My dad died today. I think the reason that films so often portray the death process as being full of softly spoken final words, gentle tears, and the sad tickling of a piano, is that the truth is much too complicated to express. I’ve had such a strange mix of emotions this last week. There was relief at having reached my dad in time to see him again and despair at his condition. As his body deteriorated, I was disturbed by what we needed to do to keep him comfortable, but also filled with a sense of duty. Everything good and bad that my father had done in life was magnified in my mind, so there was forgiveness as well as happiness. There was also the fear of living life without my biggest safety net and the corner stone of our entire family. Toward the end there was anger at how drawn out the process had become, but mostly there was love.

Early this morning, during a groggy bowl of oatmeal, my mom rushed into the room and said that my dad was dying. I didn’t move. This had happened too often before. His breathing would stop and we would cry over him, both out of sorrow and relief, before my dad would start breathing again. A week ago, we were told he wouldn’t make it through the night, that no one in his condition could survive more than a day. And yet he did. More than once I had tried to convince myself to end his life for him and was thinking about doing just that when my mom interrupted my breakfast. Only when my oldest sister said my name with meaning did I push away from the table and rush into his room. When I got there, it was clear from the weak pulse in his neck that he was going.

He came back to us briefly, a statue come to life for the first time in days. Even the smallest movement felt gigantic; the clenching of his hands, the expression of effort on his face and his mouth opening and closing. And then he was gone. I didn’t cry. I’ve been mourning since we found out that his cancer was fatal, and I’d already done my share of crying during the week I helped take care of him. Hours later, I realized that the man I had seen die that morning, the one more helpless than an infant, was my father. Even though they looked nothing alike, this was the strong, loving man that had done everything possible to care for me and make me happy. The one that had accepted my every fault and forgiven me for countless stupidities. The man that held me when my favorite cat died, and wept because it hurt him to see me in such pain. As ridiculous as it sounds, it took me quite some time to connect the events of the last week with the rest of my father’s life. Only then did I cry, because he didn’t deserve such an ugly ending.

And yet the trying conditions of his final days made it so much easier to let go. My absolute certainty in the afterlife and in my dad’s continued existence are a tremendous comfort. I know with all of my heart that he is with people he loves, such as his mother. Strange to think that he once mourned her, as I do now, and that one day I’ll be with him again, just as he is with his mother now. It strikes me that mourning is mostly us feeling sorry for ourselves, crying at the idea of going without someone we love. I’m not sad that he’s gone because being here was painful for him. He’s okay now, and that makes me okay. We’ll all be okay in the end. I’ll miss him, but that’s a burden that feels more like an honor than anything else.

The weirdest thing about a loss like this is how life goes on. Despite feeling like a part of me is missing, I watch my favorite shows and joke with my family. I eat meals and I snack on cookies. I enjoy the sun, and busy myself with chores or my hobbies. Through all of this, I have my father in the back of my mind, his quirks and sayings, or the memories that we made together, and that’s how it will always be. I’ll never forget him.