What it’s like to have a parent die in college
Around 11 a.m. on Sunday, Oct. 6, my mom called me. The usual call goes something like: “Hey, Pat, are the Eagles playing today? How are you? Did you do well on that paper?” But this wasn’t the usual call.
“Pat, I just wanted to let you know that Dad passed away a few minutes ago,” she told me. She told me she would wait a few minutes to tell the hospice staff. She wanted to spend more time with him.
I had just driven home to Scranton, Pennsylvania to see him the day before, and he wasn’t well. He had been sick for a long time, so I knew this would happen soon. Still, I wasn’t expecting the news. Maybe no one ever expects that kind of news.
My dad was 79 when he died. No, that’s not a typo. My dad was old. Growing up people would always say, “Aw, it’s so nice that you’re with your grandpa all the time.” I’d tell them that he was actually my dad and that he was just really old. His age never bothered me, though.
I knew he’d die before my friend’s dads, too, but that didn’t really bother me, either. At that time, his death was something in the future that I didn’t have to think about.
[mks_pullquote align=”right” width=”300″ size=”24″ bg_color=”#cecece” txt_color=”#000000″]“At first, school work was a good way to keep my mind off his death. This worked for maybe two or three weeks. Then things got harder.”[/mks_pullquote]
When I was 13, my dad’s health began to decline. When I was 16, he couldn’t take pictures with me for prom because he couldn’t get up the steps into my friend’s house. By the time I arrived at St. Joe’s, it became hard to ignore that he was different from the other dads. He couldn’t help me move into dorms. He couldn’t remember my friends.
I’m not complaining though. His kind demeanor never changed no matter how bleak his situation may have looked, and he never stopped loving my mom and I.
In May, my dad had a stroke. He didn’t become paralyzed, but he already had dementia and the stroke worsened his mind greatly. That’s when the thought that he’d die before my friends’ dads became a reality.
In the two months since he died, I’ve found that studying for exams, writing papers, and doing my homework suddenly has become much harder to deal with. At first, school work was a good way to keep my mind off his death. This worked for maybe two or three weeks. Then things got harder.
I’m around people all day at St. Joe’s. Everyone is nice to me, and I’m nice to them. I don’t act any different than before, but things are different for me now. They just are. My father is dead.
I didn’t tell anybody at St. Joe’s about his death for those two or three weeks. Who would want to hear that? I thought most college kids wouldn’t even know how to respond. It can feel lonely enough, and I didn’t want to feel lonelier.
Eventually I realized that not talking about it was making it worse. So I approached all of my professors. I said out loud, “My dad died.” They were all great, and their kindness and understanding really helped.
It’s still hard for me to tell people my own age. I know that I’m not the only person in college who’s lost a parent. I know that people will understand. But I still can’t bring myself to say it most of the time.
My dad died. Saying it makes it real. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that, yet.
