It has been a year. I still vividly remember the seemingly never-ending ride home filled with the silence of me staring at my shoes. I remember the bumps in the road being more noticeable than usual, my head banging against my knees at every single one. I remember the indescribable numbness and shock in my chest and how I felt sick to my stomach. I remember not being able to sleep that night, staring at the ceiling thinking of nothing and everything at the same time.
My dad died on a Thursday. I found out in the school parking lot after fourth period. My friend’s dad picked me up from school and told me that the ambulance had tried to revive him, but they were unsuccessful. He had passed away and my mom didn’t want to pull me out of school early because she wanted me to have one last normal day.
When my dad told me that he had cancer, I honestly didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I’d heard about plenty of people who lived long lives with their diagnoses, and of course I didn’t think my dad could die. He was a superhuman. He was the guy who picked me up and tossed me around, the guy who protected me from everything that came near, the only guy who would always be there for me no matter what. He was my one and only hero.
I have learned a lot about grieving. I feel like people see movies where girls lose someone close to them and instantly break down, unable to keep themselves together. I felt pressured to act like these girls. I felt like if I wasn’t crying, people would think I was inhuman and soulless for not truly grieving the loss of my father. But the truth is, everyone reacts differently to death.
I found myself surrounded by my own thoughts. Suddenly, I couldn’t hear what other people were saying because my brain spoke too loudly over their voices. I was numb and quiet. When people would laugh and question why I had looked so sad lately, I would say flatly, “My dad died last week,” with a half laugh to diffuse any awkwardness. I found it hard to be happy, but hard to be sad. I felt stuck.
It is now a year later, and I am not the same person. I am louder, more sarcastic and honest, and overall much more confident in who I am and who I hope to be. I have learned to put my truest self forward no matter what people end up thinking about it. I have stopped holding myself back from the things I want. It has become easier for me to cry. In loss, I found myself.
So I want to thank my daddy for teaching me to be confident and love myself. His name is Christopher Jon Read. He was a sailor, computer geek, science-fiction lover, photographer, conspiracy theory enthusiast, handy man, inventor and superhero who always had the biggest smile in the room. Today, I think I am a lot more like him.
– By Lanna Read
