My Dad Died Today
My Dad is gone.
His truck is still in the driveway, his cell phone is on the table next to me, his keys on the rack by the door. But he is gone. All the prayers and science in the world couldn’t keep him here.
As a mental health therapist, I spend a lot of time processing with and sometimes even challenging clients regarding the concept of “SHOULD.” As in, who are we to expect anything SHOULD happen or not?
But here’s the thing. My Dad SHOULD be enjoying the retirement he waited 30 years for. He SHOULD get to meet his new daughter-in-law and grandson on the way. He SHOULD have gotten this vaccine before I did. He SHOULD be plotting with his friends about how to start his music shows again. He SHOULD have died an old man in a nursing home after years of refusing meds and flirting with the CNA’s.
There is nothing fair or just about taking someone like my Dad from this Earth, in this way. There’s no mercy in allowing COVID-19 to slowly torture his body from the inside out for over a month, or in being left behind in a world that insists on moving forward, dragging you along with it despite your attempts to dig in your heels. There’s nothing to say after watching the color drain from his already lifeless body; he didn’t even get to take a final breath — the machines did it for him. I will not be “stronger” for this; I was already strong — now I am hollow. And whatever “greater purpose” it’s all for, I don’t want any part of.
But I also know this — Bill McGrath was loved. He died today surrounded by his family, with his favorite music playing in the background, and some of the most skilled and compassionate treatment providers in existence. There was no stone unturned in trying to keep him here with us.
The last thing he said to me the day I dropped him off at the ER was, “See you on the other side…” — and he turned his back and hobbled through the automatic doors, alone. He tried to cover the break in his voice with a nervous laugh, but even then we both knew deep down what he meant.
I don’t know where he is now, or what the fuck I’m going to do without him. But I’m thankful he was mine.
(Author’s note: Content was written on 4/11/21)
