my dad.

The Complex Relationship With My Dad

Growing up in a military family, there were many times when all we had was each other. My parents, two sisters, and I, all packing up our lives every few years and starting anew: new friends, new environment, new country. A chance to start over; be a new version of myself. 

My dad was on the stricter side of parenting, while I was on the deeply sensitive side of my emotions. I craved my father’s approval; I joined the sports, made the friends, did the school clubs, but it never felt like enough. I always felt like the ditsy middle daughter. Misunderstood and brushed off as foolish, when many times my sarcasm was simply missed.

I remember once, after I had served my four years in the Air Force, and while living in Alaska, I landed an exciting position at AT&T Alascom, making good money. Bubbling over with excitement to tell my dad; knowing for sure he’d be proud.

He told me not to forget to pay back my mom- I told him I didn’t owe her anything. He then told me to pay back my older sister- I didn’t owe her anything. It was as though he couldn’t just tell me I’d done well. 

I took a break from my dad. I was mad at myself for caring so much; upset that my own approval wasn’t enough. 

Emotions Were A Sign of Weakness 

Growing up, my dad was shuffled from home to home by his neglectful mother until coming to live with his father around the age of five. Even then, he remained on the outside- shown that life won’t be gentle with you, so you better learn to harden up. 

Knowing that he wouldn’t have the life he wanted if he stayed, he moved out, got married, had two kids, joined the Army (without discussing it with my mom first), and forged his own path.

I think I have seen his eyes well up only twice. Once, when he sat with me on the living room floor, leaning against the backside of the tan, L-shaped couch. He told me about the loss of his older brother, Joe; the brother he looked up to, the brother who had taught him about girls and life. 

The second time I remember seeing my father shed a tear was when I joined the military. It was either pride, or a fear that his emotional dreamer was getting herself into more than he thought she could handle.

Moving Back In With My Parents

After a decline in my mental health in my senior year of college, my parents moved me from my home in Wilmington, NC back a few hours to live at home with them. 

My father told me my choices were to either get a job or join the military: the Air Force, not the Army. So that’s what I did. I joined the Air Force in 2004 and began my own journey of packing up and moving from place to place. 

I think I can count on both hands the number of times I was able to visit with my family since joining the Air Force.

Finally Getting Stationed Near Family

After 16 years of moving where the Air Force told us: Texas, Mississippi, back to Texas, New Mexico, Alaska, North Dakota, and Nevada, we were finally back on the East Coast. 

My older sister and her family would be around four hours South in North Carolina, while my parents and younger sister were a little less than three hours North. 

I looked forward to the girls growing up around their cousins and grandparents; something I never got to do. I looked forward to getting to know my dad as an adult and a parent. Only visiting every other year; sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. 

July 29, 2020: Arriving in Virginia

We finally arrive in Yorktown, Virginia. Upon arrival, we did the responsible thing of waiting the allotted time before visiting with any family, not wanting to expose them to anything we may have come in contact with on the road or in the hotels. 

August 28, 2020: Family Visits, Finally!

And then it was here, the time when my parents and sisters could drive to our house, not fly, but drive. So we got together a few times: playing in our pool, or sitting around a campfire as our dad showed us some new gadget that maps out the stars. 

My First Solo Trip Since Having Kids

When my husband suggested that I go visit my parents- no kids, just them and I, it was hard to imagine being able to do that. Living so far away, for so long, visits were a process- travel, pack, lug children. 

So the fact that I could get in my car, by myself, and drive the three and a half hours to visit my folks for a few days was surreal. 

October 14th, 2020: Parental Retreat

Arriving at my parent’s a day later than I had intended, it was just my mom and I at first. My dad away at dialysis, not getting home until it was dark outside. After a short catch up, my dad requested steak for dinner, so we ordered steaks, baked potatoes, and veggies. 

I’d missed so much, all of the family gatherings, the medical scares, holidays, and just getting to know my parents from the eyes of an adult and mother versus the young and mentally fragile daughter that left home 16 years ago.  

I wish I could remember what we talked about at the dinner table that night. But, it was time to turn in; I knew my dad was tired from his day, so I kissed him goodnight and headed up the stairs.

We would get to the heart-to-hearts tomorrow.

Always Busy With Some Sort of Project

Sitting idle was not something my dad excelled at, and the current project was repainting the garage and installing metal shelving to organize his space. 

Having a strained relationship with sleep, my dad would paint into the night or begin in the wee hours of the morning. 

October 15th, 2020: Morning Chat

The next morning was quiet: sleeping in with no kids waking me up or begging me to make them a snack for the millionth time. I could move at my leisure. 

I joined my mom in her room, sitting in the recliner, planning out our day.

Halloween was quickly approaching, and I was excited to be hosting all of the family: planning games and fun activities for the kids, thus, a Target run would be a must.

We wrapped up our morning meeting and dispersed to get ready. 

October 15th, 2020: The Fall

This is where the day begins to blur and the memories get fuzzy. 

• Was I still upstairs getting dressed? Was I in the kitchen? the living room?
• I know my mom was walking and helping my dad from the laundry room? through the foyer?

She guides him upstairs, gently leading him to the recliner in his bedroom to take some pain medicine, a shower, and a rest. Why did I not help? Did I help?

1:40pm: A Text To My Sisters

“Hi ladies! Dad overdid it trying to paint the garage. His back is hurting; he thinks he’d know if he fell.”

As my dad sat in his tan recliner, I attempted small talk. “Is your back hurting? Are you okay? Do you need me to get you anything?” or some other irrelevant conversation. A conversation I wish I could go back and redo.

While my dad showered upstairs, I headed out to the garage to see if I could see anything amiss. I find the 10ft? green, fiberglass ladder lying closed on the ground, a bag of rolled, red rags squished between the legs. The foot of the ladder, twisted and torn.

After a second shower, lidocaine patch, and medicine, the pain was still too intense. To our surprise, he agreed to an ambulance.

4:18pm: The Ambulance

By the time the paramedics arrived, he was no longer coherent. Unable to answer questions I knew he knew the answers to.

Me: “He is way out of it…asked (his) address; he said May.”

I stood in my parent’s room; my dad in pain on the bed while the EMTs assessed him, and getting nauseous when they would try to move him or sit him up. If I had known that this would be the last time I would see his eyes open; I would’ve made sure to burn every detail into my brain. I would’ve said, “I love you” or asked to hear it from him.

Me: “In the ambulance now.”

The Hospital

We arrived at the hospital, but with COVID, only my mom was able to enter the ER and see if he had arrived. I sat on the metal bench (was it metal?) and waited for my mom to come back out.

My little sister headed our way as soon as the ambulance was called. When she arrived, we both sat together, on the maybe-metal bench.

I can’t recall what we talked about, besides my dad, or how long my mom was in the hospital. I don’t even know if I cried.

My dad would pull through. He took a nasty spill, but they would treat his bumps and bruises, and most likely a concussion, then we would be on our way; maybe he’d have to stay a night or two for observation.

My Invincible Dad

My dad had proven time and again that he was unbreakable.

• He survived a 150ft fall as a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne.

• He fought in the Gulf war: Desert Shield and Desert Storm.

• He was diagnosed and beat both thyroid and prostate cancer.

• He had a quadruple bypass.

• He battled diabetes and was losing most of his vision, not that he’d let anyone know.

The Impact of My Dad’s Fall

We were told my dad had a bleed on the brain, four fractured ribs, and a fractured T4. We were told the body would absorb the excess blood overtime. We were told it “can definitely get better.”

The following days have no concrete beginning or end. My sister and her family drove up from North Carolina, and my dad was transferred to a different hospital.

Due to COVID restrictions, one visitor was allowed for the entire day, so our mom went and sat with my dad, none of us wanting to take that precious time from her.

October 23rd, 2020: 1:33pm

My sister: “No seizures since the 20th; he’s been initiating more breaths on his own.”

We were at the motel near the hospital, waiting for my mom’s visit to end. I remember standing outside the room, surrounded by concrete: the stairs, the railing, the walls, the parking lot. I called my dad’s number and waited for the voicemail to pick up. My mom had been playing my dad’s music while she was there and planned to play him our messages.

I don’t remember everything I said overlooking the parked cars. “Hello father” (what I liked to call him because it sounded sophisticated- and funny). I know I made some one-sided awkward small talk, and then a joke about his brain being smaller than I would have expected with the way he boasts all the time (from a video of his CT? scan). Timing has always been a strong skill of mine.

A Small Reprieve at Home

I had only planned to visit my parents for a few days, so with my dad’s body healing, I headed back to Yorktown to see my husband and girls. Was it the 23rd or the 24th? Was I home for less than a day, a full day?

I remember sitting in my bed. I can see the orientation of my room, I remember leaning up against the wall, my husband sitting next to me, and my older sister? my mom? on the other line.

The details of the conversation are unclear: no brain activity; would never be the same if he survived; they were going to take him off of life support. I can see myself from above, having the conversation: the confusion. I don’t understand; they said he was getting better. He just needed more time to let his brain heal.

I thought this was temporary.

My Dad’s Passion

My dad loved life; he loved traipsing the cobble streets of Germany or exploring the rainforests of Panama. He knew that life didn’t stop and wait for us to catch up. You need to grip it with two hands and hold on for the ride.

He always pushed himself, and us, to do more, learn more, and be more. Perpetual state of personal development, that was his tagline on LinkedIn.

My dad had an unquenched thirst for experiences as well as a desire to be the smartest man in the room.

He showed me that as much as change can be scary, it also is a chance for new explorations, new friendships, and new experiences.

My Dad’s Final Requests

My dad repeatedly expressed that he never wanted to be kept alive by machines, or be a “vegetable.” He wanted to live life, not just exist in it.

With a sharp mind and quick wit, he devoured books, filling the margins with his thoughts.

A life confined wouldn’t feel like living to my dad. He wanted to feel the squish of sand between his toes. He wanted to abruptly pull over on the side of the road to take the perfect shot of sunbeams cascading on a dilapidated silo.

October 26th, 2020: 5:06pm

The hospital allowed my sisters and I to accompany my mom: to be with my dad while he passed.

I can only see momentary flashes: my dad propped up, half-sitting with his eyes closed; the window looking out over something I can no longer see, and the machines beeping as they monitored his vitals.

The machines were a form of torture. Watching his heart rate and oxygen levels for the slightest drop, wondering if this was it. The doctors told us he could hold on for minutes or hours. So we sat. We held his hands, gave him hugs, and told him what an amazing father he was and always will be.

We wanted him to know that we were there, that we loved him, that he didn’t have to leave this world alone. I was so thankful the hospital allowed us to be there, and I was heartbroken thinking of all of the families who weren’t able to be there as a loved one transitioned because of COVID-19.

After hours? a day? of watching machines, my dad was moved to a comfier room; wood panels and cabinets replaced the cold white walls. No machines buzzing and beeping. It was reminiscent of the rooms in a maternity ward (at least the two that I’d been to).

October 27th, 2020: 9pm?

Finally unplugged from all the wires, my dad was able to rest. No beeps, no machines to haunt us. I took a seat on the right side of the bed near my dad, and my mom took the seat on the left. We allowed ourselves to sink into the moment, to breathe a sigh of relief, because we knew he was more at peace.

I can’t even tell you what I was doing. Was I on my phone? Was there a magazine? I can only tell you that it was then, when we all had dropped our guard just a little that we realized he was gone. I don’t even know how we knew. Did his breathing stop? Did he make a noise? But, we knew.

My dad passed a little before nine in the evening. I don’t remember the exact time; I just know that when they pronounced him, I was angry. There wasn’t a rush of doctors or nurses, just a nurse who came in, checked, went back out, returned, and confirmed.

They recorded the present time as the time of his departure, which it wasn’t. How can they get that time wrong? This is my dad, and he passed, and you just round up? How could they not see the importance of knowing the exact time?

And now I can’t remember.

October 27th, 2020 10:59pm

I still remember leaving; I remember my mom standing in the doorway, shutting the heavy door as slow as she could, pausing to take another glance, and going back in for one more goodbye, knowing this would be the last time that she would see him.

And then we left him there.

I remember the sickeningly sweet smell when I kissed him goodbye. It permeated my clothes and I could not escape it, trying to not get sick the whole car ride back to my mom’s house. As soon as we arrived, I made a bee-line for the shower. I tried to wash the smell, my heartache, the images seared into my memory, and the whole experience away. It was too heavy, and I didn’t know how to process it all.

My younger sister and I shared a room that night, tear-soaked pillows and pits in stomachs. The other’s presence comforting, while we both were trapped alone in our grief.

What Losing My Dad Taught Me

It’s now been almost four years since we last said our goodbyes. In the beginning, I was angry. I felt robbed of the time to get to know him, something I had yearned for since I was a child. I was jealous that my sisters got a chance to have the fatherly advice that I so desperately craved. I felt cheated.

I also felt guilt. If I had arrived a day or two earlier when I was supposed to, would my mom have been downstairs in her office instead of upstairs chatting with me? Would she have heard the ladder fall in the garage? Would my dad have even been out in the garage that morning?

But for all the questions that I will never have the answers to, my dad’s death solidified that there is more beyond this flesh of ours.

For most of my life, my conversations with my dad were spoken over the shoulder of my mom or sitting on the other side of the couch. But now, I speak to him daily. I wish him, and God, a good morning as I pass the illuminated cross on the way to work, blowing them a kiss.

My dad constantly sends me signs that he is with us. Whether it’s through numbers, a commercial, TV shows, yoga, or cardinals; I remain in a continuous conversation, closer to my dad than I feel I ever would have been if he were still here.

Though I miss my dad daily; the heartbreak so overwhelming at times that I feel like I can’t breathe; I am thankful for the relationship that we have built. I love you dad.