My dad moved to the United States after my Mom, 2 younger sisters and I moved to the U. S from Bolivia. As a matter of fact my dad arrived to the U.S on September 9, 2001. He was a loving father who loved spoiling us and always wanted the best for us.
My dad’s father died when he was a baby and because he never got to experience the love of a father, he wanted to give us everything.
On April 18, 2006 at around 9:30pm my dad had chest pain, and he asked my mom to take him to the Hospital. Before my mom and I headed to the hospital, we gathered in a circle (my sisters, myself, mom and dad) and prayed, then my dad gave my sisters a kiss on the cheek.
My two younger sisters stayed home to sleep. As we got to the Hospital my dad was taken directly to the emergency room where we were seated and accompanying him. The doctors and nurses were checking his heart rate, and blood pressure, when all of the sudden my dad’s body jumps up; my mom screams and I’m thinking to myself — “What just happened?…Dear lord, what are you doing to me?”
In a blink of an eye the nurses escort my mom and I out of the Emergency Room and sit us in a waiting room. The Social worker from the Hospital comes in and tries to console/comfort us. She helped us call family members, and the pastor from the church we attended.
At some point, the nurse comes in, and tells us that my dad needs to be flown to the University of Toledo Medical Center. We drove to UTMC, at this point it was around 2:30am April 19, 2006. His attending doctor came into the room and tells us that my dad died of myocardial infarction (heart attack).
I was 14 years old when he died and he was 46 years old.
Telling my friends that my dad died was hard, it made my heart go heavy and I had tears that wouldn’t stop coming down. Every time I had to tell someone he had passed, my heart and my eyes did the same thing, because it was like reliving the moments.
It was very hard for me to be able to turn my grief into something even remotely positive. One of the biggest ways I do this is by writing. I write, write, write everything I’m feeling and my experiences. I listen to my dad’s favorite music (he loved Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” and “Your Raise Me Up” by Selah) because it gives me comfort. It makes me feel like he is sitting there, with me, listening. I also tend to close my eyes and cry. Crying helps me express a lot of my feelings that I cannot express any other way — it comforts me.
After my dad passed away, I also stared participating in triathlons as a way to honor him and his triumphs in life. I think about my dad every day and choose to share memories. For instance, when it’s his birthday (October 12) we celebrate it and make it memorable.
Currently, I’m a college student who is majoring in nursing. This is where the inspiration of loss has helped me. When a loved one losses a family member I am able to empathize with them, because I understand losing someone, while at the same time giving them their own space and time.
I try not to tell them what others told me. I try not to tell them that it’s going to be okay because that was the worst thing several people told me. They said, “it’s okay….it was God’s purposeful plan.” The thought wasn’t comforting because I was angry. I couldn’t stop asking myself why God would do this to me. He must not love me, I thought.
I fought with God for quite a few years. I didn’t like Him. I was hopeless, my cup was empty. I had lost friends because I pushed them away and kind of gave up on life. Looking back I don’t think any words would have really comforted me, I just wish people would have known to give me space and time.
Even now there are things that still upset me. I hate when people ask, “how long has it been since your dad died?” because I get it, he’s gone. It’s been 9 years but it still makes my heart heavy because, for me, grief is something that never really goes away. It’s not something I can get over.
I personally would never want to go back to the day when I lost my dad. I don’t think it’s something anyone would want to go through; especially someone young. My sisters, at the time, were 8 and 10. One thing I want others to know is that everyone grieves differently; there is not right or wrong way.
Reading this brought tears to my eyes. I was 14 when my dad passed away and every word in this article describes a daughter’s turmoil. Thank you for writing this.