To whom it may concern: The following information is neither comical nor fictional and, as a matter of fact, is my humble attempt as a journalist to publish something that will affect one person … proceed at your own risk.
One thousand one hundred and ninety-one days, 8 hours, 5 minutes and 3 seconds ago my father was pronounced dead.
My father passed away from a heart attack completely unexpectedly three years ago this Saturday. Michael Joseph Dalton was pronounced dead at Saint Mark’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah, at 2:10 p.m., although he had actually died about 37 minutes prior in our home. He did not suffer.
I will not recount the day’s events to you, for that is not my intent; rather, I hope to impart some things I have discovered about grief throughout my 20 years here. Maybe some of you are unconvinced that I am qualified to speak on personal grief because, as far as you know, I grieve my father. I grieve three childhood friends, six high school comrades, four grandparents, an uncle, two aunts, my deacon and my father (to name a few). I say this not to beg pity but to provide context for eyes racing through these words.
The common thread that binds all living things is death. Death is a big part of life, and however awkward it may be to put into words it is inevitable that not only will we all arrive to greet death but also that we will grieve the loss of someone we love.
Asserting we all have death in common and we all grieve lost loved ones, why is there no “1-2-3 Guide to Grieving Your Dad” book amongst The New York Times best sellers? What are the words to speak to console the heart of a grieving friend? Why is death awkward or hard?
The answer is simple: fear.
I fear letting down my guard enough to even tell most people that I grieve my Dad every day. Friends fear they will offend me or bring up hard emotions by even mentioning a weekend trip they took with their dads. Fear consumes us and, as a result, healing is hindered.
Here is some news – I know I am one of few, and yet many, that grieve their father’s death so early in life. I know I have been to more funerals in the last three years than most people twice my age. And I am who I am because of it.
As a 17-year-old, I never anticipated being confronted with the death of my father, who was 47. My college search came to a screeching halt; high school graduation lost its wonder, my relationships deteriorated, my faith faltered and my world was rocked. I did not desire to hear “the right words,” I longed to hear and feel the profoundness of the simple phrase, “I am sorry,” and the freedom to cry and to be hugged.
Everyone deals with death uniquely. In my own family I saw an array of coping methods through my brother, sister and Mom. There is no right way to grieve, it is a path that will unfold as you walk it, step-by-step.
Three years later I look back on my Dad’s death and can say that I would not change it. His passing has influenced me far beyond his capabilities stretched when he was alive and his memory emerges in my mind every day. I was blessed to have friends that desired to know how I dealt with this reality, life without a dad.
People speak of what strength I have for handling his death so well and how great it is that I have pursued a life for myself beyond my extenuating circumstances, but you live with what you are given. The pain of losing him is not something I would wish on my worst enemy, but I am proud to say he is my biggest influence in my life today.
The hardest thing my dad ever told me was “I hope you’re everything I’m not.” He was completely serious. I am proud of the man I am because of the man that got me here, my Dad.
One thousand one hundred and ninety-one days, 8 hours, 5 minutes and 3 seconds ago my father was pronounced dead.
My father passed away from a heart attack completely unexpectedly three years ago this Saturday. Michael Joseph Dalton was pronounced dead at Saint Mark’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah, at 2:10 p.m., although he had actually died about 37 minutes prior in our home. He did not suffer.
I will not recount the day’s events to you, for that is not my intent; rather, I hope to impart some things I have discovered about grief throughout my 20 years here. Maybe some of you are unconvinced that I am qualified to speak on personal grief because, as far as you know, I grieve my father. I grieve three childhood friends, six high school comrades, four grandparents, an uncle, two aunts, my deacon and my father (to name a few). I say this not to beg pity but to provide context for eyes racing through these words.
The common thread that binds all living things is death. Death is a big part of life, and however awkward it may be to put into words it is inevitable that not only will we all arrive to greet death but also that we will grieve the loss of someone we love.
Asserting we all have death in common and we all grieve lost loved ones, why is there no “1-2-3 Guide to Grieving Your Dad” book amongst The New York Times best sellers? What are the words to speak to console the heart of a grieving friend? Why is death awkward or hard?
The answer is simple: fear.
I fear letting down my guard enough to even tell most people that I grieve my Dad every day. Friends fear they will offend me or bring up hard emotions by even mentioning a weekend trip they took with their dads. Fear consumes us and, as a result, healing is hindered.
Here is some news – I know I am one of few, and yet many, that grieve their father’s death so early in life. I know I have been to more funerals in the last three years than most people twice my age. And I am who I am because of it.
As a 17-year-old, I never anticipated being confronted with the death of my father, who was 47. My college search came to a screeching halt; high school graduation lost its wonder, my relationships deteriorated, my faith faltered and my world was rocked. I did not desire to hear “the right words,” I longed to hear and feel the profoundness of the simple phrase, “I am sorry,” and the freedom to cry and to be hugged.
Everyone deals with death uniquely. In my own family I saw an array of coping methods through my brother, sister and Mom. There is no right way to grieve, it is a path that will unfold as you walk it, step-by-step.
Three years later I look back on my Dad’s death and can say that I would not change it. His passing has influenced me far beyond his capabilities stretched when he was alive and his memory emerges in my mind every day. I was blessed to have friends that desired to know how I dealt with this reality, life without a dad.
People speak of what strength I have for handling his death so well and how great it is that I have pursued a life for myself beyond my extenuating circumstances, but you live with what you are given. The pain of losing him is not something I would wish on my worst enemy, but I am proud to say he is my biggest influence in my life today.
The hardest thing my dad ever told me was “I hope you’re everything I’m not.” He was completely serious. I am proud of the man I am because of the man that got me here, my Dad.
Jon Dalton is a junior majoring in public relations. Questions or comments can be sent to him at jon.dalton@aggiemail.usu.
0 Responses to “In Memory–Column published in Utah Statesman Jan. 28, 2009”