Some of my first memories are of my dad and I, laughing and talking. I had always had a strong relationship with him. He was my hero. Since my dad owned his own company when I was a child, he had the freedom to spend an insane amount of time with his kids. He drove me to school, bought me breakfast, took me home, hung out with me, took care of me when I was home sick, and made every weekend about his family. He also coached my soccer teams, drove me to practices, and was very involved in every other aspect of my life. When I was a snobby teenager, he even drove me to school every day so he could talk to me, even if only for 15 minutes a day. I grew up, went to college, moved out, and started to live my own life. During those years I came home once a week to spend time with my family and spent birthdays BBQing at my family home. When I graduated college, I had a party. Then, I was off to a month-long backpacking trip through Europe. I facetimed/skyped my family when I could and talked to my dad when I was really feeling down about what I saw all through Germany.

When I got home, I got a huge surprise. My dad had been in the hospital while I was away and it was cancer. A few days after I got home, we found out it was Stage 4 pancreatic cancer (This means that the cancer cells have metabolized and are moving to other parts of his body). He was sick for exactly two months and 20 days. Then he was just gone. I was devastated. I had moved home to help my dad through chemotherapy and then, all of the sudden, he wasn’t there anymore. I had just turned 25, I lived at home again, I didn’t have a job, and now I couldn’t keep my shit together for more than an hour. I went to the bookstore, looking for something written by a daughter losing her father and came up empty handed. I went to support groups, but all the daughters were in their 50s. I felt like what they were going through was so different than what I was going through. So, I had to figure it out for myself.

I started off taking it minute by minute. In this time, I submerged myself with the project of making a scrapbook of my Europe trip and that really helped. Crafting was therapeutic for me. I also started cooking a lot, which I hear is very normal. Then it was time to try to join society again and find a job. It took me five months and it went terribly. I was selling internet to small businesses by going door-to-door and, anytime I would come across a shop that reminded me of my dad’s, I would burst into tears. The following job was at a swim school and, every time I would see a father and daughter, I would get so sad. But, with time, it started to get more manageable. I could go a few days without crying and that was progress. The minute to minute became day to day. The more time I spent working, with friends, or doing something fun, the easier it was. It is now coming up on the three year anniversary of losing my dad and I am doing alright. I have bad days (like really bad days), but most are okay. Sometimes, I will see something and pull out my phone to call him out of instinct. Then I remember I can’t. Those moments suck. But I have always lead my life with the purpose of making my dad proud. So, I keep that in mind. I wish he could see me now. I wish he could see that I eventually got it together or at least together-ish. I mean, I am still in my twenties.

Losing people is hard. I have more experience than most, but life still goes on. At first, I felt guilty on the days I didn’t cry because I felt like that was, in some way, taking away from my dad and now the guilt is less. I miss him every day. I think about him often. But I wouldn’t live with him or see him every day even if he was alive. So, now my memories are more important to me then the things I feel like he is missing. If something similar happened in your life, reach out. Let your friends/family/support system know about your bad days. I feel like grief is not a solo mission.