Strike two <3

She strikes again. Grief. Oh life can be so relentless sometimes. It's been one year since my dad passed away, and I miss him every single day.

I used to call my dad my Phoenix, because no matter how many times life knocked him down in the last fifteen years, he always rose back up. This time however, he took his wings and went to be with Jesus. 29th May 2025, he was just shy of 81 years old. He had a good innings, but his body was tired of fighting health battle after health battle.

Dad had faced many health challenges over the last fifteen odd years. From a number of strokes, a couple of heart attacks and eventually Myeloma. In 2019 we almost lost him due to going into cardiac arrest, and was put into an induced coma. I remember so clearly the doctors telling me that they were monitoring him closely and taking it hour by hour on his survival rate. Friends and family told me to prepare myself for the worst as things weren't looking promising, but deep down inside, I knew it wasn't time for my dad to go. And so I prayed with everything in me and had faith that he would survive. And he did! My Phoenix eventually woke up from his coma, and although he had a long road ahead of him with rehabilitation, he became a walking miracle. We continued to make more memories, share special holidays and be grateful for the time we still had together. Dad was then diagnosed with Myeloma around 2021. He managed to receive the right care and medication dose, and continued to live life to the full - my Phoenix doing it again. However, in early 2025, dad was admitted to hospital due to some complexities and he was in and out of hospital for a couple of months. Towards the end, he became quite despondent, unresponsive and very quiet on our family chat group. He wasn't taking calls or reading messages. I started to worry and prepare myself for a flight back home.

Around the 27th of May, dad went into surgery to have a pace maker put in. We had a glimmer of hope that this would help him get back on track, and my Phoenix would fly again. However, as I lay in bed on the 30th May 2025, at about 02:15am (what would have been the 29th of May 17:15pm in South Africa), I woke up and God spoke to me ever so gently, but so clearly. He told me that it was time. Time for dad to go home now. I had such peace in this moment that I could let my dad go and it would be okay. Jesus was with him. At about this time, is when my dad actually passed away and I received the call from back home to let me know the news. My heart was sore. I cried and cried and cried. God had prepared my me, but it didn't detract from the sadness that came with losing a parent. A parent that I was so close with. A parent that had become one of my best friend's in life. An anchor, a confidant, a man that showed me the meaning of a gentleman. I didn't get to say goodbye, or tell him thank you for everything he ever did for me. I didn't get to tell him that I love him, or be by his bedside and hold his hand as he walked into the arms of Jesus. How I wish I could have just been there with him in those last moments of his life.

What followed was a mixture of emotions. I had never lost a parent before. I had lost a husband, but not a parent. What did grief look like for this "type of loss"? I didn't seem to cry as much as when Bernard passed. Why? I didn't feel such a hard impact in every fiber of my being in the months that followed in losing him. Why? I loved my dad so very much. I started comparing my grief of losing my dad to my grief of losing my husband. Losing my dad seemed to come with a quieter grief. A "peaceful" grief. Or was I just in denial and had PTSD from experiencing such a hard grief just three and a half years ago? Was my mind, body and soul refusing to walk down that road again due to the sheer heartache and pain I had experienced? I couldn't tell. What I did know was that I had to stop comparing the grief, because every grief story and path is different. I couldn't compare Bernard and my dad, they played two completely different roles in my life. I needed to walk a different road now, and somehow figure that out.

To be continued...