diana cowgill

My dad passed away on February 6th. My dad passed away last week. My dad passed away this month. My dad passed away this year. 

How’s Tom doing? He passed away. How’s your dad? He just passed.

My dad is dead. Writing that makes my breath catch. 

He was 83, and had been battling Alzheimer’s for many years. I had my goodbye. I’d been ready. We’d all been expecting it. 

Even so. Although it makes sense, and isn’t surprising, and is in many ways a relief, my breathing gets shallow whenever I think of it.

My dad. MY dad. Is dead. Thomas Conway accomplished x y and z. He achieved this. He lived here and here and here. The facts of the man are available to view online for free.

The facts are what they are. But the truth is… MY dad. Is dead.

Ours was a deeply tender relationship that struggled to breathe in the outside world. From the beginning he adored me as a person. From birth I was interesting and creative. Lively, opinionated, curious about life and absolutely obsessed with him.

I thought he was spectacular. He was the most fun dad in the world. He had stories and songs for everything. You had got stung by a bee? First, let me kiss it better. Then, I’ll sing you a few lines about honeybees and make you laugh so hard you almost feel better.

We found out on February 4th that my dad was very close to dying. Since then, I’ve been consumed by grief. My life is on pause while my heart and body work through this first acute phase of mourning.

Just writing this I feel drained. Along with my breath, my hands tell me when a wave of grief is about to overwhelm me. They get stiff like when I’m very very cold. I can’t extend my fingers. 

The wave is cresting, so I’ll wrap this up. It won’t be neat.

I am going to write here to memorialize this time. I didn’t know what it would be like when my dad actually passed. It’s been excruciating. Days and dates and hours have been warped. Slowed down and completely disconnected from what they were before February 4th. 

I need to work through all of this. The father he was, the father he wasn’t, the father he could never be. The fact that he loved me more than anyone else, but didn’t have the vocabulary until the end to say that he loved me at all. 

He was so proud of me for being a writer. So I put these incomplete, imperfect words into the world in his honor.