When Your Father’s Killed Five Days Before Christmas

Coping with Prolonged Grief After Losing A Parent

Taken in Santa Ana, El Salvador, the afternoon before he was killed. He had finally made it to the top of the mountain—photo by his friend David.

On December 20th, 2018, the day my father died, I had volunteered at my son’s school holiday fair.

Rolling clouds darkened the sky, and fearing a storm, I took my daughter with me instead of sending her to preschool. I wore jeans and a green sweater, and no red lipstick. I cried that morning before I got out of the car and didn’t know why. My heart knew what my mind didn’t. That within moments, the world would shift. He would be gone, and everything would be different. I would be different. My spine would be pulled out of my body, and I wouldn’t be able to stand for weeks. Years.

The day my father died, I bought Dunkin gift cards after volunteering for the school custodial staff that I would find months later buried in the bottom of my bag. With shaky hands, I drove with my daughter to Publix to grocery shop, but she reminded me it was 1:00, and she had not eaten. Oddly, I wasn’t hungry. My stomach knew what I didn’t.

That he had been hit by a car hours before. That he was fighting for his life thousands of miles away.

The day my father died, I ate a sandwich with my daughter at Jersey Mike’s. She nestled her face against mine while chomping on Sour Cream and Onion chips…