Cope

Losing somebody you love changes you. It changes the person you are at that time, and the person you’ll be in the future. It’s something that you must cope with, but that’s something a lot of people can’t do. But I did. And because of that, there is nothing in my life that I am any prouder of.

When you’re 12, your biggest concern is what you get to have for a snack at the store, or where all your friends are going over summer holiday. I was that friend who used to go away over the summer or for Christmas. I was the one who used to count down the days until I got to fly in a plane—by myself. Like any other summer, I packed my bags, said my farewells, and hopped on a plane to visit my dad for the summer, overjoyed as always. Plane rides were usually boring, but it’s the thought of the summer adventures I had planned with my dad that kept me waiting in my seat and made the long—three hour—plane ride that much shorter. My dad was, and still, is my best friend, my hero, my strength, my backbone. He helped me fight my battles and he always had my back. He is everything to me.

Summer of 2008 is a blur. I’m not sure if it is because I had that much fun or because I don’t want to remember it, as I was not prepared for it to be the last summer I’d ever spend with my dad. I plainly remember one of my last nights for the summer there, playing horseshoes in the yard, not that I’m any good at it. I remember hearing his voice and hearing his laugh, the way his smile would light up any darkness inside of me, because that’s just what my dad did. He made us feel better, always. I remember the sound of the wind through the cornstalks, and his friendly smile when we were sitting around the fire. He said

“Bump, this is home. These people, these friends. They are home. It isn’t about what bloodline you come from. It’s about who loves you just as much as you love them.” Because of my dad, I have a very close-knit connection with many people whom he welcomed into his life as family and made Tavistock a home for him. Speaking fondly of these people, he told me, “Find your tribe, and love them hard.” And I've done just that. You can call it a family, a tribe, a clan, whatever suits you—but everybody should have one.

You are never truly ready for a last of anything. Last birthday, last summer together, last game of 'shoes, last campfire, last surprise visit for my birthday, last lecture. You can never truly prepare yourself for the devastation and the loss that you’re going to feel when that birthday rolls around, or you play horseshoes with another person. I remember the last phone conversation I had with Dad like I had it yesterday.

“Bump, be careful. Remember, nobody loves you more than I do. Have a good night. I’ll see you in a few days.”

Those few days turned into long, helpless years. Tomorrow will never come anytime soon; that’s something that I struggled so hard to understand, and still, almost eight years later, I can’t comprehend it. It is something I will never fully understand for the rest of my life. Why won’t my tomorrow come?

Death does this. Losing somebody does this. It leaves you empty, hopeless, full of questions, and you have to dig your way back before it gets too late. It’s something that I, myself, have struggled with for a very long time. Digging my way back. I never thought I could do it. I thought I was too unable to piece myself back together. I struggled daily for a long time. I missed school, meals, and my happiness because I didn’t want to live without my dad. I was eventually numbed with the pain. It hurt that much; I didn’t know what to do with myself. I learned that I lost a part of my heart, a part of my soul, a part of my mind and a huge piece of me when I lost Dad. A piece that I’m never going to be able to get back, no matter how hard I fight for it.

I imagine daily what it would be like if my Dad were here. Where I’d be. Who I’d be. I don’t think I would be half of the person I am now. The strength that I gained is something that I will forever be thankful for, no matter where I go in life.

Losing a parent has had such an impact on my life; I lived and I mourned, I’ve denied and now, after eight long years, I can finally say that somehow, I’m beginning to accept. But the pain just hasn’t subsided yet, and I don’t think it ever will.

Many people comment on my strength, and the person that I am.

In all honesty, I had no other choice but to be strong. Coping was, and still is, the absolute hardest thing that I’ve done and that I do on a daily basis.

I get up. I shower. Brush my teeth. Get dressed. Go out. Work. Spend time with my friends. Literally preoccupy my mind, all day, every day. I realized that there are people in my life who need me, who need my friendship, and need me to be who I am. They say that time heals everything; I’ve heard it countless times. But, in reality, time heals nothing. Time doesn’t make the pain go away, because that pain is always there simply, because the person is always gone. It’s not their leaving or the saying goodbye to them that hurts; it’s not facing every day without them that hurts as much as it is realizing that nobody can fill the empty piece of you that they took with them when they left. That piece of you is gone forever. And that’s what hurts. The emptiness, the hole, the void that can’t be filled by just anybody. You learn to go on without them, you learn to smile for them, you learn to let them live through you—but you never learn how to take that emptiness away, because it will always be there. Knowing it won't go away makes moving on just that much harder.

Losing a parent has taught me many things that will affect the rest of my life.

People who are going through the most can usually hide it the best.

When facing something as difficult as holding on to hope at the end of a rope, you learn that you can hide the things that hurt you the most. You walk tall, you smile, you laugh, you do anything to avoid the questions, “What's wrong?” or, “Are you okay?"

I’ve learned how to swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. I learned how to tuck away a heart-wrenching pain just to hide the fact that I was hurt.

Just because you don’t grieve as much now as you did then doesn't mean that the days get any easier.

No day is easier, and nothing makes the pain go away. The emptiness is still there, no matter which way you turn. Your heart is still struggling to find that missing piece, and it hurts just as much now as it did then. Just because you don’t see people spending all their time sitting down and crying, or moping around like they used to, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt. Even though they face life with a smile, that doesn't mean that their day is going to go smoothly. The fact that they're smiling on the outside says nothing about what they feel on the inside.

Regrets can still happen.

It’s easy to regret. Regret comes from a lot of things in a lot of different ways. It seems silly to feel this way, because you know that it can’t bring the person back, but you’ll regret the small things, like not playing that last game of 'shoes, or something as simple as being rude that one time before.

It’s okay to be happy.

If you’re anything like me, you believe that the loved one is watching over you—that they’re here every step of the way and have front row seats in everything that you do and accomplish in your life. With this mindset, you learn that it’s okay to be happy. Having a reason to smile makes your journey to recovery just that much easier. And that is OK.

Bravery and strength is something that comes naturally now.

You were knocked down, stepped on, and dragged around. But you’re standing now, and you’re willing to face any challenge life throws at you. You are brave and you have the courage and the strength to push through any obstacle, hardship, or struggle you may stumble upon.

Love is stronger than death—way stronger.

Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean they’re not loved or that they’ll be forgotten. As long as your heart beats, their memory and their life will never die.

You still have the rest of your life ahead of you.

Although tomorrow is never promised, you have to prepare for the rest of your life—like they’d want you do. Pick a career, set goals, have dreams, and do everything that you can to succeed in everything that you do. Time doesn’t stop. Life doesn’t stop. Take down your guard, and jump into the future.

There are many things in life that we have to face, but we can’t always see or understand them. When you’re learning how to cope with the trauma that you experience, your mind and your body go through different stages. Your body takes its own time to get through and experience each stage. The stages of grief are experienced by anybody who suffers a traumatic experience, but everybody may not experience all of them. My first reaction when I learned that my dad had passed away was denial and isolation. For days, I spent all of my time alone or sitting in a room full of people and not always being there. During these days, I also spent most of the time denying that such a thing could happen. Why to my dad? Why to somebody who wore their heart on their sleeve and who would go above and beyond for anybody, no matter who they were? How could such a precious life be taken? I denied that it happened, and for days afterward it still seemed so surreal to me. It’s a natural thing for the mind to do when faced with a trauma. You block out what you’re hearing and you do your best to hide from the facts.

“What if I spent Christmas there?” is a thought that often went through my head. I wondered how things would be now if I had spent Christmas with him in Ontario like I was supposed to. I began to create more pain for myself by putting it on my own shoulders. This, too, is a form of grief. You try to regain control of the situation that you’re in by trying to think of a legitimate reason as to why it has happened. By thinking these things, I made myself angry. I had a body full of anger towards myself and everybody around me. I was angry with myself because I regretted being selfish and wanting to stay in Newfoundland for Christmas. The anger towards everybody else just washed over me as time went on—I was tired of their efforts to ease my pain and justifications of what had happened. The emotion of anger comes to the surface when the denial and isolation wear off, and you begin to let the truth set in. While grieving, you can develop depression. They come in two different types, full-on depression versus complicated grief. While coping with the loss of my dad, I was faced with complicated grief. I felt an overwhelming amount of pain when I thought about my dad and the things we used to do, but can never do anymore. I’d feel an overwhelming amount of numbness when I’d think about who would walk me down the aisle when I get married, or never knowing how my dad would react on my grade twelve graduation, or any other milestone that I achieved in my life. Everywhere that I went, I would see my dad or see things that would remind me of him. I found it hard to do the things that I enjoyed to do. Depression as a part of coping is usually personal and a way to separate with our loved ones, although sometimes things may be more intense for some individuals; this by no means means that you aren’t grieving right. It doesn’t mean that you’re not starting to cope. Sometimes, it just takes longer. After a long and hard two years of facing every possible emotion, I stepped on a plane and I headed to Ontario for the first time without my dad. After my trip to Tavistock, and with the help of three of the most important people in my father’s life, I finally began to accept that my dad was gone. My dad’s death was sudden, so I hold being able to accept the loss very close to my heart. Acceptance takes time to happen and it cannot be forced.

Coping with a loss is a personal experience that you have to experience yourself. Your body has to adjust and your mind has to settle. There is no timeframe for these events to occur. After almost eight years, I’m not fully healed yet, and I don’t think I ever will be. Losing my dad, learning how to move on without him, learning the ins and outs of coping, and learning to live with my feelings is something that will forever impact my life. I know now that there is no man in this world who can replace my father and who he was to me. I know that the worst things happen to the best people, and that, no matter what, my father’s death has molded me into the person that I am and will forever have an impact on the person I grow to be. It’s not what you take with you when you go, it’s what you leave behind. I learned this by realizing that my dad left his imprint on my heart and my soul.

I learned that God takes the best, the innocent, and the loved to show us how strong we are. I learned that coping isn’t a one time thing. It’s all day, everyday, for the rest of your life. By letting my father live through me not only by looks, but letting my heart beat for him, I cope, knowing that as long as my heart is beating, my father will never die.

In memory of my father, Paul Slade.

I am forever your little girl.

“As long as I live, you will live.

As long as I live, you will be remembered.

As long as I live, you will be."

—author unknown