With Gratitude...I Miss You, Dad

I don't have to look farther than into my own life to understand how long grief can truly last. Recently, a quiet voice inside me spoke up: “I miss you, Dad.” I heard it—and I responded in my own Acknowledge, Assess, Assist moment.

My father passed away 27 years ago, after spending his last four years living with dementia. At the time of his death, I struggled to remember who he was before the illness took over. Life was busy. I was managing work, raising a family, and completing a master’s degree in social work. There was little time or space to process the loss deeply.

Although not present on the surface, the grief did not go away. Now, decades later, memories, both endearing and more complicated have started to gently resurface. I remember how, after my mother died, my brother and I took turns sleeping next to my father to comfort him in his grief.

Dad was a kind, gentle man. Despite the unimaginable losses he endured during the Holocaust—including his first wife and two young sons—he never abandoned his deep-rooted Jewish faith. After my mother passed, he once again activated that survivor instinct. As a traditional European husband who had relied on her for daily life, he quickly sought companionship. Only a few months later, he met a woman at the bank and brought her into his life. She eventually moved in, and they were together for two years.

At the time, I felt ashamed and disappointed. It felt like he was making a mockery of my mother’s memory. But using my own framework years later, I was able to acknowledge those feelings, assess the context, and assist my healing by reframing the narrative with compassion. He wasn’t dishonoring her—he was trying to survive, again.

Eventually, he hired someone to help around the house. And while I may not have understood his choices then, I’ve now made peace with them.

Today, my grief has softened into gratitude. I realize how much I took for granted. My father gave me so many gifts—his love of music, his patience while teaching me to drive in reverse in the Edwards Gardens parking lot, his presence at the playground pushing me on the swings. He also gave me his time. Before dementia took hold, we spent countless hours playing dominoes at his place laughing, connecting, just being.

When that voice inside recently said, “I miss you, Dad,” I chose not to ignore it. I acknowledged it as truth, assessed what it meant in the context of my ongoing healing, and assisted that part of myself by leaning into the love and memories that remain.

It was like a light bulb turned on. And in that light, I can feel the part of me that he nurtured, still shining.