I lost my sweet father while I slept last night.

I haven’t written here about this unfolding family tragedy, but Dad was 86 years old and his health had been declining over the past two years. That’s not unexpected at his age, I know. But his quality of life was awful this past year, and as I was unable to do anything to help his situation, it really did a number on my mental health. I couldn’t bear to see him suffering so needlessly, and I developed some strong and complex feelings, including anger and shame. Not having an outlet for those feelings has really messed me up.

Beginning in November he was in and out of the hospital and a nursing home in a series of chaotic and upsetting episodes. I’m the only member of my family who doesn’t live in their small town in southeast Ohio, and it takes me four hours to get there. Because of that distance and my own health issues, I wasn’t able to be with him as quickly as the rest of my family members were, but I did my best and managed to visit him three times in the past couple of months. I’m grateful that I was able to say my goodbyes to him not once but twice. When he was still able to talk to me, I told him how much I loved him and how I always knew how much he’d loved me. I felt he was the only person in the entire world who loved me unconditionally, accepting me for who I am without judging me for being too sensitive or living a life that’s different from that of the rest of the family. I saw love shining from those squinty brown eyes every time he looked at me. The loss of this man has torn a gaping hole in my heart.

In his last couple weeks, he wasn’t able to communicate more than to squeeze my hand and say “I love you.” He told me he loved me over and over before I left him the last time. As I kissed his forehead and said goodbye again, his last words to me were, “Drive safe. I love you.” I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot and sobbed, knowing I probably wouldn’t be able to see him again. I stopped twice on the Ohio turnpike on my way home so I could ‘talk’ to him and try to feel his presence in my heart.

I’m not a religious person, but I continued to talk to him as I roamed around my house, hoping the universe would somehow let him feel my love from afar. I told him it was okay to let go and be at peace. He’d been suffering so much in the last year that he often pointed skyward and said he was ready to go to Heaven (he was very religious). But since my dad had severe anxiety issues, I worried that when it was almost time for him to go, he was scared and didn’t want to let go yet. I pleaded with a god I don’t believe in to please come and take him and relieve him of his suffering. It’s weird how your brain can both believe and not believe at the same time, especially when you’re afraid.

For the past 20 years, Dad had very bad arthritis in his knees but his anxiety made him too afraid to get cortisone shots or surgery to help him. Instead, he prayed to his god to help him. Unfortunately his god never came through on that. It pains me to know how much he was hurting for so many years. Those knees eventually wouldn’t allow him to walk at all, and when he was unable to stand up anymore, his rapid decline began over the past few months.

My dad and I shared a similar temperament and sense of humor, and nothing made me happier than seeing that we laughed about the same things and could just look at each other across a crowded room and know that we both understood what was so funny, without having to explain it. I felt like there was a cord tethering my heart to his, and even when we didn’t get a chance to talk often, I could feel him.

When I was in college, my dad skipped meals and saved up the lunch money my mom gave him each day, and he’d quietly slip me $50 or $100 when they visited me. He also demonstrated the depth of his love when I bought my first clunker car from an ex-boyfriend the summer before my junior year of college. I had picked up the car and was just starting to drive the 80 miles from Columbus back to my parents’ house, when the car died on the freeway, leaving me stranded on the dark highway with cars whizzing past me. In those days before cell phones existed, I put the hood of the car up and waited for a stranger to help me. Luckily a good samaritan gave me a ride to a grocery store off the nearest exit ramp, where I called my dad from a payphone. He pulled up in front of me less than one hour later, after a drive that should have taken about 90 minutes. This law-abiding man had completely disregarded speed limits to get to me faster. I’ve remembered that night many times through my life.

The graduation photo above shows my dad with his three kids, celebrating all three of us graduating in 1983: me from Ohio State, my 2-years-younger sister from a 2-year technical college, and my 4-years-younger brother graduating from high school. It was a proud day for Dad, and this is one of my most treasured photos. I just wish we’d had digital photography back then so it would be better quality.

Dad was a quiet guy, mostly dominated by a loud family that drowned him out. Whenever he got a chance to slip in a couple sentences, I hung on his every word. In those rare moments when I got him alone, I tried to get him to talk about his life but he just wasn’t able to do it. I know there was a lot of pain in his life, both in his family of origin and our little family. He suffered a great deal of physical and emotional pain over the years, and I always felt helpless as I watched him unable to rise above it.

A few months before he passed, he called me and told me “I’m so proud to be your dad.” And the emphasis in his voice made it clear that he really meant it. He also gave me some special compliments I’ll treasure until my own death.

Even though I knew this day was coming soon, I’ve been numb for the past few weeks. I was feeling like a horrible person because I was somehow able to do normal things like grocery shopping while he lay in an ICU bed dying. But I’ve just read that this is a common way our brains process overwhelming grief, and I’m not a monster after all. So I’m just absorbing the reality of his absence from this earth today and the feelings are coming in waves. I’m in therapy now to help me process my feelings, but I still wanted to write something here to commemorate the life of this good and loving man, and I thank you for reading this.