In the year since my father passed away during our family getaway to Cape Cod, we have encountered a multitude of “firsts.” From major occasions like holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries to smaller challenges, such as the first time my mother dressed herself without assistance or the moment I accidentally dialed his phone number and heard it ring from my desk, each experience has been a reminder of his absence.
Today marks the final “first” — the first anniversary of his death.
It feels as though it was just yesterday that I was sitting beside him on the beach, yet simultaneously, it seems like I’ve aged several lifetimes in these 365 days. A year can fly by, but each day drags on painfully.
I can recall every moment from that fateful day: the outfit I wore, the dinner I prepared for my sons, the scent of the ocean clinging to their hair as I tucked them in, the text I was about to send when I heard my mother scream, and the shocking sight of my father lying motionless. It was a moment I never expected to confront, one where I had to choose between being a daughter and a mother.
My seven-year-old son witnessed the chaos: the frantic footsteps rushing up the stairs, the desperate shouts as we attempted CPR, and his own cries for me — a sound filled with an unspeakable fear.
In that split second, I had a critical decision to make: stay and comfort my father or rush to my son. I paused, caught between my childhood memories and the responsibility of motherhood, before instinctively knowing where I needed to be. You might think I chose incorrectly, but unless you’ve stood in that doorway, forced to decide between the man who raised you and the boy you brought into this world, you cannot truly understand.
Our instinct is to shield our loved ones from unbearable sorrow, no matter the cost. I couldn’t protect my mother, my brother, or my husband; they had already witnessed the devastation. But I still had a chance with my son, Jack. I felt an overwhelming need to shield him, if only for a moment longer.
So, I lay beside him, enveloping my terrified child in my arms while the muffled sounds of paramedics echoed in the background. I whispered to him that everything would be alright. I was not lying; deep inside, I still held onto the hope of the little girl who danced on her father’s feet and fell asleep on his chest. I was that little girl who believed in fairy tales and had faith that her father could fix everything. As I whispered reassurances to Jack, I was also comforting the child within me.
Today is just another day. My longing for him remains as profound as it was yesterday. When the clock strikes midnight, there will be no magical resolution to our grief, nor would I desire such a thing. Grief has no expiration date; it is simply a testament to the immense love we share. As my dad wrote to me before I left for college, “We have not reached the end of the line, just the termination of this route. We are all changing trains, still journeying together, bound by blood and love, destined to cross paths again.”
Today is just a day, and if I’m fortunate, tomorrow brings another opportunity to love fiercely. Each moment is a chance to cherish our connections. Embracing this allows us to live without regret, no matter how harrowing the past may be. For more insights on navigating grief and relationships, check out our other blog post here.
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Summary
In reflecting on the past year since losing my father, I navigate the bittersweet landscape of grief as I confront the final “first” anniversary of his passing. The memories and choices made during that time still resonate deeply, reminding me of the enduring nature of love and the importance of cherishing every moment.
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