It was early on a Saturday morning. I had just woken up when the phone rang. It was my mother, calling from the hospital where my father was in the final stages of his battle with cancer. Her words were brief, yet heavy with meaning:
— He’s gone.
A tightness rose in my throat. I cried. But the truth is, after months of watching him fight, crying, and suffering alongside him, I felt almost too drained to cry any more—if that makes sense.
My father had been hospitalized in another city, at a facility known for its cancer treatment. But his illness had been diagnosed far too late: lung cancer with metastases in his bones and other organs.
I have two older sisters, but I was always the closest to him. That’s why everyone worried about how I would handle it. At the time, I was 36 years old, married, and the mother of two little girls.
The Funeral and What I Chose Not to See
At the funeral, I cried and prayed in front of his body.
But there were two moments I couldn’t bring myself to watch. I closed my eyes and turned away:
The moment they placed the lid on the casket.
And the moment they lowered it into the ground.
I stayed at the funeral from beginning to end, present for everything else, but in those two instances, I turned away. It was my way of protecting the last image I wanted to keep of him.
A New Perspective on the Time We Had
I took a few days off from work to grieve. During that time, I stayed close to my mother, offering emotional support and helping with the necessary arrangements.
I remember a conversation with a saleswoman in a store we happened to walk into. When she learned about my father’s passing, she told me she had lost her own father when she was just five years old.
In that moment, I realized that, even through the pain, I had been blessed to have so many years with my dad.
I felt more gratitude for the days I did have with him than sorrow for the ones I would no longer have.
The Mass and Words That Bring Comfort
At the seventh-day memorial Mass, in addition to the priest’s words, I received a printed piece attributed to Henry Scott Holland that left a deep mark on me. It read:
Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I, and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone,
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was,
Let it be spoken without effort,
Without the ghost of a shadow upon it.Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was;
There is absolutely unbroken continuity.
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?I am but waiting for you,
for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just around the corner.All is well.
Those words made me realize that his presence hadn’t truly disappeared.
To me, it felt as if he had simply gone on a trip—something he had always loved doing with my mother!
The Certainty That He Lives in Me
Weeks later, some of the mothers and teachers at my daughters’ school asked how I was doing. Surprisingly, I felt more at peace than I had expected—though the longing was still there.
I told them that my father hadn’t really died.
I had come to understand that he lives in everything he taught me, is present in my DNA, and in my daughters, who are his continuation. His life lives on in me.
Today, I carry the certainty that, in some way, he is still near. And even if I can’t see him the way I once did, I keep living in a way that honors everything I learned from him.
Mission Accomplished in Love
With time, I realized my pain no longer came with daily tears. It wasn’t because the longing had faded, but because in its place, there was a sense of peace.
Looking back, I feel I lived well alongside my father. We shared moments of affection, attention, and respect. There was nothing left unsaid or undone—and that is one of the greatest blessings anyone can have when losing a loved one.
I came to understand that what hurts most isn’t the absence itself, but the regret of not having treated someone well, respected them, or helped them while there was still time. In my case, I don’t carry that weight. What I do carry is gratitude for every moment we truly lived together.
And this certainty of a mission accomplished allows me to smile when I think of him, because the love we gave and received will always be greater than any goodbye.
When Longing Turns Into Presence
Losing someone we love isn’t something we simply “get over,” as if turning a page. It’s something we learn to carry—transforming the pain into memories, and the memories into strength.
If you’re reading these words and facing the absence of someone dear, know that there’s no “right” way to feel or react. Every tear, every silence, and even every faint smile that appears in the midst of longing is part of the process.
Allow yourself to grieve in your own time, but also allow the love to remain alive within you. Because it doesn’t end. It changes shape, blends into who you are, and continues on in your choices, your words, and the gestures you learned from the one who’s gone.
And when the longing feels heavy, close your eyes and feel: that person you love is near. Maybe not in the way you wish… but in the way life allows now.
