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Death I: Loss

Experiences and lessons after suddenly and unexpectedly losing my father.


Death Series

Death I: Loss

Death II: One Year

Death III: Stories

Death IV: Friends


Contents


My father died suddenly and unexpectedly after a heart attack on the morning of 19 September 2020. I got a text from a family friend, called the friend, and was urged to come back to my hometown immediately. At the end of the 300-mile drive I was greeted by my mother at the front door and the words "Dad's gone".

My mind went blank. I didn't know what to think. I had spent the 4-hour drive going back and forth between positive and negative thoughts: he's fine, he must have just broken a few bones; they're performing CPR on him, so it must be bad; he's one of the healthiest people I know, there must be a mistake; I haven't gotten a phone call yet, and I definitely would get one if he was okay because my mother knows that I'd be driving fast, so things are not okay. But those two words confirmed one of my absolute worst fears: one of my parents was dead.

The worst part was the suddenness. He had just texted the family a picture that morning and I had spoken to him two days earlier. There were no warning signs or any indication that something like this was going to or even could happen. Sure, he had high cholesterol, but he exercised almost every day by running, mountain biking, or calisthenics. How could it happen to him?

It was and still is—9 days after the fact—difficult to process. The person that raised me over the course of 23 years is no longer there, never to return. I will never talk to him on my way home from work like I did all those times during my college years; I'll never ride mountain bikes with him on the trails near my childhood home; I'll receive no more knowledge or wisdom in preparation for my adult life. He's completely gone, and that's something I'll have to accept and learn to live with.


The untimeliness was poor in another aspect: I had just moved 4 hours away to begin my new career, only finishing my first week when I got the fateful call. This affected not only me, but my mother. I was now even more alone in Dallas (I have very few friends up here and my COVID-19 risk tolerance is quite low, effectively preventing me from developing new friendships) and my parents had just recently become legitimate empty nesters. With my father gone, my mother was completely alone (not including our dog).


Shortness

There is one quote among many that stood out to me in Seneca's On the Shortness of Life (review):

It is not that we have a short space of time, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it has been given in sufficiently generous measure to allow the accomplishment of the very greatest things if the whole of it is well invested. But when it is squandered in luxury and carelessness, when it is devoted to no good end, forced at last by the ultimate necessity we perceive that it has passed away before we were aware that it was passing. So it is—the life we receive is not short, but we make it so, nor do we have any lack of it, but are wasteful of it.

There is no guarantee of future time or returns, similar to how past performance is not indicative of future performance in investing. I had many trip and adventure ideas for me and my father to complete: we were planning to go mountain biking in Vancouver, but COVID-19 stole that from us); I wanted to travel to Europe and ride the Alps; I wanted to go back to the Trinity Alps and hike to our favorite lake again. The list continues on.

In my defense, those trips were limited by money, time, and a pandemic; but the principle of not waiting and acting now still holds. Earlier in my life, I was obsessed with the concept of financial independence and retiring early (FIRE). I had a plan to work and save as hard as possible in my early years so I could retire young and go do what I wanted. That plan was immensely flawed and this event confirms what. What's to say my life doesn't end early? Nothing. Nothing at all.

There is a happy medium between living every day like it's your last and being pragmatic about the probability of premature death. I can continue to pursue FIRE without sacrificing fun and excitement. I can still visit those places without my father and while I am still in the middle of my career. The point is that waiting can be detrimental. There's no telling what's to come—good or bad—and that should be considered when deciding how to live your life.


People vs. Things

We held a celebration of life in my father's honor. In order to mitigate the risk of COVID-19, three groups were formed with an allotted amount of time for each: coworkers (2 hours), mountain biking friends (1 hour), and personal friends and family (2 hours). (Further precautions were also taken.)

The turnout was astounding. I estimate 200, 50, and 150 for each group, respectively. People flew in from Alaska and Washington D.C. and drove from California to be there and pay their respects. A coworker brought his 15x20 ft projector, and when that failed in the bright afternoon sunlight, deployed the 60 in. television he brought just in case. My father's favorite tea and ice cream were provided in ample amounts.

Stories were shared, friends reunited, and people met for the first time. Not that anyone would say anything negative about the person being remembered, but my father's "reviews" were raving.

The things he collected over his life—bikes, a house, cars, among others—didn't matter anymore. Sure, they did to us, but to him it meant nothing (albeit, neither did the people). Had he not been the sociable, caring person he was, he would never have had the opportunity to share those things with others.


Waves

Grief comes in waves, with my experience being a sinusoidal—and in some cases, step—function described by y = asin(bt) + c. All of the independent values can vary wildly and at any time:

A bit nerdy and possibly overly-analytic (I can simply say that the grief amount changes, you may feel grief for short or long periods, and the grief-happiness ratio changes), but it does a good job of describing it.

I've caught myself on many occasions reaching for my phone to call him on my way home from work or to tell a funny story, just to be hit with the realization he's no longer there. The grief level immediately becomes greater than zero. Other times I catch myself forgetting he's gone as I become absorbed in work or spending time with friends.


Family and Friends

I was feeling alone on the car ride home. I held onto some hope, but not much. I figured the person I had relied on for advice, friendship, experiences, lessons, and so on for the past 23 years was suddenly gone without warning.

That feeling of loneliness was short-lived. After arriving home I was with with my mother and brother, soon joined by friends coming in person and more phone calls than I'd gotten in the past year. The visits and phone calls continued over the next week, accompanied by more food than we knew what to do with. The support was welcomed and lessened the immense burden.

Family and friends are the only support system available. The individual can support themselves to an extent, but it's likely unhealthy and likely to fail. Nor does it show weakness, as popular culture likes to preach. The death of a loved one—parent, sibling, spouse, or child—is arguably one of the most traumatic events that can happen to someone, especially if it happens at a vulnerable period, young age, or short relationship. This almost requires the use of external support in working and talking through the grief.


Adaptation

Most major events force adaptation, whether the development of current attributes or the acquisition of new ones, both of which are good. A new job requires you to adapt by learning new skills, moving to a new city requires you to adapt by being accustomed to the city and its lifestyle, and so on. My father's death is no exception.

He was an excellent resource for "adult" things that I didn't get the opportunity to learn in my youth: taxes, handyman skills, social norms, among others. I found myself often calling him to ask for advice on things I didn't understand, getting clear answers and easing my mind. Now that line of help is gone and I'm on my own for learning all of that. I suppose it is a good thing in the long run, me becoming more resourceful at obtaining the answers and more knowledgable as a result.


Normalcy

After something like this, the old normal never returns. It's replaced by a new normal, one that feels emptier and less fulfilling than the previous. But it returns nonetheless, and one should strive to get there as soon as possible. Delaying the return prolongs unnecessary grief and dwelling, more than is already required and experienced in the weeks after the death.

The new normal can take a few different, non-mutually exclusive forms. It can diverge from the old, caused by a realization that your life is in the hands of chance, and even if you play all your cards right (like my father did), you can still lose. It can follow the old, becoming identical sans that one person. Mine formed a hybrid of the two: the lessons I discuss in the post have been integrated into my life philosophy, while I am still following the path I have been on for a few years now.

Three weeks later there is no new normal in sight. I think about it every day. While the pain will always be there in some fashion, it does subside a bit, but the timeline of that is subjective.


Regrets

It's unhealthy to dwell on shoulda/woulda/coulda's in the wake of something like this. It's unhealthy and impractical to truly "live every day like it's your [or someone else's] last", because in all likelihood, it's not. But that unhealthiness and practicality refers to a specific set of potentially costly and harmful short- and long-term behaviors like spending copious amounts of money (you need to have something saved up for retirement), taking large risks (wingsuit flying), or doing bliss-inducing drugs. There are low-cost and non-harmful behaviors that are easy to adopt and bring satisfaction to both the provider and receiver.

Spending Time

I would argue a good portion of most people's lives is spent doing worthless activities. Video games and television bring no tangible value to the table. Sure, they are a method of relaxation and on occasion social activity (playing/watching with friends counts to an extent), but besides that, they are worthless. (In all fairness, there are plenty more activities that fit this criteria, these are just the usual scapegoat for elitists to criticize.)

Spending quality time with family and friends is at the top of the valuable activities list. Look at Maslow's hierachy of needs: the first psychological needs are "intimate relationships, friends", which are both covered in "spending quality time with family and friends". Intimate does not necessarily mean romantic or sexual, but rather close or personal; my father and I's relationship was extremely intimate. We confided in each other, supported each other, challenged each other.

Spending time—physically or virtually—with family and friends in lieu of so-called "worthless" activities (deem them so yourself) is a surefire way of adding value and happiness to your life, as well as something I regret not doing more of while my father was still alive.

Kindness

I will not go into this as its content is more personal than I am willing to share, but being kind is a simple and easy act. Nor is it necessarily always active: holding your tongue (passive, although it may feel active) when you want to say something condescending or mean is still a positive thing!

Patience

I have lots of patience for some things and little patience for others. The world would be a much better place if people were simply more patient (within reason).

Gratitude

Validation and recognition is a major source of happiness and esteem for people. Hearing "you're pretty" or "thanks for [X]" or "thanks for being a great father" are some phrases the receiver will probably never get tired of hearing. It reinforces their efforts (assuming they were making one) and displays your gratitude.

Gratitude should not be over-utilized at the risk of losing value, but that's dependent on the situation, and one should err on the side of overuse.


Chance

I subscribe to the theory of a probability-based universe, where the word "fair" should only be taught up to second grade, and then only be used in the phrase "life isn't fair", because it isn't. My father did everything right. He exercised rigorously, and I don't mean walking for 30 minutes a day. He rode his mountain bike multiple times per week, ran, did push-ups and pull-ups. He ate a relatively healthy diet excluding nightly ice cream. He slept as much as he should have and kept stress levels low. And yet this happens. There's no rhyme or reason to it. It's just pure luck.

Of course, there are ways to mitigate the risk (read: probability) of dying early from natural causes, with a healthy lifestyle being the number one method (possibly outside of medication). And yet, he did all of that and still ended up dying early from natural causes.

It's frustrating and rage-inducing that this happened, but it did and there's nothing to do about it now besides continuing to move forward.


Appreciation

A few months later (21 December 2020), I realize how much more I enjoy and appreciate the company of others, both family and friends. It's possible to imagine what something like this feels like, but it's impossible to actually feel it. Regardless, imagining that person in your life being gone forever may allow for more satisfying interactions.


Closing Advice

In no particular order:


See Also