It’s been 10 days since you took your last breath on earth. 10 days since i stepped into the ICU, only to see your eyes closed and your chest unmoving. 10 days since I tucked my fingers into your still-warm hands, and smoothed your hair into its already-perfect wave as I sobbed my too-late goodbyes.

It’s been 12 days since I last heard your gravelly voice say, “Love you, too, baby.” 12 days since your hazel eyes looked knowingly into mine. 12 days since I rubbed your feet, one of the few comforts we could offer you in an ICU unit. 12 days since I was able to ease your pain in some small way.

It’s been 13 days since we removed your vent, sobbing and expecting you to take your last breaths as we gathered around your bed so sorrowfully, only to hear you snore a bit. Then you opened your eyes, rasped a “Hey, baby” at your wife, and told us all you loved us. I praised God! I was so sure you had come back to us, just the way you always have.

There was never going to be a good time to lose you. There were never going to be enough “I love you”s spoken between us. Never enough holding hands at your bedside, feeling the reassuring warmth of those familiar fingers. I will always be grateful I was there with you the day after your heart attack, to see you stirring, coming back to us for a few more blissful hours, opening your eyes and communicating through blinks and squeezes. It was one last joy we could share together.

3 days ago we buried you. I spent a week preparing for it. I picked a funeral home, made sure your body was picked up, wrote an obituary, set dates for the service, helped Mom pick out a casket and flowers. I went to the funeral home and gave them all your information as the informant on your death certificate. I put together a funeral service I didn’t want to go to and wrote a eulogy and chose songs that I thought you would have loved. I set up the sound and the livestream because I knew you’d want all your far-away friends and family to join us. I designed your bulletin, choosing just the right photos and making sure everything was as perfect as it could be. I answered dozens of questions and made decisions that I didn’t want to make. I bought appropriate clothing for my kids and myself, so we would look appropriate and make you proud. I stayed overnight with Mom and cried with her and felt like a stranger in a home that you no longer were in. I put together photo boards to try to showcase all of your life, who you were and what was important to you. I wanted people to know all that you accomplished, all the things you loved. I greeted people at your visitation that I hadn’t seen in years and smiled and laughed at old memories. I didn’t want to do any of it, but it was the only thing I could still do for you, so I did everything I could, as well as I could. Just for you, Dad.

Now it’s all done. The To-Do list is complete, and the distractions are gone. I am left to face the painful reality: You are gone. Gone to your well-earned reward in heaven, to be sure, but the brutal weight of the years of separation ahead continually claws at my heart and steals my breath. I will never again hear your voice as long as I am alive on this earth. I will never again look into your eyes, reading them as easily as I can my own. I will never again shoot the breeze and laugh with you. I will never again see pride and confidence in me reflected in your expression. I will never again listen to your wisdom and find strength for the next battle.

Grief has always seemed to me to be the process by which one eventually accepts a loss. Now that I am here, in this position, I can’t see any way of doing that. I don’t even know if it’s possible to accept it. I think it’s more like losing a body part. If I lost a body part, I would have to learn to live without it, but there would likely never be a day I wouldn’t take it back instantly, given the option. And in this moment, all I want is to have you back.

C. S. Lewis, after losing his wife, said in A Grief Observed: “Aren’t all these notes the senseless writings of a man who won’t accept the fact that there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it?” This is where I am, Dad. In the senseless and suffering phase. Everything hurts. I miss you so much. I selfishly just want you back. I don’t know how to do this without you.

Love,

Tracey

*written March 15, 2025