I was seventeen when my father passed away, and my brothers were 14, 12 and 10. My mother was 40 and so was my dad. A near impossible situation for any family to deal with. There really is no right way to deal with this, because everyone handles grief differently. Truthfully, it put tremendous strain on our family, almost to the point of collapse. But through the strength of my mother, we pulled through, and became stronger than we started. Each of my brothers and I dealt with the loss in our own way. I had good friends, sports and fishing to distract my thoughts. But mostly, it was the sense of wanting to protect my younger brothers, making sure they were safe. Like my father would have done. I still think about him every day. You never really get over something like that. I was writing something the other day, that I thought I would share. So here it goes.

I wasn’t sure why I wanted to write this, or even where to begin. I have so many emotions bottled up. Sometimes I wonder if I’m bordering on insanity. There isn’t a day that passes when I don’t think about it. Some days I’m brought to tears at the drop of a hat. Most of the time it feels like I was there just yesterday. How has so much time slipped away. So many events, milestones, special occasions, all great days in my life, but all having a missing component.

More than 18 years have passed since that day, Tuesday June 5th, 1990 to be exact. The day started like any other day. I was a junior in high school, and beginning final exams. I woke up for school, went through my usual routine getting ready, and headed downstairs. I turned for the rec room, as I usually did, to see how he was doing. As soon as I entered the room, a feeling of emptiness sucked the emotions out of my body. There he was, lying in a hospital bed, motionless and pale. A bit of mucus had run out of his mouth and onto his lip. An unbelievable knot formed in my stomach, almost dropping me to my knees. I froze for a moment, or longer, I’m not really sure. I think I actually went into some form of shock. Everything after that was a blur. The one thing I was sure of, my father’s ten year battle with brain cancer was over. He was born February 27th, 1950. Forty years, and his journey was over.

I remember walking into the family room. My mom had been sleeping on the couch. She had spent many nights down there, making sure he was comfortable. The only thing that came out of my mouth was, “Mom, I think something is wrong with dad”. Even though we knew this day was coming, you can never be fully prepared for the feelings that hit you, right in the chest. I remember calling my friends to tell them I couldn’t drive them to school that morning. After hanging up the phone, I was sitting on my bed. That’s when I heard it, the most painful thing I had ever had to listen to. I could hear my younger brothers crying in their bedrooms as my mother told them what had happened. Perhaps that is where my feeling of insanity comes from.