Losing a Parent: A Beginner's Guide

 This is an excerpt from the book “I Have No Business Being Here” - available now. Read the whole collection here.

Likely at some point in your life, you will lose a parent. Whether you're 18, 28, 38, or 68 – it is never easy. I've been dealing with this for three days, but here are seven things I wish I knew going into it.

1. IT IS THE LITERAL GODDAMN WORST.

Yeah, that may be an understatement. I think because we are faced with death and violence in our entertainment, it blunts you to the figurative concept of death. I binge-watched Criminal Minds last summer and I've seen all the episodes of the new season. All told that is 254 episodes, and figuring for an average of 2 dead bodies per episode (which is an incredibly conservative estimate) I think I have probably seen 508 people die or be dead.

That was absolutely nothing compared to watching a person I loved so much – who used to have color in his cheeks and be walking around having opinions, making jokes, telling me he loved me – be lying still, bereft of life. It is the worst. You want them to sit up, tell you that they're kidding, that they're fine, and that they want to go out for a steak dinner.

2. IT CHANGED MY VIEW OF LIVING/DYING AND BODIES.

This summer I coincidentally read the book "When Breath Becomes Air" about a neurosurgeon who is diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. He explores the relationships between living and being alive. If you are breathing and your heart is beating, but your brain is nonfunctioning, you are living, but are you truly alive?

My dad was unconscious for a few days before he died. The first day or so, he could definitely hear us. He reacted by moving his foot, trying to open his eyelids. When I played music for him, he moved his toes and neck. But toward the end, he was motionless. It made me start to wonder when he left. That vessel, the legs and arms that carried him for his 66 years lied there motionless, hooked up to countless tubes, hoses, and chemicals. But he couldn't say hello, or laugh, or eat, or hug anyone. What is being alive if not those things?

As he was taking his final breaths, I leaned down and whispered to him. I hoped he could hear me. I believe he could. I squeezed his hand really hard, because I never wanted to forget what that felt like – not just how his hand felt but how it felt when it was warm and while he was still in there.

Later on, after we left the ICU room and were out in the waiting room, the nurse came to the waiting room to tell us he was "ready" for us to go back in and see him. This seemed weird to us. We had no idea what she was telling us to do. My aunt and I were feeling brave, so together we walked back into his room. My dad was in the same bed, but he now had a yellowish hue to his skin.

And I should clarify, I don't think my dad was in there. The body he once occupied was now vacant, the tenant had moved out, and the crew had come in to clean up. Not to mention, someone had slicked his hair down. This was a major transgression. My father was a handsome man with dark tan skin, big blue eyes, and a killer hairstyle. He would never slick his hair down under any circumstances. He avoided hats and swimming to avoid messing up the 'do. I did what I could to fluff it up.

As I stood beside my aunt while she said her goodbyes, a little man from nutrition services wheeled in a cart with a coffee urn and cups, little packets of Splenda and creamer, a tray of assorted cookies.

"For the family," he said.

I thought of all the times my dad squeezed my shoulder, amused when I let out a well-timed quip or joke. I looked to his lifeless body. I squeezed his cold hand. And I replied, "We actually don't know this guy."

The man froze then tried wheeling the cart out.

"No no," I said. "Leave the cookies."

3. IT MAKES YOU DREAD THE FUTURE.

Each time a future event/holiday comes in my mind, I'm like "Blah I don't even want to do that." A big family tradition was going to the State Fair of Texas together. The fair is about to open. Despite the promise of corny dogs and Big Tex, I don't even want to go.

My dad was my favorite part of holidays. He would sit on a sofa, or stand in a corner, unnoticed. When I approached him, he always had something funny to say. He was always there, teasing the little kids, sipping his drink, trying to watch the Cowboys game despite the cacophony of voices. On Christmas, he would be bullshitting with the guys. When we gave him gifts, he would react with such surprise and delight: "You didn't have to do that!" I love my family. I really do. I'm very lucky in that regard, but the idea of Thanksgiving and Christmas without him seems pointless.

4. IT MADE ME THANK MYSELF FOR MY RABID TENDENCY TO DOCUMENT THINGS.

I have 16,000 pictures on my iPhone. I also have a ton of voicemails I have not deleted. In going through those, I found 21 voicemails from my dad, including two birthday voicemails where he's singing me "Happy Birthday." In my phone pictures, I found 100 pictures of him and screenshots of conversations we had and quotes he said. I am so glad I documented as much as I did. Anytime we were together, I took a photo with him.

I also saved a ton of cards from him and my mom – birthdays, graduations, Valentine's Days. I found the best inscription in one of them and I am so glad I saved them in the "box of junk under the bed" I could never bring myself to get rid of. It said, "Every time I hear of something you said or did, I always say, 'That's my daughter.' I am so proud of you. I love you very much. Dad."

You don't have to wait for holidays or important events to take pictures together or write cards or texts. Make every event with your loved ones a celebration and document it. You never remember all you hope you will.

5. IT MAKES YOU FEEL LOVED.

I have had so many people reach out to me. I have friends who I've been close with throughout his sickness bring me food. I have friends who I haven't talked to in years reach out with funny stories and memories of him. I have friends in other states, in other countries, on other continents who have reached out. Thank you, to every single person who has even said a simple "I'm sorry." That makes it better by tiny increments.

6. IT MAKES YOU FEEL LUCKY.

I have a real problem with self-pity because my mind immediately goes to all the people who've had it worse than me. I am nearly 31 years old. I got all 31 of those years with my dad. The cruel truth is whether I live 31 more years or 61 more years (I am working on living to be in my 90s like Carl Reiner), I won't get to do it with my dad around.

But I have friends who lost parents when they were teenagers. My dad got to see me accomplish a lot throughout my twenties. We got to do a ton of fun things together – take trips to Chicago, Niagara Falls, Mexico and Las Vegas. I got 10 more Thanksgivings and Christmases and Father's Days than some others got.

And as sad as it was watching him be sick, it also helped ease us into the idea that maybe he wouldn't be around. At no point did we give up. Even on the day he died, we were asking the doctors for a miracle. But the sweet-faced resident in square framed glasses had to tell us, his voice sweet but regretful, that our dad was "actively dying" in front of us.

I need to point out how graceful and big-hearted my sister, Shannon, is. As she and I cried after hearing this news, she wiped her tears with the raggedy hospital-issued tissues, pieces breaking off into her eyes. She took a breath and said, "It must be so hard for that doctor to have to tell people news like this. I feel so bad for him." In an incredibly devastating moment, she found space in her heart to be concerned about this physician and how this news, which was horrible to us, must have been horrible for him, too.

Even though his being sick for 24 days seemed so sudden to us, I have had friends whose fathers had heart attacks on the sidelines at soccer games, sitting in the easy chair at home, or toiling away at work. They passed away suddenly. There are people who get killed violently in car wrecks or work accidents or worse.

I don't think many of us get to choose how we die, but I think being surrounded by a loving, dedicated family who refused to leave his side or let go of his hands up until the very end is not a bad way to go. Hearing his son-in-law say, "Go easy, I'll take care of them for you," gave him peace. Hearing my sister and I whisper in his ears that we loved him as the last things he heard are way more than the average person gets to experience in their final moments on this earth.

So when my aunt and I were in the room after he was gone, she said some final sweet words. I took a deep breath. My aunt and I stared down the cart of refreshments. We debated on whether we should take it to the waiting room where ten more family members were waiting.

"It would go to waste here," my aunt said.

"Should we ask if it's ok?" I said.

She looked from left to right and a smiled formed on her lips. "Ask forgiveness not permission," she said, before standing behind the cart and whisking it down the hall and out the doors.

The last thing I did was reach under the blanket and squeeze my dad's hand – his left hand, the one with the crooked pinky he never got reset after breaking it.

But I knew even then, it wasn't his hand any more, and that helped. It made me realize, wherever he was, he was no longer in that body.

Back in the waiting room, our family descended on the cookies, pouring themselves little Styrofoam cups of coffee from the silver dispensers on the cart. We told everyone how we swiped the cart without permission. The tension in the room settled.

I sat on a sofa alone and watched the sunset through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man hovering near the cart. Our cart. He looked over his shoulders in turn before stealing a cookie.

Hey! Those are OUR death cookies, I thought. We had to trade a whole person for those. I smiled to myself and looked at the spot beside me, wondering what whispered remark Daddy would add. I heard his voice. If you've got to die for the cookies, I don't want to know what you have to do for the coffee.

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