Illustration by Karly Andersen
It was May 20, 2022, at 6:53 a.m. when I saw on my phone that I had missed a call from my little sister. I assumed that one of her children had snagged her phone and accidentally dialed me, so I ignored it and went about my morning. Then I saw there was a voicemail. Weird. We are a text-only family.
The voicemail transcript shook me before I even had a chance to listen: My mom found my dad unresponsive. EMTs are on the scene.
Somehow I showered, brushed my teeth, got dressed. Mentally, I made a list (this is how I cope with stress and trauma and anxiety): Text my department chair to let her know I wasn’t coming to work, pack up toiletries and snacks, bring my laptop with me so I could still work, find a notebook so I could make checklists. Who knew how long I’d be there if my dad was in the hospital?
At 7:18 a.m., another voicemail transcript from my sister popped up on my phone: Dad is gone. I love you. See you at Mom’s house.
I stumbled downstairs, numb but functional and calm and composed. I tried to delicately, cryptically tell our au pair from Argentina, Marina, what was going on. “My dad,” I started.
My 4-year-old, Kat, interrupted. “Who’s your dad?”
I foundered for a minute and then sent Kat upstairs to add “something beautiful to her wardrobe.” She squealed with delight and bounded up the stairs.
“My dad,” I started again, knowing I had to choose straightforward words. No euphemisms. Just the brutal truth I didn’t even fully believe yet. “My mom found him on the kitchen floor, and he died.”
Tears sprung to Marina’s eyes. “No … no, no.” Her face mirrored the disbelief I felt in my gut.
She assured me she was here for us, whatever we needed. Katherine glided back down the stairs with a gaudy purple bow in her hair, not knowing her Pop Pop’s heart had stopped beating, and she’d never blow bubbles or play “grocery store” with him again. I knew I’d have to tell her, eventually. Or maybe not — maybe I could say he’d run away to a Caribbean Island or gone to live on Mars. Because how was I going to tell my sensitive, deeply feeling child that a favorite playmate was gone?
We went to school, and I acted normal, even though life was upside down.
After dropping Kat off, I started the drive to Williamsburg. I stalled, stopping at Starbucks for coffee and Target for snacks and comfy clothes and to wander aimlessly for longer than I should have. If I could just put off seeing my mom, if I could delay walking into my childhood home and staring at the kitchen floor where his body had been, then this wouldn’t be real. It was just a normal day: coffee, errands, podcasts.
I was jolted from my attempt to avoid reality when my brother called while I was in the Starbucks parking lot. My phone rang just as I was watching a wasp crawl around my driver’s side mirror and thinking about how I wanted to get rid of the wasp, but I’m irrationally afraid of getting stung. I could tell my brother had been crying (a rarity for him). He was out of the state for work but leaving immediately and would arrive that afternoon. I sped down the interstate. The wasp hung on for dear life. I wondered if my dad had tried to cling, too. I wondered what he’d thought as the kitchen floor rushed toward him. How long he had lain there, and if he knew I’d been meaning to call him and talk to him, and if he had felt scared.
The wasp survived the drive to Williamsburg, which made me irrationally angry as I sat in the driveway, trying to muster the strength to get out. I finally jumped out of my car and slammed the door shut, hoping it would just leave me alone and let me start grieving.
The rest of the day was a blur. Lots of crying, cursing, Italian comfort food and coffee.
I spent that night at Mom’s house (because I guess it wasn’t my dad’s house anymore? When do you stop saying “Mom and Dad’s house” and just “Mom’s house”? No one ever tells you these little things about death).
I knew I needed to go home the next day; I needed to tell my daughters their beloved Pop Pop was gone. I wasn’t so worried about the 2-year-old, but my 4-year-old was going to take it hard. As is my modus operandi, I Googled for the exact right words to say and repeated them to myself the whole drive from Williamsburg to my house in Richmond: “Pop Pop died. His body stopped working; your body is working fine, and you’re safe and healthy. We’re not going to see Pop Pop again. It’s OK if you’re scared or sad.”
Armed with this magic script, I sat my girls down on the couch the day after my dad died. I delivered the script, gently, while Lily, the 2-year-old, bounced on the couch and then scrambled down to wreak havoc in the playroom. At least something felt ordinary in this moment.
My older daughter just looked at me blankly, not understanding any of the words I’d just said to her. I repeated the script and watched as her face morphed into confusion, then disbelief, then wide-eyed, hysterical terror.
And that’s when the torrent of questions started:
“Will I die?
I don’t want to be dead.
What happens if you and Daddy die and there are no adults?
Will my body break?
The script didn’t prepare me for these questions. Nor did it prepare me for the sheer terror in her eyes as she started bawling uncontrollably, snot pouring from her nose, face red and splotchy — this image of her haunts me.
All we parents want to do is protect our children. I knew — and still know — telling her the truth and holding her on my lap, absorbing her fear and anxiety into my body, was the best choice. But at the moment, all I wanted to do was give her sugar-coated lies to stop the questions and restore her childhood innocence.
Months later, there is rarely any more anxiety when my daughter, now 5, discusses Pop Pop’s death. It’s just a fact: The sky is blue, candy corn is delicious, Pop Pop is dead. I cannot promise to be here forever for my girls — my dad’s death has taught me that. But I can promise to hold them as we walk through the valleys together.
Christine Suders is a former high school English teacher who now works in the legal field. She is married to her high school sweetheart and is the mom of two young kids.
