the child of a dying man

February 11, 2024 / 35 Comments

Update: I deleted this post a week after publishing it and after people had left wonderful comments. I felt shame for writing something so vulnerable. Too exposed, perhaps. I’m not sure why. But what I know and understand is that it is all part of the process, the evolving emotions and how we deal with them. So, I am proudly reposting it because I don’t want to wipe any part of this complicated and beautiful journey I am on. It’s all mine and is leading me to the place I need to be.

Being human is hard, but, man, am I ever glad I get the opportunity to be one.

Three years ago today, my dad died. It seems impossible. How can that much time have passed? How have I been without him for so long? It’s been a strange process. This grief thing. If it were just grief I had to overcome, perhaps it would be easier. But can the word easy ever be associated with a loss of that magnitude? Probably not. But I believe it would be easier if things had been different. The secret, unfathomable things that occurred still haunt me. The cruel inflictions from those I expected better. How could you? He was my dad, but of the ones there, only he saw me as his daughter—the child of a dying man. I’ve worked hard to pack away that portion of the pain and prevent it from retaking control. But it lurks, always, in the deepest crevices of my soul. Without it, would all of this be easier? Would I have succeeded by now in accepting his suffering and death? Would it hurt less? That I will never know.

Three months after my dad died, my Auntie Lynn suddenly died. Seven months later, my Auntie Linda suddenly died. Six months later, my stepmom died of cancer. And, on Sept 22nd, only a few months ago, my beautiful and precious Uncle John unexpectedly died. He was our connection to those who had passed, and we were his. We took comfort in being in his home, a gathering place where we reminisced and shared our stories of those we loved and lost and where we intensely loved one another. Each time we were together, we held time as something precious – a commodity we couldn’t let slip. There, our hearts were full. But then. In a moment, he was gone. The untold tales lived within him, and now is where they rest.  

In less than three years, my dad, his siblings, sister-in-law, and his wife left us. Only we kids remain—a truly remarkable and unforeseen reality. I’m navigating my grief while my cousins are only beginning to process a world without their parents. They lost two aunts and an uncle on top of it all. What can I say that will help it make sense? There is nothing to be said; it just is. One second, someone is here, and the next, they’re not.

My closest friends have all suffered the loss of a parent or family member in the last three and a half years, all of them unexpectedly, some so tragic you cannot wrap your head around the fact that it’s true. To see them shattered in some of the ways I am wrecks me. Absence brings a permanence that aches deep inside your bones. I wish I could rid them of that pain.

The hard truth about being human is that if you love – loss will bring you to your knees. I find myself preparing, wondering who is next. Each time my phone rings, I feel a ping of dread. Receiving bad news has become such a regularity that I’ve grown frightened of ringtones. It started on June 14th, 2020, and it has not stopped. No matter the chosen tune, it can’t alter the delivery of words that devastate. 

Moving through grief is hard enough, but when I look around, I see a lost world, one teetering on the precipice of something incomprehensible. I feel deep sadness for the unspeakable horrors occurring on multiple continents and fear what is to come. That, combined with the hollowing out of my very being, has left me in a position of involuntary rebuilding. I’ve never known myself better or less. I quite like and detest this new version. Though I’m not quite sure just yet who she is. I find myself longing for that piece of me that always looked to the stars, that believed anything was possible. I want to believe that again—my god, how I want to believe that. 

Peace, love, joy and magic. It’s those things I reach for these days. In whatever form. The other day, I saw a wild boar running in a field. To me, that was magic. My heart almost exploded with joy. I’d never seen such a sight. He was delightfully weird and beautiful and was so determined and focused on where he was going that I found myself rooting for him. Whatever crop he was running towards, I hope he found his way. It reminded me that beauty comes in all forms. And that, even in the deepest throes of grief, something will make you smile, and your heart skip a beat. For me, it was that glorious pig.  

On Jan 3rd, I was scheduled to fly to Paris. The truth is, I didn’t want to go. I felt afraid. The world seems dangerous to me in ways it never has before. But, as much as things change, you change; some things never do. You can only ignore what bellows at you for so long. This dream that has stirred in my soul since I was a child deserves a chance to bring to me what is destined. My responsibility was and is to honour it. I knew I had to get on that plane. So I did. 

I’m in Italy, and I cannot imagine having not left. I feel freedom, the untethered existence only experienced when travelling. It’s as though I’ve stepped through a portal into a world that holds the answers I seek. Here, I will find what I am looking for. Inside me is an innate gift, a knowing that ‘anywhere but here’ will take me to where I most need to be. Right now, that is precisely where I am.

My dad came to me for the first time a few days ago. It shook me because he arrived at the most random moment. His presence was so intense I expected to see him, to hear him say, ‘Hi, kid.’ I would have loved that. Oh, how I would have loved that. But to finally feel him meant everything. I’d been begging and pleading with him to find me. And then, there he was. I’ve not let go and brought him here with me to Florence, and together, he and I are navigating the beauty of our shared dream.

I’m not scared anymore. 

Each time I leave my apartment, my soul awakens, and I become fully present in my life and the steps I am taking. The streets speak to me, and I am listening to what they have to say.

I was once the child of a dying man. Who am I now? 

Tell me…please.

35 Comments

  • Writing to Freedom

    February 11, 2024 at 11:03 am Reply

    I’m so glad to see you and this post back Tanya. You are a dear and loving person. I can’t begin to understand how hard it must have been to lose not only your father but all the remaining elders. I honor you, your loss, your vulnerability, your healing and cherish your presence here. Sending you big hugs and smiles that you’re joy is returning. HNS 🌷💖

    • tanya

      February 11, 2024 at 12:25 pm Reply

      Brad, what a beautiful thing to say – thank you for that. Your words are precious, and I take them in with my whole heart and hold them dear. It’s not been easy, that’s for sure, but though there’s been so much sadness, I’ve also experienced an abundance of joy. I have to hold onto those things and continue moving forward. This life is a wild ride, but I’m thankful I’m on it. You’re the best – thank you again, my friend. HNS ❤️

  • anotetohuguette

    February 11, 2024 at 2:26 pm Reply

    I’m so glad you reposted this beautifully honest treatise on life and loss, I wanted to read your words as I continue to make my way through the loss of my own father almost 6 years ago. I think of him often and twice now have felt his hand in mine, what a joy to feel your own father’s presence as you explore the streets that speak to you!

    • tanya

      February 11, 2024 at 11:23 pm Reply

      Wow, Kim. To actually feel your dad’s hand must have been so gloriously overwhelming. I’m sorry you, too, are going through this process. I’m happy you got to feel him that way. It’s wild. One day, things are stable; the next, it’s a challenge to make sense of it all. But I’m sure it will always be that way. It’s like a movie; I can’t entirely accept that the script is true, that he’s gone. So often, I want to call to tell him something cool, but he isn’t there. It’s such a finality I’ve never felt before. Anyway, thank you for telling me about your dad and the gift of feeling his hand in yours. It is a blessing to feel their presence – thank goodness we both have that. I hope you are well and the weather on the coast isn’t too gloomy! Big hug xo

  • Miriam

    February 11, 2024 at 3:45 pm Reply

    Hi again Tanya, my gorgeous friend who I’ve never met in person but who is know in my heart would be the real deal and a great friend were we to meet, you’re right, it IS hard sometimes but it’s all an ever evolving journey and none of us come out of it unscathed. To choose joy is to honour ourselves, through all the vulnerable bits, so GO YOU for reposting. Your writing is beautiful, from the heart and part of you. Never be ashamed. Love you lots
    And sending big hugs from Vietnam. 💜 xx

    • tanya

      February 11, 2024 at 11:36 pm Reply

      Ahh, Miriam. You brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for saying these beautiful things and being so wonderful. Without question, you and I would be instant great friends if we were to meet. I met you seven years ago on WordPress, and I adore and treasure you. Your words, humour, love and support have guided me over the years, and I’m just so thankful I found you. I promise you, I’ll get there, and we’ll have that glass of wine under the stars. It’s one of the things I look forward to the most. Even though we will be watched by pancake-sized spiders lurking in the trees 😬

      I’m in Nice, France, and my heart has almost exploded multiple times from pure joy. I am happy. The sunsets cast upon the waves are like medicine for my soul. I love it here! I hope you guys are enjoying Vietnam and having the best time. Love you lots, and I am sending oodles of hugs from the French Riviera. ❤️

      • Miriam

        February 12, 2024 at 7:24 am Reply

        Aww Tanya, you’re so kind. What a beautiful thing to say about our friendship. Amazing really to think how long we’ve known each other online and the strong connection that remains despite distance and geography. Yes, I know you’ll get here one day, and we sure will have that glass of wine together. No big fat spiders in my camp thank you. 😁

        Mostly though, I’m so so glad to hear that you’re happy. The joy in your words is palpable and so real I can feel it. We’re happy here too in Vietnam, but it’s also been intense and though we’re loving it it’s not been without its challenges. One day I’ll write a post but for the moment words are elusive.

        Keep enjoying life my friend. That’s what it’s all about. Lots of love and hugs. Bonne nuit mon Ami ❤️

        • tanya

          February 13, 2024 at 2:23 am Reply

          Thank you, Miriam ☺️

          I’m glad you are enjoying your trip, even though it’s been challenging. When you are ready, you will find the words to capture your experience. For now, you just take it all in. I am sending you lots of love and strength and a buttload of hugs. Take good care of yourselves ❤️

  • ourcrossings

    February 12, 2024 at 1:54 am Reply

    This is such a beautiful and vulnerable post that unexpectedly brought me to tears on an early Monday morning. Grief is love’s unwillingness to give up. It’s stretching bonds and redefining limits to create a space where you can love someone in their eternal absence. Having lost a few important people last year, I realised that I have to learn to feel and respect my pain as well as find ways to release my energy. I rotated between wanting to curl up in a ball and cry and wanting to throw everything around me into the wall.

    In these moments, I looked for productive ways to release that energy. I sprinted on the beach, surfed in thrashing waves, and swam laps until I could barely breathe. Getting out of my head and into my body with these intense physical activities helped me release the pain bubbling within and prevented it from consuming me. Thanks for sharing, and have a wonderful day 🙂 Aiva xx

    • tanya

      February 12, 2024 at 10:51 am Reply

      Aiva, thank you so much for reading my post and leaving such an incredibly thoughtful and beautiful comment. ‘Grief is love’s unwillingness to give up.’ I love that. I’m sorry you, too, have had to go through the pain of so much loss this past year. It sounds like you are working your way through it the right way, and I admire your approach and attitude in dealing with it. I couldn’t help but smile when I read about how you release your grief. That’s beautiful and a great way to get out of your head. It sounds like you love the ocean as much as me. It’s there that I find myself the most at peace and connected to myself. There’s something special about it; the sound of the waves crashing and the seagulls squawking comfort me. I’m in Nice, France, at the moment, so it’s like a super magical dose of those things. I’m enjoying all of it and smiling a lot. Again, thank you for your words – they mean a lot and were a reminder to continue doing the things I love. Keep moving forward and healing that heart of yours. Big hugs. xo

      • ourcrossings

        February 25, 2024 at 8:22 am Reply

        Big hugs and lots of love back to you, too! Yes, I love the ocean (and I am glad to hear that you love it, too). I find that the therapeutic combination of Sun, Sand, and Salt (Sea) is the most natural form of therapy as it can leave one feeling awakened physically and spiritually. I hope all is well, and you are enjoying your time in Nice and Seville 🙂 Aiva xx

  • Miriam Hurdle

    February 13, 2024 at 7:04 pm Reply

    Hi Tanya! You made the right decision to repost this post. I didn’t get to read it the first time. It’s my privilege to read it. I can’t imagine the pain you have gone through in less than three years. You didn’t have enough time to breathe in between losing your dad, your Auntie Lynn, your Auntie Linda, and your stepmom. And a few months ago, you lost your Uncle John. You may have felt lost and angry and asked the question, “Why me?” I lost my parents, my parents-in-law, a brother-in-law, and two sisters, but it was over a longer period. I love Aiva’s comment.

    How precious that your dad came to you a few days ago. He loves you and cares about you. He wishes that he didn’t leave you. You’re still his child. Nobody can take that away whether he is with you physically or in spirit. He’s with you in Florence and he’s with you wherever you go. Take care! Hugs!! <3

    • tanya

      February 15, 2024 at 4:36 am Reply

      Hi Miriam! Thank you so much for your beautiful comment. I’m sorry to hear you have lost so many, as well. It’s inevitable, we can’t go through life without losing people, but knowing that sure doesn’t make it any easier when it happens. I’m so grateful my dad came to see me; it’s altered my heart a little and I can feel he has stayed as I carry on this adventure. I’ve just spent two weeks in Nice, France, and am now on my way to Spain. It was his dream to travel, so when I look out the window, I know he is seeing the same beauty I am. Knowing that is comforting to me. I hope you are doing well. Take good care, too! I’m sending you lots of hugs and love. ❤️🤗

  • The Lockwood Echo

    February 18, 2024 at 6:56 am Reply

    Hey Tanya. Your visit to me has brought me here and it’s tugged my heart so hard. What an honest, beautiful and touching post. Just reading the comments shows how much you and your words mean to others. I hope that being so open about your grief and the pain it causes proves to be cathartic for you. So moving to read how your dad has come to you on your travels. A sign you are taking the right path in life and moving through your bereavement with the spirits you hold close right by your side. Starting just before the pandemic, the next 3 years brought me loss on a scale I’d never known before. Not just through death, but circumstance and forced situations. To not recognise one corner of your life is a terrifying reality. I know you too had that ‘what even is my life now’ feeling, and you are a true inspiration for how to navigate that minefield. Thankyou for your being a guiding light. I hope your own guiding light leads you to many more amazing adventures and happiness. xxx

    • tanya

      February 19, 2024 at 1:35 am Reply

      Good morning, beautiful. Thank you for your words. I always feel weird writing things that aren’t funny but so deeply painful. You’ve reassured me that I did the right thing – thank you for that. I know that you’ve been in the thick of it these past few years, and I’m sorry you’ve had to navigate so much pain. ‘What even is life’ is indeed how I have felt. It’s been a struggle to find my footing and to figure out where I fit. Though my feet are more firmly planted, I’m still searching for the place I belong. But perhaps I will always be searching for that. I’ve also experienced the loss of someone who is still very much alive, and it’s been just as difficult to process, so I understand. It’s weird to mourn someone who walks the earth but is unreachable. It’s an ache that can’t be explained. What-ifs and regrets haunt you. I hope your heart is moving towards mending and the most difficult thing…letting go. Ahhhh, that’s hard. Right now, I’m wandering the streets of Sevilla, Spain. My eyes have never seen any place more wondrous and magical. Wow. With each step, my heart and soul are healing and piecing themselves back together. I hope you find the thing that helps your heart and soul do the same. They both deserve peace. I’m sending you love and hugs, my friend. xoxo

  • D. Wallace Peach

    February 18, 2024 at 8:11 am Reply

    I’m so glad you shared the post again, Tanya. One of the lovely things about your writing is how personal and emotive it is, and relatable. The human experience of loss is complicated and diverse, and yet those are the very things that reach across the divide and resonate. Building those human bridges is never a bad thing. Revel in being the complex, messy, beautiful you with all that entails. That’s who we love. Hugs.

    • tanya

      February 19, 2024 at 10:42 am Reply

      You always say the right thing and help me feel more sure about things. Thank you, Diana. You are a wise and beautiful soul, and I’m so grateful for you. I am indeed made up of many parts, and none are to feel bad about. I am me and that’s all there is to it. Hugs right back.

  • Forestwood

    February 25, 2024 at 11:43 pm Reply

    I am glad you re-posted this. It is an important post and sharing it may help someone else who is grieving. Everybody’s journey through grief is totally individual and different, but gosh you have certainly had more than the usual share of loss to deal with in the last three years. A real rollercoaster.
    But now you are embarking on a new journey, a path you have not walked before. It may not be one you are familiar with, nor desirable but it sounds like you have already taking a few steps along the pathway, leaving your apartment and being fully present. It is such a gift to feel the presence of the one you have lost. We do not understand everything about our emotions, our brains, and death. Perhaps your Dad returned for some reason.
    May the memory of that connection help you in your journey. The words you wrote are so true and the essence of loving in life:
    The hard truth about being human is that if you love – loss will bring you to your knees.
    Thank you so much for sharing.

    • tanya

      February 28, 2024 at 6:38 am Reply

      What a stunning comment – thank you. It means so much that you read my post and took the time to leave your wisdom and thoughts. You are so right; he may have returned for a reason. I’m happy he did because I have carried him with me since. We’ve seen a lot of places and experienced unbridled bliss. It’s been healing and an extraordinary adventure. I hope my words help others navigate their grief – thank you for reaffirming that they may do that. Being human isn’t easy, but we must keep moving forward the best way we can. It sure helps to know we aren’t alone. Thank you again; you made me smile and reminded me that I did the right thing. Big hugs.

  • Annika Perry

    February 29, 2024 at 3:19 am Reply

    Tanya, I’ve been checking up now and then on your blog and must have missed your first posting of this. I am thankful to your for sharing it again – for yourself and for our sakes.

    This is one of the most heartbreaking yet heartwarming pieces I have read here. You capture your sorrow with such raw emotion yet such beauty, the grief overpowering with loss of so many close ones, one can barely imagine it. A rage of emotions within you is helping to define a new you – one you did not ask for or would ever be ready for, yet here your are. The dichotomy of liking the new you but wishing with your soul it was different.

    I’m deeply touched how your father found you there in Florence, how you are not ultimately alone on your explorations.

    Your beautiful kind and open soul will find many kindred spirits in person and here too, caring, worrying and thinking of you. Your words offer up a greater wisdom than you probably even realise, a source of comfort and clarification for many, a gift to those suffering likewise.

    I hope your time in Paris continues this great adventure of renewal, discovery, that you find joy in the midst of the grief, lightness in the dark. Love & hugs, Annika xx 💕

    • tanya

      March 4, 2024 at 12:57 am Reply

      Oh, Annika. Your comment touched me so profoundly that it left me unsure how to respond. Thank you for what you wrote – your words will stay with me as I move forward. It’s been difficult for me these past few years; I’ve often felt there’s nothing to write about. But I seem to be finding my way back to the thing I love so deeply, and that means so much to me. Your reading and conveying how I made you feel encourages me to continue. You finding wisdom in my words brings me so much joy. I know how much it helps me to read how others overcome adversity and pain, so if my words offer the same, I’ve achieved everything I could ever hope for. We are in this life together, and none of us is immune to the infliction of sorrow and loss. But if we can hold one another up, offer support when needed, and simply love one another, it makes it more bearable and reminds us that there is goodness and beauty too. You are that for me, a constant and a solid place for me to lean. It means the world. I’m sending you love and hugs and my deepest gratitude. Thank you, my friend. ❤️

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