Losing your dad at 21

My dad died when I was 21. The disease that took his life was called Creutzfeldt-jakob disease (CJD). It is extremely rare incurable, and fast and I found my self stuck in a state of shock, and thinking about the what had been and what should’ve been but never would be. I couldn’t believe that my dad was the one who had died, it didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real, he was my dad. But it was, and I stood at his visitation being hugged by crying strangers who I knew my dad hadn’t seen in years as they told me how much they loved him. I knew it was a typical thing when people died, for people to show up from the past, but I cringed every time they touched me while sobbing on my shoulder, because I knew they could never love him as much as I did. Or do. Talking about your father in past tense is just something you never want to do. Losing my dad was and still is the hardest thing I’ve ever been through. And I searched and searched for answers on how to handle it, or if I was handling it right, but no one talks about losing your dad when your 21, because you’re not supposed too. So here’s what I’ve learned so far.

 

It’s a rollercoaster. I know growing up; my worst fear was my parents dying. I thought I would cry all the time, and not be able to function in every day life. But once it happens, you’ll realize it’s not like that at all. There are days I don’t want to get out of bed, and I’ll sit and look at pictures of us while crying to the saddest songs imaginable. There are days where I am happy and smile at the memory of my dad rocking out to Hannah Montana, and there are days when I forget that my dad died at all. It’s not a perfectly laid out path. It doesn’t make sense to anyone, and most of the time it won’t make sense to you, but it doesn’t have too. It’s confusing, and I don’t know if I’ll ever understand how I can feel such an array of emotions in such a short amount of time, but don’t fight them. There’s no right or wrong way to do this. A lot of the time, I find myself asking, can I be happy? Is it okay that I’m laughing? My dad just died, shouldn’t I be heartbroken? But I’m learning it’s okay, be happy, laugh with your friends. My father loved to make me happy, and I know that he’d want me smiling now. I know he wouldn’t want me to put my world on hold; I have to much to do in his memory.

 

Speaking of putting my world on hold, Stephen Chobosky was right, life doesn’t stop for anybody. When my dad died, I really thought the world stopped. He was my hero, my best friend, and everything I wanted to be, and all of the sudden that was gone. The first few days, it did stop. I avoided my friends and family, stopped writing, didn’t get out of bed, and didn’t think about school or the other obligations school held for me. But I realized I couldn’t do this forever and four days after my dad died, I packed up my things and went back to school, because I knew he would want me too. My dad was always excited I was at such a great university playing the game he and I both loved. He’d call me everyday just to talk about what I had learned and how practice went and he was always so genuinely excited that I got excited too. He loved who I was becoming, so I have to become her, and to do that, I have to finish what I started. I know his pride in me didn’t die with him, so I have to keep that going everyday, no matter how hard it is to get out of bed that morning.

 

But while I know the world doesn’t stop, you have to allow yourself to feel the pain that his loss brings. Embrace it. Don’t run away. Being a 21 year old college student, I feel a constant need to be tough. Don’t cry, be strong for your family. But the truth is, when your dad dies, you feel like a five year old lost in a grocery store. And as hard as I tried to fight it, I lost every time. I still try to fight it at times, but allowing myself to feel the loss is something I owe to my beloved father and myself. I’m not saying that feeling this pain is easy, it’s anything but easy, but loss is unavoidable, and if you don’t deal with it now, it’ll eventually catch up with you.

 

While you allow yourself to feel this pain though, here’s a simple warning, there is nothing anyone can say to fix it. I reached out to my closest friends, hoping they had an answer, but it seemed like everyone said the same thing. “I’m sorry, he loved you, there is a reason and plan for what is happening.” I kept hoping someone would find the perfect thing that stopped the hurting, but it’s not fair to expect that from people no matter how much they love you. As much as I wish that words could bring my dad back, they can’t but your friends and family are there for you nonetheless, even if it is just to listen and cry with you.

 

While we’re on the subject of words, a reason or a plan doesn’t help this process. And it never will, but you’ll hear about it. This is the portion that many will disagree, but I don’t want to hear that there’s a reason or a plan for my father’s death, at least not at this point. It doesn’t make it easier that he passed away, or soften the pain I feel. The way he died was unfair and unbelievable. Don’t let anyone steal your grief; don’t let anyone numb your sadness with a reason or a plan. Loss hurts; life hurts, and no amount of reasons or plans can fix it.

 

I believe the hardest part for me though, is searching for a reason why. I searched, and still search for an answer to why it had to be my dad that died. But I’m learning (slowly) that there’s not one for me to find. Death has no explanation, death does not care that my father was extremely loved, death does not care that his daughter needs him, death does not care he had served his country for years, death does not care that he didn’t deserve this. Death does not need a reason, and while I wish I could find one, it’s a waste of time.

 

And if that isn’t the hardest part, the guilt is. I was a good daughter. I spent time with my father, called him all the time, and tried to be the daughter he deserved. But sometimes the guilt still eats away at me. I went to school 10 hours away, and while that made him proud, I sometimes feel as if I should have went closer. The past four years, I didn’t spend as much time with him as I wish I could’ve now that he is gone. I should’ve stayed home during the summers. I should’ve practiced when he asked. I should’ve came home earlier before the disease took away his voice. I should’ve done a lot different. But I can’t think about that, but I always do. When this happens, I remind myself he wouldn’t want this. I remind myself how he used to talk about how lucky he was to have me as a daughter. I think about how I would stay at home on Friday night, just to watch something on HGTV or history channel with him. There’s always going to be something you wish you could’ve done differently, but don’t let that overshadow all the things you did right.

 

Losing a parent at any age isn’t easy, but no one talks about losing a parent at 21. While losing a parent is going to hurt no matter how old you are, there is something special about losing them when you’re at this age. While many older people tried to explain to me their process of losing their dad, I couldn’t help but think “it just isn’t the same,” and it’s not. My dad will never walk me down the aisle, meet his grandchildren, or help me repair something on the house that I own. He won’t be there when I graduate from college, teach at my first school, or hug me when I turn 22. And it’s hard to accept that. But I know he’s watching out for me, smiling every time I do something great, laughing every time I curse him for something he once did, and reaching out for me every time I cry. Losing a parent at 21 isn’t like losing a parent at 52 or even 35. But every encouraging word helps.

 

I miss my dad more than anything. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t find myself wishing I could call him and tell him about what has happened in my day. I miss his voice, his good morning texts, and his advice when I was in a hard spot, I miss everything. But at 21 years old, I have so much in front of me. I have so much to do, and so many things I can achieve, and that excites me. I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but after it now being a month, absolutely nothing about this has gotten easier, but I am slowly figuring out how to deal with his loss. I know I will never heal, I know it will never be the same, but I know I will get stronger, because my dad raised me to be strong, which I am so thankful for. If you’re reading this, and your dad is still in your life, call him. Tell him you love him, drive home and have dinner with him, let him know he’s important. Trust me when I say, you do not have the slightest clue what could happen at any given moment.

 

 

Dad, I wish you were here, I wish I didn’t have to write something like this, but thank you for being the best dad imaginable. I was lucky to have you for 21 years. This is only the beginning of my journey without you here, but I promise I’m going to make you proud. I am so thankful I am your daughter. I love you. Forever.