The Shape of My Grief After Losing a Parent

During the final weeks of my dad’s time in home hospice, I called every day. One early afternoon, I called and immediately noticed something off in my mom’s voice. It was a slight falter.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Not good,” she said. Then after a pause, “Dad died.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I don’t remember exactly what I said. I remember the physical feeling more than anything. The tears came quickly, and my body folded in on itself as I crouched down, covering my face while still holding the phone. I told my mom I was sorry, though I’m not sure what I meant by that. It was just the only thing I could think to say.

The Strange First Weeks

In the weeks that followed, I found myself moving through something that felt both familiar and completely new. I’ve lost people I love before, and I’ve learned that grief never really repeats itself in the same way.

With my dad, there was the expected sadness. The quiet understanding that his presence, that twinkle in his eye, was simply not here anymore. But there was something else layered in with it. A kind of sadness that carried frustration, and at times even anger. Not just for what I had lost, but for what I now knew would never happen.

Who He Was, and What Shaped Him

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve tried to understand the shape of my dad’s life, not just the parts I experienced directly.

He was pulled into adulthood early. His girlfriend got pregnant when he was nineteen, and he only found out after he had already joined the army and been stationed in Texas. They sent him home to get married, and from there life moved quickly. He found work, had four kids, and took on responsibility that never quit.

The mouths to feed kept coming (I was mouth #5). The pain of the first marital breakup and it’s aftermath, especially with his four kids, still bled into his second marriage, and the hard work never seemed to end.

He worked for decades in jobs that demanded a lot from him physically, and there wasn’t much room left over. Not for rest, and not for parts of himself he didn’t quite get to develop.

But there were glimpses of who he was underneath all of that. He laughed easily. He had a silly sense of humor. He was kind, and he was musical. There was a lightness in him that showed up in moments, even if it didn’t always stay.

Looking back, I think he wanted more out of life. But he made sure we were taken care of first, and in many ways that came at the expense of himself.

Dad didn’t have all the right tools to handle these challenges. He drank heavily for most of the time I lived at home. We never called him an alcoholic. In our family, he was a “heavy drinker,” which felt easier somehow, even if it didn’t really change anything.

He was a good-hearted, peaceful man, and he never hurt us. But he also wasn’t very present. Sometimes he stayed out late at the bar, stumbling home. But most nights after dinner he would just go down to the basement, and that’s where he stayed. I didn’t follow often, though sometimes I did, and those moments could be nice. We would watch the SciFi channel together, and it felt like connection.

Still, I usually didn’t stay long. The smell of beer and the way his words would start to blur made it hard to sit there comfortably, so I would go back upstairs.

He stopped drinking around the age of sixty, and I saw a real shift in him after that. He became more present, more engaged. He and my mom started making the long trip to visit me in Oregon, and once my daughter was born, those visits became annual. He also found faith again, which gave him a sense of purpose, though it created some distance between us as my own beliefs moved in a different direction.

What I Made Sure to Say

When he got sick, I tried to use our time together differently. I told him the things I appreciated about him while I still could. I told him how much I loved his music, how him singing and playing guitar were happy memories. I reminded him of our Yahtzee games and how those small traditions stayed with me.

I told him I saw how hard he had worked. As a parent now, I understand more of what that must have taken. It mattered, and his support allowed us to grow and eventually build families of our own.

I also told him how much it meant to see the way he took care of my mom. He had written a will that made it clear she would be provided for. None of us kids would get anything after his passing, which I’ll admit quietly stung, but I understood what he was trying to do. Taking care of her was his priority. I promised him we would take care of her too, that she wouldn’t be alone in any of this, and that seemed to bring him real comfort.

The Silence Between Us

My dad wasn’t much of a deep communicator, at least not with me. When I said these things, he would nod, smile a little, and say thank you. That was usually the extent of it.

There’s a part of this that still feels a little uncomfortable to admit, but it’s true. Sometimes after I said something meaningful, I would pause and wait. I think I was hoping he might meet me there, that he might say something back. That he was proud of me, of the life I had built, of the kind of mother I had become.

Those words never came, and they never will.

At first, that felt like something unfinished. But I’ve come to understand that grief isn’t just about losing someone. It’s also about letting go of the moments you thought you might still have with them, the conversations you imagined, the things you hoped would be said.

And in this case, I can live with that. Communicating feelings wasn’t my dad’s way, but it was mine. I said what I needed to say, and have to get peace from that.

When It Starts to Feel Real

The loss didn’t settle in all at once. Some days I didn’t feel much at all. Mostly I just felt exhausted. And I think that counts as an emotion too!

Other times, it would hit in sharper waves, often through my kids. My toddler son had always been drawn to my dad. He would light up when he saw him, smiling and giggling, reaching for him, wanting to be picked up. That didn’t change, even toward the end, when my dad was in hospice and no longer looked like himself. My daughter had her own bond with him too, built through visits and FaceTimes over the years. It stings to know they won’t have him in their lives as they grow.

Grief has a way of showing up like that. Not just in the moment someone dies, but in all the moments after, when their absence appears in ordinary life.

Shades of Grief

There are parts of grief that are hard to explain until you’re in them. It can be unpredictable, showing up at inconvenient times, triggered by something small like a song or a routine. There’s also a quiet isolation to it, especially as the world keeps moving and other people return to normal.

Even joy can feel complicated at first. My siblings and I talked a lot during Dad’s illness and after his passing. Sometimes we would start laughing so hard about something ridiculous that I wasn’t sure if it was “too soon.” But it also felt right in a way. Dad handled life with humor, and in some ways it felt like meeting him there.

At the same time, I noticed a lingering fear of forgetting. His voice, both speaking and singing, still feels clear. But I know that clarity can fade. I’ve started thinking about ways to keep it close, like watching videos of him, making a playlist with his favorite tunes, and going on a SciFi binge to follow his passion there.

What Stays

Losing a parent shifts something fundamental. It changes how you see yourself and your place in the world.

But the relationship doesn’t disappear. It changes shape. It becomes something you carry forward in memories, in habits, in the way you move through your life.

My dad had an amazing spirit that I think got worn down early by being pushed into adulthood too soon. He had humor, kindness, and a musicality that never fully left him, even when life became heavy. He worked hard, often at the expense of himself, to make sure we were taken care of.

I want to honor that not just by remembering him, but by doing something with my own life that feels bigger than what he had space for. Carrying his spirit forward in my own way.

Closing

If there’s one thing I’ve come to understand, it’s that grief isn’t just about losing someone. It’s about learning to live with the space they leave behind.

That space doesn’t really get smaller. But it does become more familiar and more livable.

With my dad, we loved each other in our own imperfect ways. And in the end, that feels like enough to carry with me.