I remember the first time I experienced death; I was 6 and my great grandma passed away a few months after I asked my mom what it felt like to die.

Since then I haven’t experienced a large number of people in my life dying; not that the ones I lost weren’t major. The first death I can remember after my great grandma was my grandpa, he was actually my great grandma’s partner but to me he was simply grandpa. I just remember being told he was gone, and I assumed it meant he moved away unaware of what “gone” really meant.

It was a quite a few years in between my grandpas and my grandmas passing however. I remember the last time I saw her like it was yesterday. It was Christmas Day, and yes I know I’m an awful granddaughter for not visiting her for three months, it’ll forever be burned into my brain that the last thing I remember is her crying; crying because her friend Wayne, who was an uncle of mine, passed away. It was the first and last time I saw my grandma cry.

She passed away on March 11th which was a Friday in 2005. It was 8:45 when the phone rang and I remember the pain I felt; the regret. Still to this day I wish I saw her one last time; that I had a chance to say goodbye and that I love her.

5 years later my uncle Doug died, all the pain I felt and all the regrets I had when my grandma passed returned. The same thing happened 3 years later when my Auntie Pat passed away.

The difference with my Dads passing is that I was able to do all the things I wish I had the opportunity to do with my grandma, my uncle Doug and my Auntie Pat; I was able to say goodbye, thank him for being who he is, tell him I loved him one last time while he was still here in person.

However

I still cannot come to terms with the fact that his physically life is over, why his life was cut short. The pain I felt with every other loss is replaced with extreme anger. Why him? Why wasn’t his life important enough to continue? Why do people that are addicted to drugs get to live and my dad died because of something out of his control. People keep telling me the good die young, that everyone has their “time” but his life wasn’t long enough


54
years isn’t enough time.

I’m a huge believer in spirits, in Angels, in something more then this life and I know he’s free now, I know he’s no longer in pain. He fought like hell, exceeded all the nurses and doctors expectations and got to meet two of his grandkids (cause you know there’s gonna be more daddio). His love, his strength and his courage will live forever in mine, my mom and my sisters hearts.

However my anger is making me be selfish; he should be here. A sick dad is better the no dad; a sick grandpa is better then one that’s gone. 54 years old with 27 & 24 year old daughters who still have so many milestones to go through.

Instead of my dad walking either of us down the aisle his picture will be on a memorial table. My future kids won’t grow up with a grandpa just Like I did.
His life shouldn’t of been cut short, but I know he was tired of fighting.

His passing hit me differently then the others not because I loved him less but because I loved him more; he brought me into this world, well — you know what I mean. Without him I wouldn’t be here.

I understand that he was suffering and that he’s free now which eases my soul — sorta. I’m still angry, but who says there’s a “right” way of dealing with someone passing away 

 

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