Death and My Father

In the span of just a few years, I’ve encountered death more than I ever expected. It’s like an unwelcome guest that barges into your life, upending everything in its path, leaving you to pick up the pieces. The most recent of these was George, my roommate. George was a man who seemed larger than life. He was confident, loud, and unapologetic, the kind of person you couldn’t help but notice when he walked into a room. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he was forceful—he threw his weight around, made his presence known. Yet for all his bravado, George’s life ended in a way that seemed almost tragically quiet. 

At his funeral, I cried. It wasn’t just for George but for the sadness that seemed to cling to his final days. He had an ex-wife who hated him, and his children—especially his oldest—refused to speak to him. It was as if all that strength and energy he carried through life had dissipated, leaving only broken relationships and terminal cancer in its wake. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. No one deserves to go out that way—alone, estranged, and suffering. Death can be cruel that way, stripping away the layers until all that's left is the raw truth of our connections, or lack thereof.

But it was my father's death that really shook me. We were close once, at least in those younger years when life seemed simpler. We used to fish together, casting our lines out into the quiet of the lake, enjoying a bond that felt unbreakable. Then, when I hit 14, things started to change. He became more involved with the church, while I wrestled with my own demons—debilitating allergies and the crushing weight of depression. It was as if two paths that had once run parallel began to diverge. He remained an optimistic extrovert, always looking for the next opportunity, while I retreated further into myself, struggling with undiagnosed ADHD and the dark cloud of my mood. The distance between us grew, and I blamed myself for it. I felt like I had built a wall between us, brick by brick.

Looking back, I realize that depression has a way of cutting you off from the people you love, making you feel as though you have nothing to offer. I suppose that’s what I tell myself now to ease the guilt.

When my father died, people at the funeral were concerned about me. I spent time beside his body, talking to him, rubbing his forehead as though, in those final moments, I could make up for all the lost time. In those last weeks before he passed, something had shifted between us. I was caring for him, and for the first time, I saw a side of him I hadn’t before—a frail, quiet side. It was almost as if, in his vulnerability, we found common ground. I loved that part of him, the part that wasn’t always on display, the part that allowed me to see his own kind of loneliness.

But even in those tender moments, religion found a way to wedge itself between us. Just before he passed, he asked me if I thought he’d see me in heaven. That question—so simple, yet so loaded—felt like a betrayal. Here we were, finally coming together, finally connecting on a deeper level, and then religion had to step in and remind me of all the ways we had been divided. It was as if, in his final moments, my father’s faith had to take center stage, pushing me out of the spotlight. Religion had always been a part of his life, but in that moment, it felt like a personal affront.

And so, as I sat there, trying to reconcile my grief with the complexity of our relationship, I couldn’t help but feel like death wasn’t the end of our story. There was still so much left unsaid, so much that I hadn’t figured out. Death didn’t offer closure. If anything, it left me with more questions than answers.