One Year Ago Today
One year ago today was the last time I got to talk to my dad.
He had been admitted to the hospital two days earlier. When I got there, I couldn’t find him. They said he wasn’t there anymore, and for a moment, I panicked. I remember walking to the front desk, trying to hold it together, just needing to know where my dad was. Eventually, they found him...tucked away in an overflow unit in the day patient area.
When I finally walked in and saw him, he started to cry. And that alone shook me because my dad never cried. But that day, he did. The whole hour and a half I sat with him, he cried. He told the nurse, through his tears, “That’s my daughter.” He called my mom while I was there and cried on the phone with her too. I remember texting her, telling her he was crying because that wasn’t something we were used to seeing.
And something in me knew. I think he knew, too. Deep down, in that moment, I believe he understood it was the last time we’d talk.
We talked about everything that day, Hudson, Nolan, all the sports they were playing, all the little updates I knew he’d love. He listened, and he cried. And even though we hadn’t been on the best terms....we had argued just days before on my son’s birthday but none of that mattered. What mattered was that I was there, and he knew I loved him.
The hardest part of this past year has been realizing he’s not here for this part of our life. My dad was a true sports fanatic. I woke up every morning as a kid to the sound of sports recaps on the TV. Anytime he got in the car, The Fan 590 was already on. He would have lived for this season of life — watching Hudson turn into the hockey and baseball player he’s becoming. He would have been front row, proud, loud, and completely in his element.
This year has stretched me in ways I wasn’t ready for. I’ve always had a hard time expressing my feelings.... I often feel like I’m too much, so I tend to process alone, where I feel safe. But grief has a way of cracking you open. It pulled me out of my solitude and reminded me that I need people. I need community. I need someone I can talk to who makes me feel safe and seen and not like a burden.
And maybe now, I’m even ready to let someone in again. Not to fix me but to walk beside me. Because I’m learning I don’t have to carry all of this on my own.
Grief doesn’t follow a schedule. It lingers. It flares up in quiet moments. But today, I’m holding space for it. I’m honouring the last conversation I had with my dad. I’m remembering his tears, his love, and how much he would have adored the life we’re living right now.
I love you Dad and we all miss you so much, life is harder without you, but I know you're around I can feel it.