Updated: Oct. 12, 2020
Originally Published: Sep. 4, 2011
In the year since my father passed away during a family getaway in Cape Cod, my family and I have confronted a series of significant ‘firsts.’ These have included major milestones such as holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries, alongside smaller yet poignant moments, like the first time my mother had to fasten her own dress or the evening I inadvertently dialed my father’s number, only to hear it ringing from my own desk.
Today marks the final ‘first’—the first anniversary of his death.
At times, it feels as if it were only yesterday that I sat beside him on the beach, while in other moments, it seems I’ve lived a lifetime within this past year. A year can feel so brief, yet its individual days stretch on endlessly.
I can vividly recall every aspect of that fateful day: the outfit I wore, the dinner I prepared for my children, the scent of salt and sand still clinging to their hair as I tucked them in, and the text I was about to send when I heard my mother’s panic-stricken scream. The sight of my father lying motionless on the ground remains etched in my memory, as does the moment when I had to choose between being a daughter and being a mother.
My seven-year-old son, Oliver, had heard the frantic calls for 911, the rush of footsteps, and the cries from the next room as we attempted CPR on my dad. His call for me was a primal sound, born from a fear that transcended words.
In that split second, I faced a heart-wrenching decision: should I go to my father or stay with my son? I felt frozen in that space between my childhood and my role as a mother. But I instinctively knew where I needed to be. Some might argue I made the wrong choice, but until you have stood in that doorway, torn between the man who raised you and the child you brought into the world, it’s impossible to understand.
Our instinct as caregivers is to shield our loved ones from unbearable pain, no matter the cost. I could not protect my mother, my brother, or my husband from the grief they had already experienced, but I still had a chance to shield Oliver. I felt an overwhelming urge to comfort him, even if just for a moment longer.
So, I curled up beside him in his bed, the muffled voices of paramedics filtering through the walls, with my arms enveloping my frightened child. I whispered reassurances, telling him everything would be alright. It wasn’t just a promise to Oliver; it was a message to the little girl inside me who once danced on her father’s feet and believed in fairy tales, the girl whose father had always been there to mend her wounds and ease her worries. I held onto that hope as I comforted my son.
Today is merely a day. My sense of loss remains unchanged from yesterday. As the clock strikes midnight, there will be no magical transition that diminishes our grief or fills the void. Nor would I wish for such a thing. Grief does not have a timeline; it is simply a reflection of the depth of our love. It persists because love is eternal.
As my father 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 on together, destined by blood and love to cross and recross one another’s trails.”
Today is just another day. If fortune smiles upon me, tomorrow will bring yet another. Each day offers a new opportunity to love deeply and to cherish every moment. If you embrace that ethos, you will never find yourself regretting a single moment.
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In summary, the journey through grief is a profound testament to love, marked by moments of reflection and resilience. While the loss remains, each day offers new opportunities to connect and cherish.
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