It’s been two years since you lost your dad to terminal brain cancer.
In these two years only one sentence has ever had the power to dull the ache:
Sometimes it is okay... to not be okay.
When you receive the call that it happened, your world crumbles around you. You listen to the voice on the other end of the phone telling you that your world is changed forever. You pick yourself up, and cram any hint of emotion down into a deep dark place that no one would ever get the—pleasure?—of finding. You’re okay. You’re just simply okay.
But then you're not.
First comes the numbness. He’s gone. He’s forever vanished into the distance. The funeral, visitation, family visits and empty apologies fill your world. But, he’s still gone. You take a breath and blur through your life; school, dance team, college applications. Anything is better than the feeling. A distraction, a temporary bliss, a test, or sleep; Going through life like it didn’t happen is what you have to do. People are always so near and so close in your personal space, but you know that this is their way of coping so you let them crowd you.
But wait, isn’t it your dad that died? Why are you appeasing others to make them feel better? Because you don’t feel.
Until you do.
As people cope and move forward in life, you’re alone. You’re the single person in a world full of people, that feels the constant pain of his death. Your support system is gone, because you were okay. Right? So, when you finally face the pain of the emptiness you’re alone.
Then comes the denial.
You’re staring at the phone waiting for him to call about the exam you just aced. You’re waiting for him to drive to your apartment and tell you that he’s going to kick the boy’s ass that just broke your heart. You’re waiting for his voice to tell you he’s proud and to keep moving forward. You’re his mini-me, but can you be if he isn’t here? You even wait for his lecture when you know you messed up.
But it never comes.
You worry about the eyes on you walking down the aisle alone at your wedding. You worry that your kids will grow up with a void in the space of where a wonderful grandpa should be. You worry that your heart went from a symbol of love, to an organ that simply pumps blood. You worry that no person in this world will be able to make you as happy, and as whole, as your dad did.
You are daddy’s little girl. Right? Wait, you were daddy’s little girl.
It’s odd isn’t it? The immensity of difference between the simple words are and were? It’s as if one word changes the presence of a being. You worry that you are incapable... of everything. Incapable of loving someone, of being sincere, of feeling, or most importantly: understanding life.
Your dad died of brain cancer, and you're worried that your soul might have died with him.
- Or is that just me?
