When Dad Dies and You’re Just a Kid

When I was fifteen, I was called in to the principal’s office, clueless about why I was summoned. I was a good student, involved in more extracurricular activities than your average kid and never looked for trouble. So why was I going to the office? When I arrived, they redirected me into my guidance counselor’s office. “Okay, this is really strange,” I thought. When I noticed that my sister was already there, I probably should have been worried, but I actually relaxed a bit. We were both on the Student Council, so I figured it probably had something to do with an upcoming activity. But when I saw the look on Mr. Smith’s face, I immediately started to tense up. Kids have a way of quickly recognizing discomfort in adults. Something was definitely wrong.

He stumbled over his words. Not only was he uncomfortable, he seemed sad about whatever he was trying to say. Finally, the words fell out like hand grenades. “Your dad…he’s in the hospital…we need to take you over there…right away.”

Now I was numb. Before that moment, life was pretty simple. We rushed around from activity to activity, performed in skating shows, went to basketball games, did our homework, yada yada, but I knew, right at that very moment, that everything was about to change. Drastically.

I don’t remember the drive over to the hospital. The next moment I was walking into his hospital room. He looked weak and pale. I’d never seen him like that. I had no experience with this kind of situation, so I had no idea what to say or do.

The entire week seemed to float by me as if in a dream. I hoped and prayed that I was dreaming, but it was all very real. When you’re fifteen, every little incident at school seems like a meeting at the UN, but, when tragedy strikes, it all disappears in an instant. I don’t remember a single thing about school from that last week in February so many years ago. I just remember the hospital.

The experience felt light, as if it floated on a cloud, yet my mind felt heavy, as if I were trudging through sludge. In some ways, that week felt like a year, yet, looking back on it, it seems like an instant.

The doctors told us that, if heart attack victims hang on for six days after the episode, some large percentage of them survive. As the days turned to night, I kept hoping and praying. “Great! Another day! He’s almost at six.” On the sixth day, the hospital staff told my mom that it would be best if I stayed home, because I had a cough and might compromise him in some way. It was a day that I would play over and over in my mind for years to come. I planned an elaborate visit for the seventh day. I would wear a mask to avoid getting any germs on him. I would come in with a clipboard, pretending to be a doctor. Those things would never come to pass.

On that long sixth day, Mom called from the hospital and assured me that he seemed to be doing better. Later, when a colleague of my dad’s called from his office, I remember telling him, with great hope, “Oh, he’s doing better. They think he’ll be coming home soon!” I’ll never understand why adults ever feel the need to reassure kids by lying to them or withholding the truth. He died that night – the night of the sixth day.

Being the youngest in my family, you’d think that relatives would have looked after me, handled me with kid gloves (just as they thought they were doing when they didn’t reveal the truth about his condition). Instead, I was asked to handle some of the more adult level tasks. For example, someone had to call my eldest sister, who had returned to college (because she, too, believed he was getting better), to give her the news.

I remember that moment so vividly. This was a time before cell phones, a time when you put dimes and quarters into pay-phones. Without hesitation I strode over to the row of phone booths and inserted my coins. I didn’t reach her right away. Her boyfriend answered the phone and gave me another number where I could reach her. When I finally heard her voice, I was nearly speechless. I dug deep to find the courage to spit out the words, “Sis, he’s gone.” No response. “He’s not here anymore.” Silence. “He died.”

Sometimes, when I look back on that time, I still can’t believe that I was the one who had to deliver the news.

The next few weeks went by in a blur. I remember going shopping (!?) with my sister. We had to find something to wear to the funeral. Why nothing in our existing wardrobe would suffice is beyond me. I really have no idea what inspired us to go to the mall, but we did. Even more curious, though, was the fact that we bought white clothes, not black…white. I chose a white skirt and a soft, short sleeved blue blouse with little flowers. I don’t remember what my sister wore, but I know it was white.

Another curious fact? I never cried. One of my closest friends broke down and cried and even asked me, “Don’t you feel like crying?” I didn’t.

I simply didn’t know what to do or how to grieve. I yearned for a book or a person with expertise to tell me what was happening, to explain how I should act, to describe how I should feel. I’ve never felt so lost and confused.

It’s been nearly three decades…three decades (!) now. That’s so hard to believe. The first decade or so, I dreaded the month of February. I wore black more often during the month and always on the day of his death. As more years have passed (and I’ve experienced more losses), I finally know how terribly important it is to go through a process of grieving. Sure, everyone goes through it in her own way and at her own pace, but we all need to go through it.

Today, there are plenty of books about death and dying, both for adults and kids. Anytime I hear about someone dying and I know that there are kids involved, I advise the relatives to get some books for the kids. At the very least, give them something to read to help them believe that they will make it through this awful time. Help them to see that there is a light at the end of this dark, foreboding tunnel. Help them to comprehend that many kids erroneously believe it’s somehow their fault – but it’s not.

Nearly three decades have passed. I never knew my father as anything more than a dad. He never knew me as anything more than a child. He wasn’t there to walk me down the aisle at my wedding, to congratulate me when I earned my degrees, to hold my kids when they were babies, or see them grow into the lively kids they are now. Sure, I’m sad about that. But you know what? His death made me the person I am today. I didn’t comprehend that for, I don’t know, the first couple of decades or so, but I believe it now. I would have been a different person if he had survived. His death made me more determined to excel, to make him proud (wherever he is), to live a healthy life, and, most of all, to enjoy each moment – because you just never know which one will be your last.

So…thanks, Dad. I only knew you for a little over a decade, but you taught me so much. And…wherever you are…I hope you know…I love you…still.