
Three years ago this month, I lost my dad.
It was on June 11, eight days before Father’s Day.
Losing a loved one is never easy, but to have it happen so close to that special day made the sorrow cut a little deeper.
About two weeks after Mom and I said goodbye to him, we got a call from his primary care physician, who is also my mom’s doctor.
He said some things we both needed to hear about Dad, talking about his resilience, his sense of humor and how he was very in tune with how he was feeling physically.
“He was a walking miracle,” considering everything he had going on, the doctor told us.
The doctor also explained that we shouldn’t feel guilty and shouldn’t think things like, “What if we had done this or that differently?” My dad knew how he was feeling, and if he thought something was off and needed to be addressed, he would have said so.
My dad, most likely, had been ready to go at the time of his passing. He had gotten so tired of the struggle, so tired of the fighting.
And we were just about to have to tell him that, after two months of physical therapy at the nursing home physical rehab facility, according to his medical team, it was unlikely he’d be able to walk again.
He would have had to stay in the nursing home, mostly bedridden. I feel like what little bit of spirit my dad still had left would have evaporated upon hearing that.
It is often said that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and the time frame around when we lost him reaffirmed to me that the Lord knew exactly what he was doing.
My mom and I have processed our grief differently over the last three years. She still talks about him a lot and occasionally will tear up when she looks at pictures of him.
The way I’ve processed it has been, for the most part, subconsciously, I think. Though I still miss him, I don’t talk about Dad much. But there are things I’ve done in the aftermath of his death that, in part, are my way of honoring his life and memory.
I’ve made sure to keep the yard up that he loved so much. There’s no vegetable garden anymore, but the yard still largely looks the way it did when he was still with us.
A year ago, we had an extensive crawl space project done, something that cost a small fortune but which helped fortify the home that he and Mom (and I) cherished, one that holds so many memories of family gatherings.
I’ve also spent the last three years taking care of my mom, something I had planned on doing anyway, but which he specifically asked me to do one of the last times he was in the hospital.
“Take care of your mama,” he’d urged me at the time. “She needs it more than I do.”
Deep down, I think Dad knew that Mom had not only worn herself out taking care of him but that she had put her health second to taking care of his needs.
Just four months after his passing, we learned she had Stage IIIB colon cancer, which set in motion a care plan that we’re thankful to report has given Mom encouraging results so far in her post-chemo follow-up appointments for CT scans and lab work.
A few days from now, Mom and I will do a single balloon release in honor of Dad, a Father’s Day tradition we started the year we lost him. While we’re doing good and holding steady, we still miss you, Dad-o, very much.
North Carolina native Stacey Matthews has also written under the pseudonym Sister Toldjah and is a media analyst and regular contributor to RedState and Legal Insurrection.