My First Father’s Day Without My Dad

June 20, 2021

I’m sitting on my balcony in Boulder, CO right now, looking out at the majestic mountains that tower over our home. It’s warm here, there are people laughing by the pool, a few dragonflies are zooming around the courtyard. The grass is a deep emerald green and the clouds are thin wisps that barely tickle the mountain tops. My dad passed away before we had decided to move here. I was never able to share this incredible view with him.  

Exactly one year ago today, he was at home, in bed, three days after he had tested positive for Covid-19. He was tired but otherwise in good spirits. We joked over text about how his diagnosis would probably help him lose some weight. Definitely not the safest fad diet. I showed him the photo I had posted for Father’s Day. It had the caption “Love you to the moon and back.” Simple. Easy. 

This Father’s Day, nothing feels simple or easy anymore. 

I know there are many people on the same exact boat. Watching as friends post photos of  all kinds of Father’s Day celebrations. You scroll past all the smiling faces, the hugs, barbecues, dinners, sporting events, etc. All the while, the tears just won’t stop. And yet you continue scrolling and scrolling until you feel like you can’t breathe. And suddenly you come across a different kind of post. Maybe it’s a quote about grief. Maybe it’s an old faded photo of a friend’s dad captioned with memories and broken heart emojis. Whatever it is, you suddenly don’t feel so alone anymore. You feel understood. You feel heard.  

That’s why, on a bright and sunny Sunday, I’ve decided to write this post. So that maybe I can help someone feel a little less alone on a day where you probably feel like the odd man out. I won’t assume to know your grief. But I can tell you about mine.

I used to talk to my dad every single day. Sometimes, multiple times a day. I don’t even know how we still found things to talk about. I told him everything even when there was nothing to say. I told him about the little birds I’d see on my way to the train. About the chapter I just read in the book I was currently obsessing over. About the mean girls at work. About my friends, my upcoming trips, the weather, my mom’s crazy antics.  I would call him every time I would be walking somewhere, or jogging somewhere, or driving somewhere. So when he became too tired and sick to talk on the phone, I felt incredibly lonely. As if I were missing a limb that I hadn’t even realized how much I relied on. 

And when he was about to be put on a ventilator, I knew that it was the last time I’d ever speak to him. I just knew. I asked if I could call him, but he was too weak to even hold up the phone. Instead I sent him long, exhaustive paragraphs about how he would be totally fine, about how the ventilator would help his lungs rest and heal, and about how I would visit as soon as he was back home. Somehow, I knew it was all a lie. But what else was I supposed to say? I doubt he even had the strength to read them fully. But then I sent him one last photo. Just of Adrien and I blowing him a kiss. He responded “I love you” followed by “I’m so afraid”. My response of “I love you dad” remained forever unread. 

I had 35 days to prepare myself. I knew what was coming. For 35 days I clutched my phone tightly. I took it into the shower with me. I slept with it two inches from my face. Just in case there was any news. For 35 days, I was at the mercy of his doctors and nurses. If we were lucky, we’d get one update a day. For 35 days I was the most anxious I had every been. I lived in this strange fog of fear and sadness. For 35 days I started to wonder what my life would be without him. Trying to strengthen my heart for what it might have to endure.

For 35 days, I meditated. I’d imagine myself walking into his hospital room and up to his bed. I’d focus all my energy into a ball of light and then slowly move it down his body, envisioning it healing him. I would imagine it clearing his lungs and repairing the scar tissue. Then I would spend about five minutes breathing for him. Inhaling strength and exhaling the sickness. I didn’t miss a single day. It helped me feel like I had some semblance of control. I didn’t feel as useless. But I knew it was in vain.

On the 35th day, they finally allowed his girlfriend to visit him for the first time. She FaceTimed me from the room. He had been sedated for all those weeks and I knew the chances of him hearing us was pretty low. Still, I spoke to him. I told him that it would be ok, and that I wouldn’t be mad at him if he gave up his fight. He had fought long and hard enough. I knew he was in pain, probably trapped in his own head. I told him I would be happy if he could just be at peace. I cried as I tried to memorize all his little features. We hung up and his girlfriend stayed with him for hours. I would later find out that she had told him the same thing. That it was ok to let go.

One hour after she left his room, I got the call.

I saw her name pop up on my phone. I held my breath as I answered and heard the words I had imagined a thousand times over the last few days. It didn’t feel real, although I knew it was. I couldn’t feel much of anything. I was too busy trying to comfort his girlfriend, my brother, my sister, and my mom. After all, I had already grieved my dad for 35 days…

I lived in a numb lightheaded daze for the next few days. I felt like I had lost an essential piece of me. A part of my soul was missing. The part of me that made me…me.

And then I was on a flight to Miami. The funeral passed by in a blur. Everyone wore masks. No one hugged or comforted one another. It smelled like hand sanitizer. Covid had robbed us of the most amazing, selfless, sweetest man I had ever known. And now it was robbing us of grieving and comforting one another. I didn’t look when they opened the casket. I didn’t want to remember him like that. 

I blasted Andrea Bocelli in the car as we followed the hearse to the burial. My dad would have had it no other way. I sobbed/laughed the whole way there. 

It wasn’t until a few months later that my new reality really even sunk in. 

I keep tricking myself into believing that I’ll be totally fine on holidays. I do an exceptionally good job of ignoring and suppressing my emotions when it comes to my dad. I talk about him nonchalantly. I laugh at all the memories. I smile when I think of him. But I never allow myself to think too deeply, or for too long. While my brother and sister begin dreading the holidays weeks ahead of time, I don’t even bat an eye. Thanksgiving, Christmas, his birthday, my birthday, Father’s Day? No problem. I am strong and I am healed and it will just be like any other day. 

And then those days unfold like clockwork. This Father’s Day was absolutely no different:

I wake up.
Am I good? Any weird sudden heartache? Nope. Awesome, I am invincible! This will be easy.
I get out of bed and suddenly there’s a bit of heaviness in my chest.
It must just be that I’m still tired. 
I go to the bathroom, make breakfast, sit on the couch.
Easy peasy.
I take out my phone and head to instagram.
Wow that’s a lot of Father’s Day photos. Maybe I shouldn’t look at social media today. 
Adrien comes out of the bedroom. It’s a gorgeous and sunny day so I ask if he’d like to go on a bike ride. But he is already deep in his grief from losing his father too a few years back. He gently declines my offer and says he’d rather just watch golf and relax today.
No problem.
After a while, he ends up napping on the couch. And I’m left alone. 
Maybe I should post a photo of my dad as a tribute! I’ll make it quick… But which photo do I post? Oh, now I have to go through all these photos of him to find a good one. Ok, easy. Oh, here’s a video of him. Maybe I’ll just watch it. Oh, wow that was harder than I thought. Ok now I’ve found a photo. Now I have to write a caption… “Miss you dad…”

And suddenly ALL the feelings that I’ve repressed for months come flooding back in.

I spent today in a haze, rotating between napping, crying, and eating my feelings. I spent way too much time on social media and on facebook grief groups. I felt like my sadness was swallowing me whole. I watched videos of him and listened to his voice. I sat outside and tried to imagine what we would do if he could visit me here. It was too painful; I pushed the thoughts away. I ordered some pizza. I took another nap. I cried some more. It was the worst day I’ve had since his death.

What I would give to be able to call him one last time. What I would give to hear him say “Hi, baby” one last time. What I would give to tell him that I am now playing tennis, a sport that he loved. Or to tell him I’m living in Colorado now. To tell him about all the adventures we go on. About this blog. About the birds that visit me on my balcony. About the warmth, the people laughing by the pool, the dragonflies. The emerald grass.  About the clouds and the nice people I’ve met. About the bike and book and the car and the mountains and my life. About all the little things. About the person I’m becoming. Because everything I am is because of him. 

I love you dad, and you will be in my thoughts every day for the rest of my life.