What I Haven't Said About My Dad's Death

August 15, 2025

My dad died April 11, 2025.

I haven’t really talked about what happened.

I haven’t even really thought about it—at least not deeply—until recently, when I said it out loud for the first time.

And I’m not ready to dive all the way in today.

But I can say this:

It was a roller coaster ride from hell with a slow, painful end.

I was the one who had to start the conversation—about whether continuing medical care even made sense anymore.

Because by then, my dad was basically brain-dead.

And that was his worst nightmare.

I had to ask the question no daughter should ever have to ask.

I had to be the one to move things toward comfort care.

That meant taking him off all his medications.

Removing the feeding tube.

Stopping IV fluids.

And then sitting there—day after day—in a hospital room, waiting for my dad to die.

When the time came, my sister and I held his hands.

We spoke words of love and affirmation into his heart.

We told him that he was a good father.

That we would be okay.

That he didn’t have to take care of us anymore.

That it was okay to die.

And he did.

I’ll write more when I’m ready.

Or maybe I won’t.

My dad died on April 11, 2025.

Six days before my reality exploded.

I am not the same.