Crushing Guilt

A letter to my father:

I’m sorry I wasn’t there

Dad,

I miss you. Father’s Day is coming up and I think of you more often than usual. I miss your voice and your laugh and your sense of humor. I miss everything about you, even the things that always annoyed me. You’re gone now and my life will never be the same. I grieve for you every day. It’s been almost nine years since you died and I still cry everytime I think of you. I want to be mad at you for leaving me, but it wasn’t your fault. Cancer sucks. And even when they told you it was terminal and you might have little more than 6 months to live, you fought with everything you had and made it three years past your diagnosis.

My first memory is of you holding a black and white cat up to me so I could pet him. Our mutual love/adoration/obsession with cats is one of the many bonds we shared. You weren’t just the best father I could have asked for, you were also my best friend. Even as I went through my teenage years and became an adult, we were always close. Always movie buddies and fishing buddies. Late night card games with the cats on the table and laughter that woke the rest of the house were the best times of my life.

When I got my first flat tire I was 22, with a fulltime job and living on my own. I went out to the car to go to work at around 5:30 AM and one tire was flat. You were my first and only call. Even though you had taught me how to change a tire by myself when I was a teenager, my first instinct whenever I had a problem was to call you. And, of course, you came to my apartment immediately (even though you just ended a 12 hour graveyard shift at work), gave me the keys to your car so I wouldn’t be late, and set to fix the tire. You called me at work a few hours later. My tire had picked up a couple nails and that’s why it went flat. And since you didn’t want to risk me getting another flat anytime soon, you bought four new tires with warranties for my car. Mom still scoffs when we talk about those tires. She says she had been asking you to get new tires for her car for months before that, but you always said it would have to wait because it was too expensive. And I didn’t even have to ask. Just the notion that my car might not be safe was enough for you to act. To protect me in the best way you could.

There are so many stories like this I tell my friends. Like when you replaced the gas cap on my car with a locked cap that always got stuck because you didn’t install it correctly. I was never, not once, able to get that cap opened on my own. After several humiliating attempts, on multiple occasions at multiple gas stations, I told you to put the old cap back on. You refused because you didn’t want someone stealing my gas. And so you filled up my tank with gas (and paid for it), every week for over 2 years until I eventually bought another car. Oh, and the car I bought? Thanks for making all the payments.

Then there was the time I was missing your perfect fried rice. I had only recently moved out on my own, and while I love to cook, I had never attempted your fried rice before. So when I called you one morning and asked what ingredients I needed, you gave me this long list of shrimp, pork, steak, green onions, and on and on. I told you nevermind. I was working late and would not be going to the store to get all that stuff just for fried rice. When I returned to my apartment after work that evening, there you were, in my kitchen cooking fried rice with the entire counter and fridge full of groceries. You always worked the graveyard shift, but you called in sick that day so you could get me groceries and make me dinner.

One year, I was dealing with some particularly stressful problems at work. It was weighing on me and making me feel dejected. Of course I told you all these issues and you gave me encouragement and advice. A few days later it happened to be Valentine’s Day. You showed up at my work with roses and chocolates just to cheer me up. I am bereft without you. You have always been my protector, my friend, and my safety net. You were the best father and taught me everything you could. The only thing you didn’t teach me was how to live without you. I admit that I have always been a spoiled daddy’s girl. But how do I move on when I don’t have you to share and laugh with? You knew me better than anyone, and I will never find someone that understands me the way you did. You gave me the gift of knowing I was loved and protected and prioritized. It’s agonizing knowing the person that loved me most and always put me first is no longer here. I will never experience that again. It’s selfish, but there it is. Our father-daughter relationship was rare and special. And it breaks my heart that I will never hear your laugh again. There will be no new stories to share with friends and no new adventures for us to experience together.

When you were diagnosed, I appointed myself your primary caregiver as mom still had to work to support the family. I don’t regret that decision for one moment. What I do regret is the way things ended. I took a job to help with finances. I had to go out of town for a few weeks to train for my new position. The plan was to return home every weekend to see you and then start my part-time job on the overnight shift when I returned. That way I could contribute a little financially, but still be there for you during the day so you wouldn’t be alone. The more your illness took over the more I noticed your reluctance to be by yourself. I could tell it was getting close, but chose to ignore it because I couldn’t even fathom a world without you in it.

You were awake that early morning before I left for the airport. I would be 1500 miles away. You hugged me goodbye and said, “this isn’t going to be the last time I ever see you, is it?” I hugged you harder and said, “of course not. I’ll be home again in five days, dad.” And then I left. And I never saw you again. Two days into my trip I got the “911” text message that devastated me and had me instantly crumbling. You were gone. I didn’t get to say goodbye or I love you or you are the most important person in my life. I didn’t get to say thank you for teaching me so much and loving me with a devotion that no one can ever replace. But mostly, I am so sorry I wasn’t there for you. You were there for me every single time I needed you. I could always count on you, no matter the situation. And I wasn’t there during your last moments. Such an easy thing for me to do, and I failed. I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. The guilt of letting you down is killing me. And I deserve it. You never let me down. I’m sorry you can’t say the same for me.

I love you, Dad. I miss you every single day. I am grateful for every moment we spent together. And, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.