I Vividly Remember the Details of the Day My Father Died
The pain of my chronic migraines has fused with the memory of hearing the shocking news of his death
A light breeze ruffles the Southern California palm fronds outside my car window and the new morning chill, signaling the definitive end of summer, hits me as I open the door. Surveying the clear, cobalt sky above me, I consider my migraine metrology report: light pressure with a scratchy, persistent ache. Still, the pain is manageable; it’s early yet. As I cross the parking lot, I hear his booming voice behind me.
“Hey, Diba, wait up!” I turn to see my father’s face, his ruddy cheeks crinkling up to his eyes, which smile in greeting. I allow myself to be folded into his arms.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say. My mother is Mom, but he is Daddy.
We walk into the organic market together, wordlessly gathering the best of the orange orbs stacked atop each other, as well as granola, nuts, and other tasty treats that will constitute my son’s flag football team snack later today. “Pick these up back at the house after your appointment,” he instructs as we part.
It takes only a few minutes to arrive at the chiropractor’s office, and soon I am lying prone on the white-papered table, awaiting the adjustment. The leather donut presses into my tender forehead as I feel the crack. I hold my breath for a moment, allowing myself to hope that this will curtail my pain and keep today’s migraine attack at bay.
Afterward, I drive back to pick up the snacks, pulling up in front of the traditional, dormer-windowed home I’d grown up in. Inside, my petite, aproned mother approaches from the kitchen, handing me a plastic container of orange slices and a bulging grocery bag. Peering into my face she runs her fingers along my brow, kneading its creases gently. “Is it helping?” she asks.
“Yes,” I lie, before making a quick exit. The pounding in my head is intensifying, a foreshadowing of the icepick-cum-machete machinations to come. I need to get home to a dark room.
I’ve gratefully escaped the pain by sleeping when the cell on my nightstand rings. The blaring ring punctures the bedroom’s welcomed silence. I consider not answering, but I need the ringing to stop — immediately — as each note feels like the turn of a knife inside my skull. I put the phone up to my ear and am surprised to hear my brother’s voice. Strange. He prefers to text.
“Dad had a heart attack.” Pause. “Dad’s unconscious.” Pause. “Dad’s dead.”
I drop the phone as if it’s on fire and throw myself from the bed. I run to the bathroom, kneel, and retch. Hovering over the toilet bowl, I marvel at the enormity of my physical pain and the jagged stabs that threaten to crack my skull. The throbbing is so powerful, it usually keeps me from any coherent thought: the strange, non-thinking peace that is the reward of the chronically ill.
“NO!” I hear myself wail. My voice sounds tinny and far away.
I want to wrap myself up in the pain and cease to exist, as he so traitorously has. I flash ahead to the funeral. I see myself crawling inside the casket and closing the lid to rest in painless peace with him, buried alive, my Daddy’s girl.
Diana Daniele is a writer and literary publicist living in Los Angeles. She served as an influencer for the international “Shades for Migraine” social media awareness campaign in June 2021 as part of her advocacy work in support of migraine sufferers everywhere. A native Californian, Daniele graduated Phi Beta Kappa from UCLA and received her Masters in Journalism from the University of Southern California’s Annenberg School of Communications & Journalism. Daniele has also studied English Literature at the University of Cambridge in England and Philology at the University of Madrid, Complutense.
This essay is part of our Moms Don’t Have Time to Grieve column.
