I will never forget the night my dad, Don Murphy, died. Just like every evening, he and my mom tucked me into bed, said their goodnights and I fell sound asleep. A few hours later, I awoke to flashing red lights and the sight of an ambulance outside my window. And then, life as I knew it changed forever.
I may have only been in kindergarten, but I remember it all. The ride to the hospital. Sitting in the waiting room, watching cartoons on TV. My mom, her face red, her tears hidden behind sunglasses. Seeing my dad, who had already passed from a heart attack-and hearing my mom tell me to say goodbye.
But at 5 years old, I didn't know that meant goodbye forever.
This was my first experience with death.
At that time, I didn't even fully understand what it was. I didn't realize that it meant I'd never spend afternoons helping my dad fix up his old car again in our matching blue Crocs. That we'd never go to a daddy-daughter dance together. That he wouldn't help me move into college. That he wouldn't walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. I couldn't comprehend that I'd have to go through my life without him.
Going through grief at a young age forces you to grow up quickly. I was flooded with feelings of sadness, anger and confusion. But I also felt the emotions of others: I sensed my mom's worry about how she was going to raise me alone. I also could feel the stress on my grandparents as they had to move closer to be able to help us.
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