Understanding Death

My Dad died when I was five. My dad grit his teeth in physical pain, and my mother, emotionally destroyed, looked at him with sore, sad eyes. To me, his end is very vague and confusing. I didn’t yet understand the concept of death, and couldn’t understand my own father passing away. Actually, apart from the absence it created, I benefited from his death. My five-year-old self hated hospitals, and now there was no need to visit them every day. There was no longer the sharp sting in my nose from disinfectant, and dreary white walls becoming more depressing thanks to the fluorescent lighting. At that age, I knew he was gone, but I didn’t understand that he was unable to come back. I remember saying, “I hope that when daddy feels better he can come back and live with us again.” My sister was blunt with me, “He can’t come back! He’s dead! Don’t you understand?”

I now understand what death means. My Dad died when I was five, but I still feel his absence. I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if he lived. No doubt I would be spared the emotional scaring from his death, but would I be happier? I realized that I am the person resulting from my life experiences. My values, ideas, and fears develop from the ups and downs that I’ve traveled in life. In fact, an Erik Soreide with a father would not be Erik Soreide.

I am jealous of alternate Erik, but to a degree. He would have grouchy, Norwegian father yelling at him in broken English with a heavy accent, while I have a Nebraskan mother yelling at me in plain English. His father would make him play soccer, while I was given the opportunity to choose my own sport. When people ask, “Where’s your dad?” he would respond, “At work,” while I have to say, “My dad died when I was five.” People always react the same way. At first, they are surprised, then they return an “I’m sorry.” I hate this entire situation most of all because you are not at fault for my dad’s death. Cancer killed him in his bed, and while I do appreciate the sympathy, I cannot stand the pity.

My father’s death has hardened me to the point that death is no longer debilitating. Fortitude isn’t the right word for the situation. Fortitude implies defense against death, but I don’t defend myself. I understand the situation and accept that this person is no longer with me.