Can you die more than once?
In my opinion, death is something that we can define in our own way.
My dad, he died three times.
Every year, I’m hit by three very real reminders that I no longer have my father by my side. That he is gone and not coming back.
Most people will have one death day, my dad has three.
January 31st – The day my father left.
The last day I saw my father was 30th January, so this anniversary really feels like his actual death.
He disappeared in the early hours of the following morning, no one knew his plans but himself.
My last words were literally “Okay Dad” in a response to him telling me to turn down my music.
No one will ever know the exact time or day he passed, so this is the day that really hits me hardest.
The only comfort is that I get to remember him alive and well.
I remember him as the dad I always knew.
March 3rd – The day my dad was found
Around 11pm on March 3rd, we had a knock on the door. With that, my heart dropped, I knew what had happened.
I took a moment to breathe and made my way down the stairs, I got to the door, opened it slightly and saw my mother screaming. The had found him and he was dead.
For the next week, I had to deal with newspaper reports, condolences and a world that made me feel sick to my stomach.
I hated the attention, I just wanted my dad back.
When my dad was found, it honestly felt good in a strange way, despite all of this, because I now knew he was definitely gone.
When my dad was missing, I was climbing to strings of hope. I was hoping I was wrong but call it instinct, but I felt it.. I knew he had gone.
This day is the one officially recorded as his death, though we know it is not the case as the way the coroner put it, he had been gone for a while.
But it helped me to move on a bit, It’s hard to believe someone’s gone without a body – it allowed me to grieve.
March 28th – The last goodbye, my fathers funeral
When I woke up, it felt like such an ordinary day. I got showered, got dressed and prepared myself mentally for the day.
I didn’t shed a single tear, not until the moment I saw his coffin. My dad was in there. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
It hit me hard that this is very real, I am not in a dream and he won’t come knocking on my door.
It was important to me though, because we never had visual confirmation that he was gone, we were not allowed.
On this day, he really died, because it removed all hope of him walking through out front door.
This, as hard as it was, gave me the reality I needed to start grieving.
My fathers funeral was the closest we would ever be to saying goodbye with him by our side.
This was the final chance for everyone to give their respect – but it was the real shock that reminded us all that he was gone.
Going through the stages of grief is hard.
As morbid and sad as I know this post is, I wanted this to give you a little bit of hope.
That despite that these days still sting me, and that I have to live with the trauma of what happened to my father; it did not limit my life.
I have still grown, I have still found success, I have helped people and saved lives.
My life did not end with my father, as much as it felt like it did at the time.
He is still there with me in a way, because how he raised me has shaped me. I will always be his daughter.
So here is the thing, the real bit of advice I want you all to know; don’t be afraid to live, because the best way to honour death, is with life.