“They say that
time heals all wounds,
but we never live
long enough to
test that theory.” 
José Saramago 

Sixteen years ago tonight, I gathered with my mother and siblings at San Francisco General Hospital to say goodbye to my father. Earlier that evening, Dad had taken a fall down the back steps of our family home. He sustained major head trauma and was officially pronounced dead a little after 11:00 p.m. It was July 31, 2008. Dad was 82 years old.

In the days, months, and years following Dad’s untimely and unexpected death, I struggled to cope with the loss. Even though I was well-aware that, at some point, Dad would die, I was totally blindsided when it actually happened. The emotional pain I experienced was brutal at first, but over time, the level of grief would dissipate and I would feel better. Then, without warning, something would trigger the memory of his death and I would find myself overwhelmed with grief yet again. This pattern continued for several years.

Today, perhaps for the first time since Dad’s death, I did not experience grief. I was certainly aware of the date and its significance, but that awareness did not trigger a renewed sense of grief. Instead, I was able to think of Dad today with gratitude.

I took time to reflect on the many sacrifices he made throughout his lifetime to provide a good life for our family. I thought about how proud I always was to tell people that my father was a San Francisco firefighter. Dad’s diligent preparation for promotional examinations resulted in his appointment as a lieutenant in 1967, then captain in 1968. After several years working at Truck 8 on Bluxome Street, Dad was promoted to battalion chief. My pride for his professional accomplishments is as strong today as it was during his lifetime.

It was a long drive back to my home in San José that night sixteen years ago. I cried. A lot. The most difficult challenge, however, awaited me when I arrived home. Despite the late hour, Kathy and my three sons were awake, awaiting my return. I don’t know that I’ve had a more painful experience than sitting on the edge of one of the beds and telling the boys that their Grandpa had died. 

It is now 11:45 p.m. As I head off to bed tonight, I am able to embrace the memory of Dad with gratitude, rather than grief. It took me a long while, but I’ve finally accepted the death of my parents (Mom passed away two years ago) as an inevitable part of the cycle of life. What a blessing it was to have them in my life for so many years.