“Death is awkward.”

My dad died recently. Two weeks ago, to be exact.

Growing up with an older parent, you know the inevitable. You know that days are numbered, that time is invaluable. But there is never really a preparation for death. It’s always sudden, as inevitable as it may be.

I was traveling to Chicago. Entry-level in advertising, the invitation to present your own work and thinking, it’s sacred. It’s a blessing that doesn’t come often. But here I was, on a plane to the Midwest, with a hotel booked for the week. And my dad was in the hospital. Growing up with a sick parent, you practically grow up in a hospital. Our family doctor was literally a part of the family. My memories of dad are tied to machinery, IV drips, and beeping. It is all expected. It is all inevitable.

You have to understand, every text, every call from my mother during work hours was horrifying. I had actual yelling matches with my mom when she would call mid-day for mundane questions, because the implications were obvious: Dad is sick. Dad is dying. Dad is dead.

And then that day finally came, mid-flight to Chicago. “Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to come home tomorrow,” the text read. I had purchased in-flight WiFi to finalize a presentation I would never actually present. And suddenly, I found myself booking tickets in-air to Florida for that night. Landing at 11:51pm, with exactly two business-formal outfits packed.

I honestly can’t put into appropriate words what it’s like to see death unfold. It’s so personal. So quiet. I remember rolling my carry-on into the room. I remember the gurgling. I remember talking to my dad when my mom left the room, telling him I made it, I was there for him. I remember the exhaustion of it all, falling asleep on the Hospice sofa, my mom on the recliner. And I remember waking up to deadened silence.

To say my dad’s death was unexpected somehow feels unfair. A part of him died long ago, when I was 12. He had traveled four days out of every week until he had a heart attack in 2001. Suddenly, here I was, face-to-face with a drifter who was grounded. I remember my first summer with him, all day every day with him. He didn’t know my birthday. He didn’t know I hated strawberries. He didn’t know my favorite color. And for as much as I tried to open myself up to him, he never could retain it. It wasn’t until years after that I had a name for what we had secretly known all along: Alzheimers. He was in my life more than ever before, but at a point where he couldn’t even grasp his own.

Grieving is difficult. “Death is awkward,” a friend once told me. For how much you prepare for it, no matter how inevitable it may be, it still somehow feels sudden. In truth, my mom and I have been grieving for over a decade. The dad I grew up with, the man my mom married, he left us long ago. I thought my memories of him would dissipate with death. But it was only through death that I saw old pictures of him, heard old stories of him. Talked to friends and family who knew him, personally, when he was healthy. And remembered how special he was to me.

Death may be awkward, but it is essential. It can bring old memories back to life. And it can remind us what we loved about a person in the first place.