The way you described that night the rushing, the hoping, the second-guessing, brought me right back to parts of my own story. That feeling of doing everything you can and still being too late is a heartbreaking
What’s clear in your words is how deeply you loved him, and how hard you tried with the information you had at the time.
And now here we are daughters without our dads. It’s a heavy club to belong to.
Thanks so much, Leona. It certainly is a heavy club. 💔I bawled right through writing this and yet I felt I needed to write about it. Part of the healing, maybe. And on we go…
It is a heavy club, and somehow writing about it asks us to feel it all over again. I’m glad you let the tears come, that’s part of how the body moves what the heart holds. By sharing you will help others to know they are not alone.
And yes… we keep going, one honest breath at a time.
Oh Niamh, this got me on so many levels, not only was it devastating l gentle while delivering so much pain, but I hear it. I missed my father's death as I was dealing with some heavy life stuff, though in reality it wasn't as important, so I understand some of the feeling. I just thought I had time. The trouble is we always think that don't we. Thank you for sharing so bravely. 💙
It’s something we’ll always have to live with, or try to… I’ll never be able to make sense of it to be honest. He was such an important person in my life, and I never really told him. Why do we always think we have time. This elusive concept, we never seem to have enough. Thank you for taking the time to read 💕
Oh the weight of things unsaid, I'm sure he knew, just as we know our own children. I know my dad wouldn't have judged me, but we're not so kind with ourselves are we? Thank you for sharing this. 💙
Rough is right for this story. I have walked this path twice. My father died when I was 31. I was supposed to see him that day, but I hadn't felt well. I would see him the following day. But, by then, an unexpected heart attack had taken him at 63. Thirty years later. My mom lay dying in hospice. I had seen her the night before, but she had cried out when I stood to leave - she hadn't been conscious, I thought it was just a sound, but I knew better. The next morning, as I prepared to walk out the door to return to her side, I received the text. I should have returned sooner. I thought I had more time - thirty minutes would have been enough. I had missed them both.
I connected with this so much. Thank you for sharing!
I’m so sorry this happened to you too, Caryn. This feeling of not making it, not being there for them in their final moments, this profound ache that eventually turns to hollowness is so difficult to put into words. I like to think that there is a reason, at least that’s what I tell myself, there’s a reason we didn’t get to see them, then. I firmly believe to this day - or maybe that’s because I want to believe it - that my father didn’t want us to see him that way, that he wanted to spare us the pain, and that he wanted us to remember him the way we knew him. So I’m clinging to that. And similarly, for you, there may have been reasons it worked out this way. We may not see it, or understand why, but when I get despondent about it, that’s what I tell myself. Thanks so much for reading and taking the time to comment.
That’s so kind of you to say, and so thoughtful, Paul. As writers we never know how a piece might resonate, especially such a raw and personal one. So your comment means so much, and thanks for taking the time to read, too.
I have a letter that I started writing to my dad years ago sitting in my draft section. I keep coming back to it, but I am still processing it at the moment, so posts like yours really do help me to understand my own emotions that bit more. Plus I was there all alone at the hospital when my step-father passed, two completely polar opposites, but feelings and emotions that I have yet to come to terms with.
I think we never stop processing grief. It’s beautiful you are writing a letter, and one day when the time is right you will finish it , or write about it. Or both. Thanks so much for your kind comments, Paul.
Thanks Niamh ❤️. I think it really helps to know we’re not alone with processing our grief. In the moment we think it’s only “us”, but in time we begin to gradually see the bigger picture and remember that we’re not alone on this journey. The year of “firsts” is always a tough one.
I am so sorry for your loss. Again you have managed to give me WES (Wet Eye Syndrome) Take care and be assured he rests in a better place. Probably bored, no one needs healing or bandages where he is.
Oh, Niamh, this is meant only as the highest of compliments when I tell you I've come undone. I thought I could hold onto myself - somehow, I could get through reading this and still be fine. It was that compelling. But the photo at the end... I should have known better than to read this after the day I've had but maybe I really needed this release.
So, thank you, my friend, for a truly fine reading experience, for helping me to release such unbearable heartache for all that keeps going wrong these days, but most of all, for the words I've quoted above. Because my dad... I lost him, he's gone. And I never been able to say goodbye. Maybe you just helped me. Thank you.
My dear Kelly, I don’t know what compelled me to send this when you asked me for a piece. And I want to apologise to you that you’ve come undone, as a writer we always think of getting the right words in the right places, one next to the other, until it’s a sentence and a paragraph. But we have no idea how it will resonate. So thank you, with all my heart. I wrote this in deep grief which I’m not sure I’ve come out of yet, and it poured out of me. But as writers we never know how a piece will land with anyone else and your words seared through me; those of us who feel every thing don’t want to make others cry. But perhaps it was the right piece for you today. I’m so sorry you had a tough week and maybe it was good to let it all out. My dad really was someone so special, and fuck, I can’t believe he’s gone. It sounds like you had a similar experience, and it’s infinitely harder around the holidays. Mind yourself today and thank you so much for your kind heartfelt words, they mean so much, Kelly, as they always do. Big hugs from West Cork.
Raw and real and oh so tender. What a gift to see and feel this through your eyes Niamh. Thank you for sharing and may your father's memory be a blessing 🫶
Thanks so much, Jay, both for reading and commenting. I remember it like it was yesterday. But I’m starting to think that everything does happen for a reason, and there was a reason it worked out that way. And on we go…
Yes, every one of us carries a private graveyard, and writing is how we keep the gate open so light still reaches them. Your midnight race to your dad, my chapters about Rain and Sam the rabbit waiting by an empty bowl, refusing to let death speak last, turning love into something we can hand to the next grieving person racing down their own storm. Together we teach the world how to carry the uncarryable...
Thanks so much, truly means a lot. I put the full book up on Bookfunnel (100% free, no strings). If you’d like to read Rain and Sun, here’s the link: https://BookHip.com/RQTSMHA. If it gives any trouble just shout and I’ll send it another way. Hope it hits you the way your piece hit me.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read, Mack. This was a response to @HVR’s challenge to write something real, and this poured out… I really appreciate your kind comment.
The way you described that night the rushing, the hoping, the second-guessing, brought me right back to parts of my own story. That feeling of doing everything you can and still being too late is a heartbreaking
What’s clear in your words is how deeply you loved him, and how hard you tried with the information you had at the time.
And now here we are daughters without our dads. It’s a heavy club to belong to.
Thanks so much, Leona. It certainly is a heavy club. 💔I bawled right through writing this and yet I felt I needed to write about it. Part of the healing, maybe. And on we go…
It is a heavy club, and somehow writing about it asks us to feel it all over again. I’m glad you let the tears come, that’s part of how the body moves what the heart holds. By sharing you will help others to know they are not alone.
And yes… we keep going, one honest breath at a time.
I'm sorry Niamh
Thanks, good sir.
Oh Niamh, this got me on so many levels, not only was it devastating l gentle while delivering so much pain, but I hear it. I missed my father's death as I was dealing with some heavy life stuff, though in reality it wasn't as important, so I understand some of the feeling. I just thought I had time. The trouble is we always think that don't we. Thank you for sharing so bravely. 💙
It’s something we’ll always have to live with, or try to… I’ll never be able to make sense of it to be honest. He was such an important person in my life, and I never really told him. Why do we always think we have time. This elusive concept, we never seem to have enough. Thank you for taking the time to read 💕
Oh the weight of things unsaid, I'm sure he knew, just as we know our own children. I know my dad wouldn't have judged me, but we're not so kind with ourselves are we? Thank you for sharing this. 💙
We are not, and you’re exactly right. ❤️ ‘The weight of things unsaid’, that seems to me a fitting title for a poem you might write. 🤗
Maybe I will... Sending 💙
I've never seen a piece on Substack before that had more comments than likes. That is a supreme complement. You touched people with this story.
That’s very kind of you, thank you, David, and thanks for reading.
Rough is right for this story. I have walked this path twice. My father died when I was 31. I was supposed to see him that day, but I hadn't felt well. I would see him the following day. But, by then, an unexpected heart attack had taken him at 63. Thirty years later. My mom lay dying in hospice. I had seen her the night before, but she had cried out when I stood to leave - she hadn't been conscious, I thought it was just a sound, but I knew better. The next morning, as I prepared to walk out the door to return to her side, I received the text. I should have returned sooner. I thought I had more time - thirty minutes would have been enough. I had missed them both.
I connected with this so much. Thank you for sharing!
I’m so sorry this happened to you too, Caryn. This feeling of not making it, not being there for them in their final moments, this profound ache that eventually turns to hollowness is so difficult to put into words. I like to think that there is a reason, at least that’s what I tell myself, there’s a reason we didn’t get to see them, then. I firmly believe to this day - or maybe that’s because I want to believe it - that my father didn’t want us to see him that way, that he wanted to spare us the pain, and that he wanted us to remember him the way we knew him. So I’m clinging to that. And similarly, for you, there may have been reasons it worked out this way. We may not see it, or understand why, but when I get despondent about it, that’s what I tell myself. Thanks so much for reading and taking the time to comment.
Thank you.
So raw Niamh, so totally honest and raw, I can see your pain, feel your pain, the anguish, the what if's. Heartbreaking but beautiful at the same.
That’s so kind of you to say, and so thoughtful, Paul. As writers we never know how a piece might resonate, especially such a raw and personal one. So your comment means so much, and thanks for taking the time to read, too.
I have a letter that I started writing to my dad years ago sitting in my draft section. I keep coming back to it, but I am still processing it at the moment, so posts like yours really do help me to understand my own emotions that bit more. Plus I was there all alone at the hospital when my step-father passed, two completely polar opposites, but feelings and emotions that I have yet to come to terms with.
I think we never stop processing grief. It’s beautiful you are writing a letter, and one day when the time is right you will finish it , or write about it. Or both. Thanks so much for your kind comments, Paul.
Thanks Niamh ❤️. I think it really helps to know we’re not alone with processing our grief. In the moment we think it’s only “us”, but in time we begin to gradually see the bigger picture and remember that we’re not alone on this journey. The year of “firsts” is always a tough one.
I am so sorry for your loss. Again you have managed to give me WES (Wet Eye Syndrome) Take care and be assured he rests in a better place. Probably bored, no one needs healing or bandages where he is.
Gene has a lovely gentle smile
My brother is visiting at the moment and he has the very same smile 😊
"We were too late. We were too late."
"Sorry, Dad. Sorry. Sorry."
"Why, why, why the fuck is he gone?"
Oh, Niamh, this is meant only as the highest of compliments when I tell you I've come undone. I thought I could hold onto myself - somehow, I could get through reading this and still be fine. It was that compelling. But the photo at the end... I should have known better than to read this after the day I've had but maybe I really needed this release.
So, thank you, my friend, for a truly fine reading experience, for helping me to release such unbearable heartache for all that keeps going wrong these days, but most of all, for the words I've quoted above. Because my dad... I lost him, he's gone. And I never been able to say goodbye. Maybe you just helped me. Thank you.
My dear Kelly, I don’t know what compelled me to send this when you asked me for a piece. And I want to apologise to you that you’ve come undone, as a writer we always think of getting the right words in the right places, one next to the other, until it’s a sentence and a paragraph. But we have no idea how it will resonate. So thank you, with all my heart. I wrote this in deep grief which I’m not sure I’ve come out of yet, and it poured out of me. But as writers we never know how a piece will land with anyone else and your words seared through me; those of us who feel every thing don’t want to make others cry. But perhaps it was the right piece for you today. I’m so sorry you had a tough week and maybe it was good to let it all out. My dad really was someone so special, and fuck, I can’t believe he’s gone. It sounds like you had a similar experience, and it’s infinitely harder around the holidays. Mind yourself today and thank you so much for your kind heartfelt words, they mean so much, Kelly, as they always do. Big hugs from West Cork.
Saying his name Gene
Thanks, Leona 💕
Raw and real and oh so tender. What a gift to see and feel this through your eyes Niamh. Thank you for sharing and may your father's memory be a blessing 🫶
Thanks so much, Jay, both for reading and commenting. I remember it like it was yesterday. But I’m starting to think that everything does happen for a reason, and there was a reason it worked out that way. And on we go…
Yes, every one of us carries a private graveyard, and writing is how we keep the gate open so light still reaches them. Your midnight race to your dad, my chapters about Rain and Sam the rabbit waiting by an empty bowl, refusing to let death speak last, turning love into something we can hand to the next grieving person racing down their own storm. Together we teach the world how to carry the uncarryable...
Thanks, Rowan. I love the way you describe that, a private graveyard. I’ve subbed and look forward to checking out your work.
Thanks so much, truly means a lot. I put the full book up on Bookfunnel (100% free, no strings). If you’d like to read Rain and Sun, here’s the link: https://BookHip.com/RQTSMHA. If it gives any trouble just shout and I’ll send it another way. Hope it hits you the way your piece hit me.
Thanks so much, I downloaded it and look forward to having a read soon! Thank you 😊
Wow, hugsss 🫂
Thanks a million.
Thanks so much, James. Really appreciate the kick to do something so raw, thank you!!
Thanks so much for taking the time to read, Mack. This was a response to @HVR’s challenge to write something real, and this poured out… I really appreciate your kind comment.
Thank you for taking the time to read.