The most devastating event in my life was the death of my father. He died suddenly, from a liver cancer, when I was thirty-two and it happened on the day before my birthday. It was awful for me.
My father wasn't a man who showed his feelings very often, but he loved us kids fiercely. We never doubted that. He worked hard and tried to provide for us, but he was always there for us.
He taught me how to drive a car, which was terrifying. He also took me fishing. When I was little, we went camping together every summer. He played catch with me. And when I got older, he drove me to school. He was the first person I called when I found out I'd gotten into college.
And then one day he was gone.
When I was young, I thought about what it must be like for people who lost their parents. What would it feel like to lose your mother or your father? How would you ever recover from such a loss?
It's not something I think about anymore. At least, not all the time. Losing my father was horrible, but I don't really feel sad about it. I miss him, of course, but he's no longer suffering. I'm happy for him.
But sometimes, when I'm alone, I still imagine what it would be like if he were alive today. If he hadn't died.
What would our relationship be like now? Would he have moved closer to me so we could see each other more often? Or would we still live in different states? Would he have retired already?
Would we still talk on the phone, or would we text instead? I can't remember the last time I actually spoke to my dad by phone.
Sometimes, I'll hear a song that reminds me of him. Sometimes, when I'm driving, I will find myself thinking about how he used to drive me to school.
Mostly, though, I just think about how much I wish he were here.
I try not to dwell on it too much, because I know that if he had lived, he wouldn't be the same person I knew. But sometimes, when I'm lying in bed at night, it's all I can do not to cry.
After my father died, I became a workaholic.
In the years after his death, I worked almost nonstop. I couldn't bear the idea of spending any time away from my job. I worked six days a week, twelve hours a day, and I didn't take vacations. Not even Christmas.
That kind of behavior is totally unhealthy, but I was desperate to make up for the time I spent with my family.
I was miserable, of course. I hated the way I looked, and I felt like I was missing out on my life.
At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought that if I just kept working harder, I would finally get ahead. I would prove to everyone that I was good enough.
My husband tried to talk to me about it, but I shut him down. I was determined to keep pushing forward. I didn't want anyone telling me to slow down.
One day, my boss asked me why I was so obsessed with work. He told me that I needed to take some time off. That I was going to burn out.
I argued back, but he insisted. So I agreed to take two weeks off. And then I quit. I didn't tell my boss that I was quitting, but I left a note behind. It said that I wanted to spend more time with my family. He seemed surprised, but he understood. He wished me luck, and he gave me a nice bonus.
That was the best decision I've ever made.
Now, I have a wonderful family. My husband and I have three beautiful children. We live in a nice house, and we're happy.
If my father were still alive, things might be different. Maybe he would have been proud of me.
But I know that I'm doing the right thing. I love my life.