losing my dad essay

• Entertainment
• Environment
• Information Science and Technology
• Social Issues

Home Essay Samples Health Death

A Father's Legacy: Reflecting on the Narrative of Losing My Dad

Table of contents, introduction, a guiding light and endless love, the unfathomable farewell, navigating the rapids of grief, a continuation of love.

*minimum deadline

Cite this Essay

To export a reference to this article please select a referencing style below

• Cerebral Palsy

Related Essays

Need writing help?

You can always rely on us no matter what type of paper you need

*No hidden charges

100% Unique Essays

Absolutely Confidential

Money Back Guarantee

By clicking “Send Essay”, you agree to our Terms of service and Privacy statement. We will occasionally send you account related emails

You can also get a UNIQUE essay on this or any other topic

Thank you! We’ll contact you as soon as possible.

What Grieving the Loss of My Father Has Taught Me

I’d like to start off by mentioning that everything I write is unique to my own experience with grief. I am in no way saying this is the right way, or the only way, to cope with loss. None of the points I’m making came from any book (though I have been — trying to — read one), or counselor, or generic list of “the five or eight or 10 or 12 stages of grief.” No. In fact, my point is the exact opposite.

Grief is different. It’s messy. It’s unlike any other feeling or experience. It can’t so easily be broken down like other emotions. This is simply my experience. What I’ve learned, how I came to certain realizations, and the people who both helped and hindered my growth through the process. This is where I am, and what I know, well over a year after losing my dad.

1. Everyone’s initial reaction to grief is different. This should be obvious, and it is, until you find yourself wondering if you’re doing it right. I want to make it clear: there is no “right” or “wrong” way to react. This past year I have known eight, possibly even more, people who lost a parent in 2016. I have seen glimpses of all of them deal with it. One woman I knew lived here in my town, but her entire family lives in Japan. She knew of her father’s death the day it happened, but she did not speak of it until over three months later. Instead of people, she turned to her religion to help her through. Only then did she mention it to friends here. And even when she did, she kept it brief, positive and upbeat. As if describing a favorite movie or a poem that evoked a deep passion and love inside of her. That was her way. She has since passed away as well, and I miss her and her uplifting spirit dearly.

Another friend of mine lost his father. He said he didn’t cry at all for the first four days, and even then, it was brief. That was his way.

As for myself, I kept pushing myself to do what I had to do to make it through life. I felt I had responsibilities, things that needed to be done. The world did not stop spinning simply because my heart had fallen apart. I pushed and pushed and pushed. Maybe too hard. I kept going to all of my six classes. I missed a little work but refused my bosses’ offer for a leave of absence. I avoided the feelings because I didn’t know how to handle them. This lasted for months (and blew up in my face in the end). But that was my way. Some people have periods of trouble functioning or finding purpose or meaning in the world after losing someone they love. We all react differently, and none of us are wrong — we just react differently.

2. There will be triggers. For those unfamiliar with the term, a trigger is anything that evokes a certain memory or emotion in you that upsets you. This can be anything from seeing the person’s personal belongings, hearing a song, passing a car that is the same make and model as theirs, eating something that was once their favorite food, or even seeing someone on the street who looks like them. Some of these triggers are unpredictable and unavoidable. The other day, two of my coworkers were having a conversation and one of them said the words “January 26th.” In that moment, I completely froze. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t speak. I felt as if I couldn’t even breathe. I stood there, staring at the ground for two straight minutes. Thankfully, no one had noticed, and I took a deep breath and continued working, even though I felt as if someone had dropped a cinder block on my chest. It is a date I may never be able to hear without falling apart.

Triggers can be both destructive and therapeutic, depending on your state of mind at the time they occur. At times when you are already vulnerable, it is best to avoid these things if you can. I know I can’t pass the Motel 6 on Maple Road without crying (and bawling your eyes out while driving is usually not the safest idea), so I avoid going that way. And I know I can probably never enter that Spot Coffee again. So I won’t. Because it hurts too much. And that’s OK.

Other times, you may purposely look to certain triggers for comfort. When you want to remember the person, you may listen to a song that reminds you of them. I have an entire playlist that reminds me of my dad. I play it when I’m driving late at night alone. It brings up the anger I still feel towards him. The sadness. The happiness. And the pain. It allows me to feel everything I hold inside.

Maybe their memory makes you smile. Or maybe you want to cry about it. If that’s what you need in that moment, that’s OK. And that brings me to my next point.

3. It’s OK to cry about it.

4. It’s just as OK not to cry about it. Everyone copes differently. What’s important is not to judge yourself. Don’t allow yourself to feel shame for your reaction or lack of reaction to someone’s death. Everyone has their own way. It’s OK to cry. And scream. And curse the world, and the universe, or a higher power for taking away the person you love. It’s OK to feel whatever it is you feel. Feel sad. Feel lost. Feel a little bit broken. Feel f*cking angry if you have to. But try not to project those feelings on others around you. You are not angry with them; you’re angry at the situation.

5. There is no timeline for grief. By this, I mean a few things. First, when someone close to you dies, there are a lot of things that need to be done. Funeral planning, memorial services, and for close family and friends, gathering and distributing of the person’s belongings. Looking back on old memories can bring up a whole range of emotions, and I want you to know it’s OK to wait until you’re ready to go through these things.

After my father’s memorial, a few friends of his offered to talk with me about him. To tell me stories, reminisce and give me answers to the questions I’ve always had about him. It took me 10 months to accept their offer. I wasn’t ready to hear those stories, to learn any more than I already knew.

On my old Facebook account, I have hundreds of messages back and forth between us from when I was 16. It has been a year and eight months since I lost my dad, but I’m still not ready to read those messages. I’m not ready to read the words he wrote to me. I’m not ready to hear his voice in my head again. I’m not prepared to see his wild sense of humor and laugh, and then cry and beg the universe to just bring him back to me so I can read his words again. So I can hear his thoughts. And ask him questions.

I’m not ready. And that’s OK. Because one day, like with every other step I’ve taken in this grieving process, I will be.

Another thing I mean by “ there is no timeline for grief ” is that sometimes, people on the outside will have unrealistic expectations for your recovery from this grief. People like coworkers, friends, teachers, acquaintances, and even family that may cope differently than you. Sometimes, others may assume, suggest, or even outright say that grief should last a certain amount of time. They may say, even in the nicest way possible, that you should be over it by now. I’ve found that many people think grief should last a year, or six months, or some other ridiculous amount of time. I believe that is complete bullsh*t. How can you tell someone, especially someone who loved a person their entire lifetime, to get over it in a year?

Try to understand, maybe these people are trying to help you. But it’s possible their life experiences have not given them the skills they need to be supportive in the way you’d like them to be. I believe it’s OK to tell them you appreciate their concern, but their comment felt insensitive. And you would appreciate if they wouldn’t bring it up again.

Related to this…

6. Don’t let others tell you the way you feel is wrong. (And try not to be upset if they misunderstand the situation entirely.) What I mean by this is sometimes, people will say things that, unintentionally on their part, hurt you deeply. A woman I know once said to me, “Oh, well you didn’t really know your father, so I guess it wasn’t really that great of a loss.” While in fact, the situation is much more complicated than this. It was the most painful loss I have ever endured in my life. And possibly the reason for the greatest amount of change in my life.

People will say things like this in many situations. Like when a friend you haven’t seen in years, or rarely hang out with, passes away. They assume it isn’t that big of a deal or will be simple to get over when that is rarely the case. Remember, they don’t know your relationship with your loved one, how emotions affect you personally, or other factors that may go into the specific situation at hand.

Try to gauge their intentions. In my situation, the woman was kind. She was trying to be lighthearted and didn’t understand that what she said could be taken offensively. So I didn’t react. I understood her intention. If, however, they are being cruel or insensitive, it is OK to end the conversation and keep your distance from this person. At least during times you are feeling the most vulnerable.

7. You should find a healthy outlet. When I picture my dad in any circumstance, he is smoking a cigarette. Therefore, when I start to think about him, I too, light up a cigarette. And if it’s one of those long nights spent in my car listening to that gloomy old playlist, I am chain-smoking cigarettes. In fact, the majority of those trips land me right at the Rez. Where I’m 20 bucks shorter and ready to go home. When I get there, I’ll probably spend another hour in my car, leaned back in my seat trying to figure out the impossible.

Now this is by no means a healthy coping mechanism. In fact, it’s obviously the complete opposite. I’d like to stop doing this, but I’m not at a place where I’m ready. I will be, someday. But in the meantime, I’ll try to add more positive coping mechanisms to my life.

Learning a hobby is one of the best things you can do for yourself. Especially if that hobby reminds you of happier times spent with the person. If they were a musician, pick up a guitar. Think of them as you play. Write a song for them. Or for yourself. I didn’t know my dad’s hobbies, or really, much of anything about him at all. But I know he wrote poetry, once. Maybe I’ll write a poem for him someday. I don’t know if that poem will come from a place of anger or love. But I know it will help me cope with whatever it is I’m feeling in that moment. One day I’ll read the books that were his and learn what he learned from them. Try to feel what he felt.

Find something that makes you feel something, but mostly importantly, brings you joy as you learn and you grow, and become capable of a new skill.

8. Find ways to express yourself. On one of those tear-filled nights in my car, I had smoked one too many cigarettes. I began to feel sick, and restless. I suddenly felt the need to write it all down. Everything I was feeling. Everything I was thinking. But as soon as I sat down to try, I couldn’t get the words out. I was trembling. It had been a total of less than five minutes and I already wanted to smoke again. So I went back to my car, took a deep breath and pressed record. The recording was an hour and 14 minutes long. I sat there, and I told the five-day-long story of losing my dad. How it felt, what I did. What everyone said. Hour by hour. Day by day, I went through the whole thing and just allowed myself to feel every part of it. It was five months after I had lost him. My memory is poor, and I remember saying on the recording, “I just never want to forget this.”

Whether you ramble in a diary or on a blog, write a song, or a poem, tell a friend, or tell yourself, if you need to talk about it, let it out. And if you’re not ready, let it be.

None of this is to tell you not to seek help. There are many incredible resources out there. From counseling, to books, to simply talking with other human beings. If that 12-step process to handling grief will help you, so be it. If you religion heals you, let it. If writing, or singing, or screaming help you, do it. These are simply my thoughts, and my way. On your journey, you will find your own way. I just hope maybe this helps you feel a little less alone. A little less like maybe you’re doing it wrong. I wrote this because for a long time, I felt like maybe I didn’t know how to properly grieve. I know now there is no wrong way to grieve. We are all different. And we will all find our own ways to deal with this pain. I hope you find yours.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide  prevention resources  page.

If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at  1-800-273-8255,  the Trevor Project at  1-866-488-7386  o r text “HOME” to  741-741 . Head  here  for a list of crisis centers around the world.

Follow this journey on the author’s blog .

Thinkstock image by danr13

I write about coping with mental health.

• Featured Essay The Love of God An essay by Sam Storms Read Now
• Faithfulness of God
• Saving Grace
• Adoption by God

Most Popular

• Gender Identity
• Trusting God
• The Holiness of God
• See All Essays

• Conference Media
• Featured Essay Resurrection of Jesus An essay by Benjamin Shaw Read Now
• Death of Christ
• Resurrection of Jesus
• Church and State
• Sovereignty of God
• Faith and Works
• The Carson Center
• The Keller Center
• New City Catechism
• Publications
• Read the Bible

U.S. Edition

• Arts & Culture
• Bible & Theology
• Christian Living
• Current Events
• Faith & Work
• As In Heaven
• Gospelbound
• Post-Christianity?
• TGC Podcast
• You're Not Crazy
• Churches Planting Churches
• Help Me Teach The Bible
• Word Of The Week
• Upcoming Events
• Past Conference Media
• Foundation Documents
• Church Directory
• Global Resourcing
• Donate to TGC

To All The World

The world is a confusing place right now. We believe that faithful proclamation of the gospel is what our hostile and disoriented world needs. Do you believe that too? Help TGC bring biblical wisdom to the confusing issues across the world by making a gift to our international work.

What I’ve Learned Since Losing My Dad

September in Marietta, Georgia, can either bring the heat of a thousand suns or a wonderfully crisp, fall day. That Friday, it was somewhere in the middle. Sunny and 75. I was supposed to be studying for my first Greek exam, but I found myself on hole seven of the Marietta Country Club with some elders from the church where I serve in student ministry. At this point—less than two months ago—life was going well for me.

Our student ministry was gaining momentum, I had just started taking classes at Reformed Theological Seminary in Atlanta, everyone in my family was succeeding.

I was walking off of a birdie on hole six and as I walked down the fairway on seven, I noticed a missed call from my mom and two texts: “I need you to come home.” And then: “It’s an emergency.”

Naturally, my stomach dropped. I immediately called her and was welcomed by an agonizing cry that will forever be blistered into my brain: “It’s dad . . . He’s gone.”

I learned later that “gone” felt easier to say than “dead.”

Sudden Shock

The phone call lasted less than 30 seconds but carried with it an incalculable shock and pain. It took the ground completely out from under me, leading to a free fall of grief and confusion.

My father passed away sometime early that morning, September 10. He was on a business trip in Denver and seemed to be an incredibly healthy man. As it turns out, he had a 95 percent blockage in his heart. A ticking time bomb, moments away from failing. No one knew this. He had no symptoms, no history of heart issues. He was a very active and healthy person.

He was 59. He wasn’t ready to go. He knew Jesus. He loved the Bible and was steeped in it. But he didn’t go to bed on September 9 thinking he would wake up face to face with life’s author.

Lessons from Losing Dad

Two months later, the shock of my father’s death has given way to reflection. Here are three things I’ve learned in this season of grief.

1. Fragility of Life

Growing up in church, I heard countless sermons about the fragility and ephemerality of our lives. But I had grown emotionally distant from this reality. The death of my father established in my soul the visceral truth: Life really can end in a moment, without warning signs. It took just 30 seconds on a golf course, on the phone with my mom, to learn this in the realest way possible.

2. Beauty of Relationships

During the weird season of COVID-19 lockdown, my dad and I found fun and joy by diving into the world of film. We worked our way through Quentin Tarantino’s filmography, I showed him one of the best movies ever produced, Parasite (2019), and we immersed ourselves in the collected works of Alfred Hitchcock. Every Monday was movie night for Sam and Curt. It was a sacred space.

These moments in my relationship with him led to relational depth that was missing before. I remember sitting over New York Strip steak and green beans after a viewing of Rear Window (1954), my personal favorite movie—and the last movie I ever watched with my dad. Our conversations about the film led to deep discussions of the problem of evil, the beauty of the Word of God, and debates about the gifts of the Spirit (my dad was a cessationist, and I’m thankful he can now see that he’s wrong, now that he’s in heaven).

I don’t remember every movie we watched, but I remember the beauty of spending time with him. It was a season of relational depth and sweetness that I will take with me in my other relationships—perhaps even when I become a dad myself. Don’t waste relationships. They are good gifts. Treasure them.

3. Source of True Life

Had my father not had a saving relationship with Jesus Christ, my soul would be in an anguish far deeper than it is now. Though the pain my family is experiencing daily is tremendous, the deep sting of death is gone (1 Cor. 15:55). I know my father is standing before the throne of God above singing, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty” as we speak (Rev. 4:8). I know he’s in the audience for a display far more glorious and awe-inspiring than any of the movies we watched together. I hope he high-fived my faith hero, Charles Haddon Spurgeon, too.

Who of your family members and close friends has no relationship with Jesus? Treasure your relationship with them, yes, but don’t delay in sharing with them the truth of the gospel. Be bold. Life is fragile and can vanish in a moment. Any one of us, on any given day, could receive text messages like I received on the golf course: “I need you to come home. It’s an emergency.”

Any one of us, on any given day, could receive text messages like I received on the golf course: ‘I need you to come home. It’s an emergency.’

The reality of life’s fragility shouldn’t lead us to paralysis, however—it should lead us to live on mission boldly , with no regrets. Don’t waste your short time on this earth. God has placed you in a family, workplace, and neighborhood with a providential calling. Seek gospel conversations.

When you get that shocking text or phone call like I did—and all of us will, one day—the grief will be real. I miss my dad and I will as long as I live. But grief mingles with joy when you know the person you’ve lost is in glory. Do what you can now, with those you love, to ensure that their eventual loss will be bittersweet rather than just bitter.

In retrospect, maybe my mom’s word choice was correct—to say my dad was “gone” rather than “dead.” Because he’s gone from this earth, but actually more alive than ever before.

Is there enough evidence for us to believe the Gospels?

Sam Rapp is the student pastor at Christ the Redeemer Church of Marietta, Georgia. He is pursuing an MDiv from Reformed Theological Seminary in Atlanta. You can follow him on Instagram .

Now Trending

1 how christians should think about ivf-created embryos, 2 how i learned to share my faith on the pickleball court, 3 the 11 beliefs you should know about jehovah’s witnesses when they knock at the door, 4 quick guide to christian denominations, 5 ‘dune: part two’: cinematic spectacle, faith skeptical.

When the Pastor’s Wife Wants to Quit

I couldn’t walk away from the body of Christ because I knew Jesus loved her.

4 Snapshots of Dispensationalism Today

Ready for Church: 5 Ways to Be Present in Worship

Respectable Sins in Christian Ministry

Courageous Pastors or Overbearing Leaders: How Do We Tell the Difference?

The Improbable Love Story Behind Alpha’s Origins

Help! My Loved One Is Deconstructing.

Latest Episodes

Authority with integrity: how jesus guides our leading.

Welcome and Witness: How to Reach Out in a Secular Age

How to Build Gospel Culture: A Q&A Conversation

Examining the Current and Future State of the Global Church

Trevin Wax on Reconstructing Faith

Gaming Alone: Helping the Generation of Young Men Captivated and Isolated by Video Games

Evaluating Christian Nationalism

Faith & Work: How Do I Glorify God Even When My Work Seems Meaningless?

Let’s Talk (Live): Growing in Gratitude

Getting Rid of Your Fear of the Book of Revelation

Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places: A Sermon from Julius Kim

Introducing The Acts 29 Podcast

Dear Therapist Writes to Herself in Her Grief

My father died, there’s a pandemic, and I’m overcome by my feeling of loss.

Dear Therapist,

I know that everyone is going through loss during the coronavirus pandemic, but in the midst of all this, my beloved father died two weeks ago, and I’m reeling.

He was 85 years old and in great pain from complications due to congestive heart failure. After years of invasive procedures and frequent hospitalizations, he decided to go into home hospice to live out the rest of his life surrounded by family. We didn’t know whether it would be weeks or months, but we expected his death, and had prepared for it in the time leading up to it. We had the conversations we wanted to have, and the day he died, I was there to kiss his cheeks and massage his forehead, to hold his hand and say goodbye. I was at his bedside when he took his last breath.

And yet, nothing prepared me for this loss. Can you help me understand my grief?

Lori Los Angeles, Calif.

Dear Readers,

This week, I decided to submit my own “Dear Therapist” letter following my father’s death. As a therapist, I’m no stranger to grief, and I’ve written about its varied manifestations in this column many times .

Even so, I wanted to write about the grief I’m now experiencing personally, because I know this is something that affects everyone. You can’t get through life without experiencing loss. The question is, how do we live with loss?

In the months before my father died, I asked him a version of that question: How will I live without you? If this sounds strange—asking a person you love to give you tips on how to grieve his death—let me offer some context.

My dad was a phenomenal father, grandfather, husband, and loyal friend to many. He had a dry sense of humor, a hearty laugh, boundless compassion, an uncanny ability to fix anything around the house, and a deep knowledge of the world (he was my Siri before there was a Siri). Mostly, though, he was known for his emotional generosity. He cared deeply about others; when we returned to my mom’s house after his burial, we were greeted by a gigantic box of paper towels on her doorstep, ordered by my father the day before he died so that she wouldn’t have to worry about going out during the pandemic.

His greatest act of emotional generosity, though, was talking me through my grief. He said many comforting things in recent months—how I’ll carry him inside me, how my memories of him will live forever, how he believes in my resilience. A few years earlier, he had taken me aside after one of my son’s basketball games and said that he’d just been to a friend’s funeral, told the friend’s adult daughter how proud her father had been of her, and was heartbroken when she said her father had never said that to her.

“So,” my father said outside the gym, “I want to make sure that I’ve told you how proud of you I am. I want to make sure you know.” It was the first time we’d had a conversation like that, and the subtext was clear: I’m going to die sooner rather than later. We stood there, the two of us, hugging and crying as people passing by tried not to stare, because we both knew that this was the beginning of my father’s goodbye.

But of all the ways my father tried to prepare me for his loss, what has stayed with me most was when he talked about what he learned from grieving his own parents’ deaths: that grief was unavoidable, and that I would grieve this loss forever.

“I can’t make this less painful for you,” he said one night when I started crying over the idea—still so theoretical to me—of his death. “But when you feel the pain, remember that it comes from a place of having loved and been loved deeply.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Beyond that—you’re the therapist. Think about how you’ve helped other people with their grief.”

So I have. Five days before he died, I developed a cough that would wake me from sleep. I didn’t have the other symptoms of COVID-19—fever, fatigue—but still, I thought: I’d better not go near Dad . I spoke with him every day, as usual, except for Saturday, when time got away from me. I called the next day—the day when suddenly he could barely talk and all we could say was “I love you” to each other before he lost consciousness. He never said another word; our family sat vigil until he died the next afternoon.

Afterward, I was racked with guilt. While I’d told myself that I hadn’t seen him in his last days because of my cough, and that I hadn’t called Saturday because of the upheaval of getting supplies for the lockdown, maybe I wasn’t there and didn’t call because I was in denial—I couldn’t tolerate the idea of him dying, so I found a way to avoid confronting it.

Soon this became all I thought about—how I wished I’d gone over with my cough and a mask; how I wished I’d called on Saturday when he was still cogent—until I remembered something I wrote in this column to a woman who felt guilty about the way she had treated her dying husband in his last week. “One way to deal with intense grief is to focus the pain elsewhere,” I had written then. “It might be easier to distract yourself from the pain of missing your husband by turning the pain inward and beating yourself up over what you did or didn’t do for him.”

Like my father, her husband had suffered for a long time, and like her, I felt I had failed him in his final days.

I wrote to her:

Grief doesn’t begin the day a person dies. We experience the loss while the person is alive, and because our energy is focused on doctor appointments and tests and treatments—and because the person is still here—we might not be aware that we’ve already begun grieving the loss of someone we love … So what happens to their feelings of helplessness, sadness, fear, or rage? It’s not uncommon for people with a terminally ill partner to push their partner away in order to protect themselves from the pain of the loss they’re already experiencing and the bigger one they’re about to endure. They might pick fights with their partner … They might avoid their partner, and busy themselves with other interests or people. They might not be as helpful as they had imagined they would be, not only because of the exhaustion that sets in during these situations, but also because of the resentment: How dare you show me so much love, even in your suffering, and then leave me .

Another “Dear Therapist” letter came to mind this week, this one from a man grieving the loss of his wife of 47 years . He wanted to know how long this would go on. I replied:

Many people don’t know that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s well-known stages of grieving—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—were conceived in the context of terminally ill patients coming to terms with their own deaths … It’s one thing to “accept” the end of your own life. But for those who keep on living, the idea that they should reach “acceptance” might make them feel worse (“I should be past this by now”; “I don’t know why I still cry at random times, all these years later”) … The grief psychologist William Worden looks at grieving in this light, replacing “stages” with “tasks” of mourning. In the fourth of his tasks, the goal is to integrate the loss into our lives and create an ongoing connection with the person who died—while also finding a way to continue living.

Just like my father suggested, these columns helped. And so did my own therapist, the person I called Wendell in my recent book, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone . He sat with me (from a coronavirus-safe distance, of course) as I tried to minimize my grief— look at all of these relatively young people dying from the coronavirus when my father got to live to 85 ; look at the all the people who weren’t lucky enough to have a father like mine —and he reminded me that I always tell others that there’s no hierarchy of pain, that pain is pain and not a contest.

And so I stopped apologizing for my pain and shared it with Wendell. I told him how, after my father died and we were waiting for his body to be taken to the mortuary, I kissed my father’s cheek, knowing that it would be the last time I would ever kiss him, and I noticed how soft and warm his cheek still was, and I tried to remember what he felt like, because I knew I would never feel my father’s skin again. I told Wendell how I stared at my father’s face and tried to memorize every detail, knowing it would be the last time I’d ever see the face I’d looked at my entire life. I told him how gutted I was by the physical markers that jolted me out of denial and made this goodbye so horribly real—seeing my father’s lifeless body being wrapped in a sheet and placed in a van ( Wait, where are you taking my dad? I silently screamed), carrying the casket to the hearse, shoveling dirt into his grave, watching the shiva candle melt for seven days until the flame was jarringly gone. Mostly, though, I cried, deep and guttural, the way my patients do when they’re in the throes of grief.

Since leaving Wendell’s office, I have cried and also laughed. I’ve felt pain and joy; I’ve felt numb and alive. I’ve lost track of the days, and found purpose in helping people through our global pandemic. I’ve hugged my son, also reeling from the loss of his grandfather, tighter than usual, and let him share his pain with me. I’ve spent some days FaceTiming with friends and family, and other days choosing not to engage.

But the thing that has helped me the most is what my father did for me and also what Wendell did for me. They couldn’t take away my pain, but they sat with me in my loss in a way that said: I see you, I hear you, I’m with you. This is exactly what we need in grief, and what we can do for one another—now more than ever.

Related Podcast

Listen to Lori Gottlieb share her advice on dealing with grief and answer listener questions on Social Distance , The Atlantic ’s new podcast about living through a pandemic:

Dear Therapist is for informational purposes only, does not constitute medical advice, and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, mental-health professional, or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. By submitting a letter, you are agreeing to let The Atlantic use it—in part or in full—and we may edit it for length and/or clarity.

The last thing my father told me

A posthumous essay about facing a parent’s too-early death and, decades later, facing one’s own..

O ur station wagon pulled up to the pile of snow at the curb. My mother leaned across me in the front seat and pointed up wide, white marble steps to the entrance of the hospital. Eleven years old, I stepped over the snow alone — so thin, with such a big head and so much thick hair, that I looked like a pencil with a novelty eraser. I carried a traveling chess set.

It was early February 1973 in New Haven, Conn. My father wasn’t fighting cancer anymore. He was dying. We had seen him at home a few times, for a few weeks, since last summer. Each time he returned to the hospital, they changed his room. Each time they changed his room, I learned to find him. Turn left here. Take a right there. This door. That stairwell. This floor. Trousers high above my ankles, shirt sleeves far from my wrists, I was the only child among gurneys and wheelchairs, doctors and nurses.

He died in March. March was a few weeks from where I stood now, in the doorway of his room, clutching the chess set. He lay in bed. He was so emaciated that his head looked huge on his body like mine did, except he wore his wig.

I waited for him to notice me. The wig made him look like he was wearing a costume. The costume was himself, the way he used to be. Last spring, in the months before he fell sick, we started playing chess. A scrap of paper hung thumbtacked to the bulletin board above the kitchen trash where we marked how many games we each won. I passed the paper at eye level all winter, and it reminded me of how the kitchen felt with him inside it. He used to sit leaning back in his chair, feet straight out in front of him, laughing and teasing and asking exactly the right questions. We would take out the thumbtack and hold the paper on the counter, marking it. One mark each time we won. I had won only once before.

We opened the chess board on the rolling table that crossed over his bed. I had to stand because the chairs weren’t high enough. Doctors came and went. Nurses came and went. There was no missing how sick he was, although I stared hard at the chessboard. For minutes at a time, I managed to see only the brown and manila squares, the crease in the middle where it folded into a box, the two tiny, tubular hinges, the hook that held it closed.

I won that day, which I appreciated. My mother planned to return to that same curb and that same pile of snow at 4 o’clock. She expected me to be waiting on the steps. Now it was a few minutes before 4. The chess set went back together — board folded, hook clasped, pieces rattling inside. I tucked the box under my arm and remembered my coat.

My arm was in the second sleeve when he said, “I will miss you.” He had been sitting up to play. Now he lay back in bed.

I stood holding the zipper. At that moment, I saw he was going to die. “I’ll miss you too.” Then I unsaw it.

But he saw. He saw very clearly how close to death he was, and he knew what he wanted me to hear. “I’ll miss seeing you grow up.”

My coat was zippered. Holding the box against my chest, I faced his head on the pillow. I saw and unsaw again in an instant.

He watched me, solemn and careful. “You will be a good man,” he told me. “You’ll grow up to be a good man. And I wish—” He lost control of his voice. He choked and tried again. “I wish I could be here to see that.”

We cried together. I hugged him on the bed because he was too tired to sit up again. I basically lay on him. I felt the crinkle of my coat and the pressure of the zipper. I didn’t know what to do with the hand that held the chess set.

There is a strobe-light effect to knowledge at that age — or really any age when the truth impacts you that much. Even in that split second when the light was on and I saw he was dying, I didn’t know what that knowledge meant. I had no concept of a lifetime, no way to understand what it would mean to miss him for 45 years — the day I graduated from college or the day I married, the birth of each of my children and the people they are becoming, my decisions across the length and breadth of a career, or a simple summer evening on a porch, feet up on the railing, the first sip of cold beer together after hard work on a hot day.

He was 39. He had the concept of a lifetime, and he gave me what words he could in advance. It was the best gift he could give me at the time, this vote of confidence. I am grateful for it still, though praise like this also sets an expectation. “You will be a good man” becomes “You must be a good man.” What is a good man? What kind of choices does a good man make? What does he say? What does he do? Within weeks of our conversation, he was no longer there to help me know what he had in mind with those words.

Now, at age 62, I am sick as he was. Now I am days or weeks from dying, as he was. Now I am saying goodbye to each of my children. So much makes it hard. But above all is my knowledge of what it’s like to live an entire life with a hole beside you that you wish you could fill with even one more conversation.

Douglas Smith, a writer and educational software developer, blogged about his experience living with and dying from leukemia. He died on October 18.

"My Father's Passing"

University of Michigan

2. The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?

250 - 650 words

Why This Essay Works:

• Navigates Tragedy Gracefully : Writing about a tragedy like a loss of a parent is a tricky topic for college essays. Many students feel obligated to choose that topic if it applies to them, but it can be challenging to not come across as trying to garner sympathy ("sob story"). This student does a graceful job of focusing on positive elements from their father's legacy, particularly the inspiration they draw from him.
• Compelling Motivations : This student does a great job of connecting their educational and career aspirations to their background. Admissions officers want to understand why you're pursing what you are, and by explaining the origin of your interests, you can have compelling and genuine reasons why.

What They Might Change:

• Write Only From Your Perspective : In this essay, the student writes from their hypothetical perspective as an infant. This doesn't quite work because they likely wouldn't remember these moments ("I have no conscious memories of him"), but still writes as though they do. By writing about things you haven't seen or experienced yourself, it can come across as "made up" or inauthentic.

© 2018- 2024 Essays That Worked . All rights reserved.

Registration on or use of this site constitutes acceptance of our Terms and Conditions , Privacy Policy , and Cookie Policy .

We have no affiliation with any university or colleges on this site. All product names, logos, and brands are the property of their respective owners.

Losing my Father

Home — Essay Samples — Life — Father — How My Father Has Influenced Me the Most in My Life

How My Father Has Influenced Me The Most in My Life

• Categories: Father Influential Person

About this sample

Words: 685 |

Published: Sep 1, 2023

Words: 685 | Pages: 2 | 4 min read

Table of contents

A role model of perseverance, the power of empathy and compassion, lifelong learning and intellectual curiosity, legacy and moving forward.

Cite this Essay

Let us write you an essay from scratch

• 450+ experts on 30 subjects ready to help
• Custom essay delivered in as few as 3 hours

Get high-quality help

Dr Jacklynne

Verified writer

• Expert in: Life

+ 120 experts online

By clicking “Check Writers’ Offers”, you agree to our terms of service and privacy policy . We’ll occasionally send you promo and account related email

No need to pay just yet!

Related Essays

2 pages / 900 words

1 pages / 535 words

3 pages / 1329 words

7 pages / 3009 words

Remember! This is just a sample.

You can get your custom paper by one of our expert writers.

121 writers online

Still can’t find what you need?

Browse our vast selection of original essay samples, each expertly formatted and styled

Related Essays on Father

Fatherhood, a pivotal role within the family unit, has undergone significant changes over time, reshaping family dynamics and societal norms. In this essay, we will analyze the evolution of fatherhood and its impact on family [...]

“My Father’s Hands” is a poem written by Calvin Forbes that delves into the complex relationship between a father and his son. The poem captures the essence of the father-son bond and explores the themes of love, admiration, and [...]

Arm Wrestling with My Father is a poignant and introspective essay written by Brad Manning that explores the complex and often strained relationship between a father and his son. Manning delves into the physical and emotional [...]

An absent father can have a profound impact on a child's development and well-being. Whether the absence is due to divorce, separation, death, or other circumstances, the effects can be far-reaching and long-lasting. In this [...]

The following two poems that will be analyzed in this paper provides a different and individual perspective of a relationship between adult figures and children, in particular between a father figure and a child. In the poem [...]

Along the way, as the world continues to revolve, our minds continue to grow around the world as well. We ask ourselves, then, how important is our father to our home? If our mother is what makes our home shine, and she is [...]

Related Topics

By clicking “Send”, you agree to our Terms of service and Privacy statement . We will occasionally send you account related emails.

Where do you want us to send this sample?

By clicking “Continue”, you agree to our terms of service and privacy policy.

Be careful. This essay is not unique

This essay was donated by a student and is likely to have been used and submitted before

Download this Sample

Free samples may contain mistakes and not unique parts

Sorry, we could not paraphrase this essay. Our professional writers can rewrite it and get you a unique paper.

Please check your inbox.

We can write you a custom essay that will follow your exact instructions and meet the deadlines. Let's fix your grades together!

Get Your Personalized Essay in 3 Hours or Less!

We use cookies to personalyze your web-site experience. By continuing we’ll assume you board with our cookie policy .

• Instructions Followed To The Letter
• Deadlines Met At Every Stage
• Unique And Plagiarism Free

• International edition
• Australia edition
• Europe edition

I’ve spent a lifetime dreading the loss of a parent. And now it’s finally happened

I am shocked at how shocked I am. Why are we so unprepared when the inevitable comes to pass?

R ound at my mate’s house, one Saturday morning when I was 17 years old, something astounding appeared on his television. This was 3 November 1984. I know this for sure because I just looked it up. It was the day Indira Gandhi was cremated. Laid out on a sandalwood pyre, her head clearly visible, her body – her actual body – was in plain sight as her son lit the pyre to see his mother, in the words of most newspaper reports, consigned to flames .

I was aghast, horrified. But my friend’s dad said a thing that made me think again. It went something like this: “No, I think it’s very healthy. Death’s too hidden away in our society. I was in my 40s before I saw a dead body, and it was my father’s. What preparation did I have for that?” These words stuck fast in my mind.

And in the blink of an eye, almost 40 years on, last week it was me finding myself with a dead body for the first time, and it was my dad’s. Where was my preparation for this moment? I’d picked up precious little since watching Gandhi’s mortal remains disappear on that wide-eyed morning half a lifetime ago. Would this moment have been any easier if I’d spent the intervening years in a society less inclined to hide away its dead, in a world of public, coffin-less cremations or wakes with open caskets? I don’t know. I asked a couple of close friends with experience of both, one of Punjabi heritage, the other Irish. They didn’t know either. Both winced at some challenging childhood memories.

I tried to compute what was in front of me. I was surprised at how sure I was that the body itself was now irrelevant. His soul, his consciousness, his – how can I put it? – his himness had vanished. It wasn’t him. This was reassuring insomuch as it rendered what I was looking at kind of meaningless. But that’s not to say I will ever be able to unsee it so, again, I just don’t know.

I remain shocked at how shocked I am at his dying. After all, he was 86, we knew it was coming and it was a mercy to him – to all of us – that it came when it did. And though I loved him greatly, I’m surprised and even a bit guilty about being so terribly upset. It feels not far short of self-indulgent when I share the news with those of my friends who lost parents, let alone siblings and children, way before their time. It’s these tragedies that consume our attention, which is quite understandable, and as it should be. But I for one had slightly lost sight of the fact that standard, common or garden, had-a-good-innings-type deaths of aged parents remain bloody awful.

So, if you don’t mind, herewith, in no particular order, some thoughts. Just stuff that’s occurred to me since my dad had a fall (dread phrase), fracturing his shoulder, on 20 January. He was discharged from A&E that night, and a few days later a rehabilitation bed was found for him in a rural community hospital nearly an hour’s drive away. He died there six weeks later.

Here’s a thing: in the 10 days since, I’ve typed that word died hundreds of times, yet I’m still shocked every time I do so. Just when I was starting to get used to it, I got a text referring to my “dad’s death”. I’d not seen it expressed like that. Death. Death rather than died. It floored me. Odd that. Dying, too; I flinched as I typed that above. Wow. If even the most basic nouns and verbs lie in wait, scattered on this Via Dolorosa like shards of glass, how are you supposed to negotiate any of it?

This little hospital was a nice place, with kindness available to him day and night. But it slowly became clear he wouldn’t be coming out of there. I suppose the thing about a deathbed is that you don’t want to be on it for too long. For a while it felt as if he was stuck between a life he didn’t want to live any more and a death he didn’t want to die. The notion of life being thrown into reverse, into “the whole hideous inverted childhood”, as Larkin put it , turns out to be devastatingly, almost farcically accurate. Of all the many indignities involved there was one that finished me off: seeing Dad reduced to drinking from a sippy cup. A sippy cup, for fuck’s sake. Enough. I just looked up that poem and couldn’t even get past its title. I can’t even type the title here. I may well never read it again.

As the end rushed towards us, I realised that there are two types of people in the world. There are those who are familiar with dying and death, and there are those who aren’t. In the former group are doctors and nurses, emergency service workers, clerics, undertakers and so on. These people, and thank God for them, know what to expect and what to do. In the vast majority are the rest of us, who are woefully – mercifully? – short of “hands-on” experience of the dead. And still less of the process of dying, of the hours, minutes and moments before the end comes.

Initially, alone with him, I veered wildly between fear, gratitude, horror, grief, patience and impatience. I sat, stood or paced around. I did a Wordle, read a Jack Reacher novel, ate a scotch egg. Everything felt a bit wrong. Once the rest of the family were there it felt better. All the above still applied but now a little laughter found its way into the room. And so the moments passed.

And then it happened.

All my life I’d worried about my dad dying. Other close family too, obviously, but mainly my dad. I’ve no idea why. Here I was, around half a century after I first started worrying about this very thing happening. And it had happened. I couldn’t, and can’t, get my head around much at all. About the only thing I am sure of is that 50 years of worrying about it was properly pointless. Because imagining – let’s call it pre-feeling – this pain turned out to be no preparation at all for the real thing.

Peter John Chiles. Born 18 February 1938. Died 9 March 2024.

Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist

Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here .

• Death and dying
• Parents and parenting

Most viewed

Opinion: What I’ve learned about living alone after losing my wife of 42 years

• Show more sharing options
• Copy Link URL Copied!

This year, at the age of 72, I started living alone for the first time in my life.

For 42 years before that, I lived with my wife, Diane, who passed away in December. In college and as a young man, I always had roommates.

When my wife was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer, about a year ago, she tried to prepare me for living alone. She taught me how to do the laundry. She showed me where the contact information was for the various tradespeople who repair our 100-year-old house.

All this was necessary, practical information, but I told her I didn’t understand how I could live without her.

Column: They’re facing an ‘epidemic of loneliness and isolation,’ but solutions are within reach

Adult centers run by Valley InterCommunity Council offer support for those in isolation. ‘If you know anybody that’s old like me, and, you know, needs a friend, I would love that’

May 13, 2023

“We have a wonderful family and really good friends,” she said. “Depend on them.”

This has been good advice, but family and friends don’t live under the same roof as me. They’re not there when I want to complain about a McMansion going up down the block or when I wake from a bad dream in the middle of the night.

It’s also difficult to live alone in a house suited for four people. It was just right for me, my wife and our two children. Now, it feels vast (even though it’s not), and I wander its empty spaces at night like a character in a Gothic horror novel, startled by every floorboard creak.

It would be easier to live by myself if I were more outgoing. Diane was much more social than I am, and she drew a steady stream of people to our door and engaged in conversations with everyone — not just friends and neighbors but also the mailman and Amazon delivery employees.

Guerrero: Why are men so lonely?

Young men, who tend to be more progressive than their elders, are the most isolated. Boys are retreating into the manosphere for reasons beyond addictive technologies.

Jan. 15, 2024

Diane was what my mother referred to as a balabusta — Yiddish for a good homemaker. She was always vacuuming, dusting, straightening. I became accustomed to her literally sweeping through a room.

I miss her familiar motions.

To compensate for their absence, I fill the house with noise and light. I blast the stereo. I turn on lamps in every room as it grows dark. I watch television as I eat dinner with my new best friend, CNN’s Erin Burnett.

I didn’t need the U.S. Surgeon General’s recent report on loneliness to know that it’s dangerous to be alone for extended periods of time. But even on my best days, when it comes to groups I’m not much of a joiner. I tried an online site for people who have lost their spouses, but it felt like being locked in a virtual room saturated with grief. It made me want to be by myself.

Isolation is a slippery slope that can send you splashing down into depression’s depths. To avoid it, I do what my wife advised and see or at least talk to family and friends as much as possible.

None of this, though, teaches me how to live alone.

Second Opinion: We’re in the midst of a global loneliness crisis. Here’s how we can end it

To thrive in a lonely century, we’ll need more goods and services designed to deliver connection such as AI “friends” and daytime discos for retirees.

July 11, 2021

I suspect I just have to avoid being lonely — a neat trick if you can pull it off. I’ve made the effort to keep busy, to exercise, continue working full-time and meet friends for lunch. People tell me that eventually I’ll be ready for a relationship with someone else — the ultimate cure for living alone. I can’t imagine it. Just as I wouldn’t want to be the quarterback who takes over from Tom Brady, I wouldn’t want to be the woman who takes over from Diane. She was the one. For now, at least, I prefer not to date the equivalent of Mac Jones.

I resolve to go on alone and make the best of it, engaging in small talk with the delivery people and listening to sad songs (Linda Ronstadt’s “Long Long Time” is possibly the saddest song ever sung).

As I wander from room to room during my insomnia midnights, the house sometimes comes alive with memories. Diane’s piano still squats in the music room where she taught her students, and I can hear her patient voice correcting their mistakes. Upstairs are our children’s bedrooms where I read them “Green Eggs and Ham” and “Where the Wild Things Are.” The fireplace in the living room used to be our family gathering spot during holidays, the burning, crackling oak and birch punctuating our conversations.

William Faulkner wrote: “The past is never dead . It’s not even past.” I never understood this famous quote until I began to live alone. Diane may be gone and my kids may live more than 1,000 miles away, but the memories keep them close and me, not so much alone.

Bruce Wexler is a book ghostwriter and editor in the Chicago area.

More to Read

Opinion: Does working from home make you lonely? Here’s one fix that won’t have you returning to the office

March 21, 2024

Letters to the Editor: How to be a community elder after losing your spouse

March 19, 2024

To make peace with becoming an empty-nester, I had to be at peace with myself

March 4, 2024

A cure for the common opinion

Get thought-provoking perspectives with our weekly newsletter.

You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.

More From the Los Angeles Times

What the ancient Greeks understood about democracy that Trump does not

March 23, 2024

Granderson: Texas’ immigration law is understandable, terrible and doomed

March 22, 2024

Opinion: AI is turbocharging disinformation attacks on voters, especially in communities of color

Opinion: How to skip the college admissions rat race and still get a degree

• Grand Rapids/Muskegon
• Saginaw/Bay City
• All Michigan

Dear Annie: I was blindsided by divorce after 27 years, and hurts didn’t stop there

• Published: Mar. 23, 2024, 3:04 a.m.

Annie Lane writes the Dear Annie advice column. Creators.com

Dear Annie: My name is “Stephanie,” and my husband’s name is “Travis.” Travis and I have been married for 27 years. About six months ago, I was blindsided with divorce papers. He and his mom made the decision. Yes, you read that right. Anyhow, my husband and I still live together, and the divorce has not moved forward for various reasons. His entire family has completely disowned me, with the exception of my father-in-law, who didn’t get involved.

Travis’ father, my father-in-law, suddenly passed away recently. It was heartbreaking. I sent food, etc. because that is who I am. When the obituary came out online and in the paper, my name wasn’t in it. My husband’s name and our children’s names were, of course, but my name wasn’t. I am so hurt by this. My father-in-law and I always had a good relationship, and I feel like Travis and his mother did it out of spite. I know they did. In my opinion, that was disrespectful to both his father and to me.

How could people be so cruel? How do I move past this? What are your thoughts? Thank you. -- “Stephanie” Left Out in PA

Dear Stephanie: I’m sorry for the loss of your father-in-law, especially during an already difficult time for you and your marriage. After almost three decades of calling Travis’ family your own, you have every right to feel hurt, excluded and disrespected by their behavior. Ultimately, this action speaks much louder of their character than of yours.

Initiate a conversation with Travis to express how this exclusion made you feel and establish a way to interact and cohabit as you move toward finalizing the divorce. It is disappointing that the people you’ve been closest to have started to act in unrecognizable ways, but remember, you can only control your reactions and behavior. Lean on your true friends and loved ones while you grieve both your father-in-law and your marriage.

Send your questions for Annie Lane to [email protected] .

More from MLive

• Olivia Rodrigo’s setlist from her biggest Michigan concert ever
• Oakland University falls to NC State, bounced from NCAA Tournament
• Ex-Tigers slugger eager to win with Mets: ‘I’m addicted to the playoffs’
• North Carolina erases early deficit, remains undefeated vs. MSU in NCAA Tournament: Live updates recap
• SMU fires cousin of Pistons legend ahead of move to ACC

If you purchase a product or register for an account through a link on our site, we may receive compensation. By using this site, you consent to our User Agreement and agree that your clicks, interactions, and personal information may be collected, recorded, and/or stored by us and social media and other third-party partners in accordance with our Privacy Policy.