When Father's Day is a child's nightmare

Daddy died.

That’s what my mom said. He died. After one night of crazy coughing, that was it. Done. Sitting on my bed with my mom, in my cute little bedroom, stuffed animals everywhere, I saw myself floating into a realm of unreality, a hazy world of disbelief that a little brain was too small to comprehend. It couldn’t. So it didn’t.

What did happen: At some point after a death, you have to go right back to school and face the music, which for me was the unimaginable stares of classmates and the pitying eyes of teachers. It’s so bad you must stop it by presenting a brand-new version of you. One that is oddly happy all the time.

But that thing is always there. The reminders, the pit in your stomach, the hole in your heart. You don’t get over tragedy, you live with it. But it’s nice to not be reminded. Especially in middle school. Here’s a little story:

I’m in eighth grade, two years after the death. My teacher tells the class to move our desks into a big circle! Everyone is excited. Then he says, “OK, we’re going to go around the room and tell everyone what their fathers do for a living.” By today’s standards, that would be abominable. I went into silent convulsions, staring down at my black and white speckled notebook in horror, trying to dissolve into the pages with no clue what to do. Readers might come up with solutions, but when you’re 13, there is no way out. I kept my head down, staring at the black and white speckles.

The class chattered happily. Jimmy described his truck-driving dad’s truck and giant tires. Judy talked about her dad’s dry-cleaning store and how she hated working there because it smelled. No one said, "Well, my dad is dead." The turns came closer. I felt the sweat down my back. 

And then, a miracle: The bell went off. I was saved!  But the teacher said, “OK, everyone, we’ll pick this up tomorrow.” That night I paced, I cried, I did not sleep. No one can comprehend what a kid’s brain does without the capacity to ask for help.

The next day, the circle of desks was still there. But either the teacher forgot, or someone intervened. He just said, “Open your books to page ... ”

For those of you who don’t know what happens to a kid like me - or many kids whose fathers are not part of their lives - I’d like to tell you. There are a million moments for which nothing prepares you. The father-daughter dances, the Father’s Day art class projects, the father-daughter dance at weddings (for which I continue to leave the room), the dads who help their daughters unpack at their college dorms. And every year in June, the cards, the social posts, the never-ending signs of love that still bring me to my knees.

Every year, this is what it’s like for me and many of us who still grieve, not only for our parents, but for the parents we never really had. If you know someone like me, give them a hug and say, “I know this day must be hard for you.” Because that’s all anyone can do.