Will I Ever Be Called Dad Again?
The lingering echo of grief in a single word
Suicide has so many long lasting implications. Some are obvious and immediate. The crushing grief, the questions that will never have answers, the gaping hole left in families and friendships.
Others sneak in quietly over time. The way it changes how you see yourself, how you trust others, how you move through the world. Birthdays, anniversaries, and random Tuesdays all take on new weight. It reshapes conversations, relationships, even identities. And for many, it plants a persistent narrative in your mind and heart that says, “I should have done more.”
Then there are the ramifications I never imagined.
When my girls were little, they called Cindy and me Mommy and Daddy. After Cindy took her own life, we landed on calling her Mommy in Heaven. It was our way of keeping her close and letting her still belong to our everyday life, even in her absence. She was here, even if she wasn’t “here.”
I remarried my lovely wife, Tanja and we all moved in together to start a new life. In time, the girls started called Tanja “Mommy”. We never forced it on them or even suggested it. They did it when it seemed to feel natural to them.
As they got older, they naturally grew out of calling us Mommy and Daddy. They didn’t substitute them with Mom and Dad like would normally happen.
By this time, Chloe and Tanja’s relationship had grown more complex. She was more deeply hurt from Cindy’s death than any of us realized. I think Tanja became a constant reminder to her that her mom was dead. Chloe didn’t want another mom. She wanted her dead mom back.
Cindy kept the title of “Mom,” and Chloe started calling Tanja “Mother.” I think the more formal title helped her keep Tanja at an emotional arm’s length. Our younger daughter, who I believe would have gladly called Tanja “Mom,” held back out of loyalty to her sister.
Calling me Dad and Tanja Mother sounded weird to them, so I became “Father.” I didn’t love it, but I certainly understood why it was happening. In time I got used to it.
Now that my older daughter is dead too, I find myself wanting to be called Dad again. As I’m writing this, I’m realizing I’m not sure why exactly. Maybe it’s because it somehow, it feels more intimate. It might be because I’m attached to an image from long ago. It’s also probably because it feels like moving forward after Chloe’s death in some way.
I’ll ask her about it one day. Right now, I don’t want to put pressure on her she doesn’t need. Whether I’m “Dad” or “Father”, being a great parent to my girl will always be one of the most important parts of my life.
That’s what matters most.
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This one got me in the feels a bit.
I am sitting in the Gerald R. Ford international airport reading this, having just said farewell to my sifu, and attending the memorial of my closest father figure (next to my actual father).
I view death from a much different t perspective than most, but while I choose to embrace it, and even view suicide as a personal decision I never judge or criticize, stories like this remind me that no matter how death comes, it still leaves a wound in those left behind.
My oldest four children suffer the consequences of how I managed the death of their sister, seeking to “protect” them. My youngest two even feel that weight even though they never knew her.
Your words always challenge me in good ways. Even though I have not changed my views or beliefs on death and dying—or even suicide, it does help me to grow and be empathetic towards those who suffer from loss.
When you write Jason, you ignite something in the reader - realisations, new understanding, new perspectives. I never fail to be moved and slightly changed (it always feels for the better) by what what you share. Thank you.