Dad, the pain of missing you feels endless—boundless, deep, and sharp. It cuts through me like a bruise I can’t stop pressing, each memory both a comfort and a wound. I cherish those memories; they make me smile, bring me joy. But then, the gut-wrenching realization hits me: that’s all I have now. And it knocks the wind out of me.
I can’t focus on anything but you. I scream internally. I’ve screamed externally, too, but even that felt empty. Nothing brings relief.
This grief is more than I’ve ever felt—more than I ever want to feel again. I hate not having you here. And I feel so guilty for so many things. I know you’d be mad at me for that, but I can’t help it.
I feel guilty that you begged for milk during our last ER visit, but because you still wanted to fight, you couldn’t have any in case you went into surgery. I disliked milk before, because you raised me on powdered milk and you'd always take a sip, your mustache hairs floating on the surface like a spider on a lake... now I really hate milk.
I hate that I felt you were leaving weeks before you did, and yet I let life’s obligations pull me away instead of just being with you. I told Bryce I felt you leaving me, leaving this life. I felt you disconnected. I spoke those words OUT LOUD and I still did not act on my fears. I still wasted my time.
I hate that the day you went to the ER, I couldn’t face reality, so I went to pick up your meds—knowing full well they wouldn’t change anything. It was all I could do to stay strong for you, to try to fix things. I hate that I did that. I hate that I wasn't more vulnerable but I didn't want you to leave here seeing me scared. I didn't want to see me as your helpless and terrified daughter, instead I wanted you to see the brave, strong, confident, and smart human you created and raised. I wanted you to die proud. I hope you did.
I hate that I didn’t ride in the ambulance with you. I hope you weren't scared.
I hate that I had to be the one to say it was time to stop fighting. The doctors told me I was doing the right thing, that I was brave, that I was giving you the best gift I could. I appreciate that, but I don't know that it will ever feel right. To give the green thumb to give up. You never gave up on anything. I am sorry I did.
I hate that I couldn’t do more.
I hate that I don’t know if that’s what you wanted—if you were waiting for a miracle or if you were ready.
I hate that of all the people who could make me feel better about this, it would be you—and I’ll never have that comfort again.
I hate that instead of laughing with you, or dreaming with you, all I can do is remember and mourn.
I hate this.
My life is so incredibly magical right now, and yet I can’t shake the connection—this undeniable truth—that with losing you, I also gained the freedom to chase my dreams. I know you hated needing my help. I know you loved seeing me succeed. But with every project, every win, every new connection, I feel endless pain—because you’re not here to experience it with me. Every Monday I am smacked with the reminder you are gone because every Monday, we would chat about the weekend and the wild adventures I went on.
And for what it’s worth? I’d trade it all to be your caregiver again. If that was my only purpose in life, I’d take it. I’d hold your hand—or your lump—over and over again.
I want to go back.
I want to be a kid with you again, back when nothing else mattered. I want to ice fish with you, to sit between your arms on the sled as we rode home to the “cabin”—our home.
I want to sing loudly and talk about my kindergarten crush, even though I now know you heard everything I said.
I want to wake up and drink hot cocoa coffee with you, fully believing you invented it—only to later discover it was just a mocha.
I want to watch King of the Hill and Fear Factor, adjusting the bunny ears just enough to make the picture clear.
I want to wash our feet in salt water after a long day in bunny boots.
I want to chase emus around the yard—the get-rich-quick scheme that ended with me ratchet-strapped to a massive bird, screaming down the road while you chased after us on the three-wheeler.
I want to go to the outhouse in the morning and find OC or I ❤️ U scribbled in the snow in your pee—gross, but somehow still endearing.
I want to eat Russian tea cakes and chocolate-covered cherries under the glow of Christmas lights.
I want to check the trapline with you, feel the excitement of coming up on a set, hoping there was something there for us.
I want to go back to elementary school, proud of my moose loaf sandwiches, smoked salmon strips, crackers, cheese, and cookies. I remember feeling like the “stinky kid,” but now I know—that smell was good food. The teachers always said I had the best lunches (and probably the worst hair, but that was okay—Mary Gunderson brushed it for me).
I want to go back to Fred Meyer or Walmart, during those trade-offs between you and Mom. I want to hear your whistle as you hid between the aisles, coaxing me to find you.
I want to feel that excited to see you again.
I just want to see you again.
I can’t believe how much this hurts.
I can’t believe how long I knew you were dying, and yet—I still have so many regrets about the time I didn’t spend with you.
I love you, Dad.
I miss you a little extra today.
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