Today marks one year since my sweet daddy passed away. While official records show tomorrow as the date, I know in my heart that he left us on the morning of September 13th. I went on my own forensically driven mission when what the OPP was telling me wasn’t adding up. They didn’t really have any reason to investigate officially, so I did.
As I sit here, reflecting on the tumultuous year that has passed, I'm struck by how much has changed and how the process of writing has become my unexpected lifeline.
My father was my mother's caregiver, tending to her needs as dementia slowly claimed her memories. On that day, she spent hours with him, unaware that he had slipped away. It wasn't until late that night that something within her stirred, prompting her to call 911. The police knocking on my door at 3:13 AM on September 14th changed everything.
What followed was a whirlwind of activity - police investigations, medical examiners, funeral arrangements, phone calls, and the daunting task of finding appropriate care for my mother. The waitlists for long-term care homes in our province seemed insurmountable, but we kept on. After three challenging moves, we finally found a suitable place for her.
Amidst the chaos of packing up 52 years of memories, selling their house, and navigating the maze of insurance claims and government paperwork, my grief lurked beneath the surface. It wasn't until December that the full weight of my loss truly hit me.
But still, in those quiet moments starting in mid September, when the silence became unbearable, I found solace in an unexpected place - writing. What began as a distraction evolved into a powerful tool for healing. As I've shared in recent podcasts, interviews, and conversations with readers, this creative outlet has been nothing short of cathartic.
Looking back, I wish I had discovered the therapeutic power of writing when I was 18, grappling with an intensely traumatic period in my life. The repercussions of those unprocessed emotions have lingered for years. Yet, remarkably, I'm finding that my current writing practice is helping me heal those old wounds too.
This journey of grief and healing has taught me the incredible resilience of the human spirit. It has shown me that even in our darkest moments, we can find light - sometimes in the most unexpected places. For me, that light came through the power of words, through the stories I've told and the emotions I've poured onto the page.
To those who are struggling with loss, trauma, or any form of emotional pain, I encourage you to explore creative outlets. Whether it's writing, painting, music, or any form of self-expression, you might find, as I did, that art has the power to heal, to comfort, and to help us make sense of the senseless.
As I honor my father's memory today, I'm grateful for the lessons he taught me in life and the unexpected gift his passing has given me - the rediscovery of my passion for writing. In every word I write, in every story I tell, a part of him lives on.
Dad, wherever you are, thank you. Your love continues to guide me, even in your absence.