Dear Dad,
The morning I got the call is still crystal clear in my head and at the same time, a blur. It was around 7am and I remember my dreaming slumber being harshly interrupted by my ringtone. I knew before I answered the phone. I knew you were gone. I knew yet I didn’t want to believe. It’s been five months and I still have trouble believing it. Each day that passes with silence is another cold reminder of your absence.
I remember when I was in high school and I would look on with pity at my peers who had lost a parent. I remember the sadness washing over me and experiencing a sinking feeling of fathomless despair. But it always seeped out of my heart rather quickly. Empathy does not stay long when you have no comparison. I never imagined a few years later I’d be in the same boat with them, a ship I never wanted to board. I remember the realization that I now had become a part of the crew, bound to an endless ocean of loss.
I remember the day I found out. When Mom called and spoke a six-letter word that I’d grown up learning to be synonymous with fear:
“Morgan, your Dad has cancer.”
I remember I hung up the phone and I ran to my roommate across the hall. Everything looked the same. My roommate looked the same as she had five minutes previously, I was still wearing the same clothes and still had the same study session to attend in two hours. And yet, everything within my perfect, predictable world had changed, silently and without warning.
I remember the first time I saw you after you’d begun chemo treatments. You had a smile but I saw the drastic loss of weight. I saw the fatigue behind your eyes that were so similar to mine. You took me to lunch and we discussed the prognosis as if it were as casual as a new item on the menu. I knew deep down in my heart that it wasn’t good. You didn't have to hold my hand Dad, you didn't have to tell me things were going to be okay and offer the comforting promises of your everlasting presence. You didn’t have to be strong. But, there was never a moment when you weren’t.
I remember the daggers that launched their way into my stomach the first time I heard the words from Mom:
“He probably isn’t going to make it, you need to be prepared.”
How on earth was I supposed to be prepared for this? I was only a freshman in college then. I was already battling the demons that disguised themselves as nightmares where you were already gone from my grasp. I had already been struck to the ground and now I was expected to prepare for the final blow. I remember thinking that we still had time, I thought that I had years of memories to make with you, years of showing you just how loved you are.
I remember the day I flew to see you in the hospital. I remember walking into that room and having my breath stolen from me by the harsh realities of the very word that had shaken the ground beneath my feet only six months previously. You were down to skin and bones, and yet you were still so strong. The first thing you asked was:
“How’s school?”
I remember feeling sick to my stomach at the guilt I felt from the healthiness I had been taking for granted. But I was also in awe at the fact that in your weakest moment, you were still the selfless and thoughtful Dad you’d always proved to be.
I remember when you got moved out of Intensive Care, I remember when the monster called hope crawled its hand around my throat but didn't quite begin to squeeze. I remember hugging you goodbye to fly back to my little bubble of tests, papers, and gossip between friends. I remember telling you to hold on just until Christmas. I promised you I’d be back to see you again and that I loved you. I remember truly letting hope manipulate me into believing that I would embrace you again.
I remember the call. A harsh ringing that went off at 7-something in the morning that I didn’t want to answer. I remember the tone of Stephanie’s voice as she popped my bubble and let reality wreak havoc. I remember the numbness of the next week. The disbelief, the overflow of "sorry’s" in my inbox, the random hits of sorrow that felt as though a bomb had barreled its way straight into my heart with the remnants still burning their way through my chest. Reality became, and often still is, a pen pal I avoid letters from.
I’m sorry Dad, I know I keep talking about what I remember, but you see my memories are some of the only things I have left of you. My list of mementos is depressingly small. There are voicemails on file within my computer that I’m too afraid to listen to and a box of ashes in a faraway closet corner. A pajama shirt lying untouched on my bedroom floor proclaiming “Someone in California Loves Me” and a poster of London hanging up on my door. And the reflection I avoid as I pass city windows, showing traces of what you left. These are all I have, so my memory, well that is what I am clinging to most.
I’m also sorry for speaking only of myself in this letter, it seems that losing a person you love becomes a very selfish ordeal. But I know you would have been selfless in this as you always were. I know our views on religion differ but I hope that you are with who you believed God to be. I hope that you’re happy and finally able to move without pain. I hope that you still feel the love that remains alive for you down here. I hope that you’re still able to watch all of us kids grow up, I pray to every God I don’t believe in that you are able to forgive yourself for past mistakes and I can feel in my heart every single day that you are still here in tiny ways.
I can feel you every time I see the ocean, your love lives on within me and is as consistent and sure as the waves that crash onto the sand. I can hear your voice telling me how proud you are every time I ace a test and I chuckle at the thought of your disgust and disapproval of crowds when I walk city streets. Now I know I said this letter was to a parent I lost, but I realize more and more every day that what you told me in that restaurant a lifetime ago was true. You will always be here, I just have to start looking harder and your encouragement will live on in me, I just have to dig down deep and find it. And believe me Dad, I am, and always will be, up to the task.
With love,
Your very proud daughter.
