My dad had always been a dramatic storyteller. Never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story, he would read his audience and add flare where appropriate. My siblings and I used to roll our eyes as he would tell the same stories over and over, each time a little different and a little more dramatic. But I think this is the thing we miss the most about him.

Dad was a positive person, always smiling, laughing, and greeting people warmly. This didn’t change during his cancer battle. He never once asked, “Why me?” Instead, he would often say, even in his final days, “I have lived a great life, and I leave a happy man.”

I am grateful for my time as his carer, as it unloaded a lot of residual pain. I also got to meet the version of my dad everyone else talked about and found he was someone I wished I had more of an opportunity to know in my life.

I am a strong believer in remaining present. I welcome each day as a fresh start, a new beginning, a chance to grow.

After his diagnosis, my whole universe became consumed with the needs and demands of my father and his illness. As a planner and an organizer, I appeared to be flourishing by treating his cancer like a project to be managed. I became an overachiever in every aspect of my life, even though I felt like I was on autopilot. I took on more responsibility at work. I increased my training with my fitness coach. I also managed my dad’s day-to-day life, including his doctor and treatment appointments, where I would transcribe everything and inform relatives and close friends of every change. To the outside world, I was calm, collected, and in control—and for the most part, I was. My role as a carer allowed me to channel my grief and sadness into something I have since discovered I am good at, while also healing some deep wounds with my father. 

When dad was placed in hospice, I knew the end was near. Knowing he had around-the-clock care was a blessing. I cannot admire enough the people who work in this industry. Other people said having him in 24-hour care was good because it took some of the pressure off me. While technically true, I could feel something start to shift inside me with the realization that my role was no longer the most vital. I had done my work, and it was time to let the nurses take over. Any carer will tell you the end is the busiest. I was managing him, ensuring I knew what the doctors were doing, and preparing my younger siblings for what was about to come. The one thing I hadn’t anticipated was how I wasn’t ready for this to actually end.

And just as suddenly as it began, my nine-month journey as a carer ended. The moment my dad died, I felt a mixture of emotions. There was sadness for losing my father, a moment I prepared for over several months after we were told there were no more treatment options for his late-stage, small-cell lung cancer. I also felt a sense of relief because his pain was over and I could have my life back. Cancer takes from the carer, too. Not only are you in the front row seat watching your loved one in pain, but you also become an observer in your own life. You let go of the steering wheel, put the car in neutral, and just idle.

Underneath the exterior of an in-control and in-command daughter was a struggling woman losing her sparkle. I often refer to myself as a sparkly person, someone who spreads positivity and presents a welcoming aurora. I spend most of my time in a joyful state, smiling, complimenting others, and getting to know new people. I continued to do this throughout my time as a carer to an almost manic level. Now reflecting on this period, I realize that this was my way of continuing to mask the pain of losing both my father and control of my life. I cried publicly for the first time since he was diagnosed at his funeral. Now, a month after his passing, I am still not sure the full extent of this pain has hit me.  

Immediately after his passing, I felt numb. “That is no longer my dad,” I thought. As callous as it may seem, I began packing his personal items away: folding clothes that will never be worn again, emptying the mini fridge of his favorite food people brought for him, carefully bundling his phone with its charger, all while not feeling anything. I nearly ghosted him from my memory.

After his passing, I threw myself into yet another planning project: managing the perfect funeral for my dad and his estate. This started within an hour of his passing. I went home, took a shower, and went straight to the funeral home where I spoke with precision, free of emotion, and “got the job done.” People called me a “determined woman,” “dragon lady,” and a “woman who knows what she wants.” I explained that my father put me in charge because he knew I could separate my emotions from the job at hand. He knew I would be able to execute the perfect funeral that reflected his vibrant personality—something we talked a lot about during our nine months together. I viewed this work as the final gift I could give him. After the service, many of his friends commented on how much of “Jack” was in the room. I knew he would have loved it.

The day after the funeral was the first time since his death I was alone with no project to manage, and I felt lost. It was also the first time I acknowledged my pain, dropped my guard, and no longer had to be in control. I was broken. My soul no longer spoke the same language as my head. I could no longer relate to the life I had prior to being a carer. To be so vulnerable with yourself and acknowledge that you no longer could be who you thought you were was scary.

I spent a lot of my nine-month period as a carer with feelings of guilt, wanting it to just be over. I didn’t want to lose my father, but I wanted to be back in my own driver’s seat, pursuing my goals and dreams. However, now that I am back in the driver’s seat, it feels like I can’t remember how to drive. In fact, I’m not sure I even remember this car. Caring has fundamentally changed me. The things that were so important before no longer seem to have the same calling they once did. Everyone keeps saying I am just adjusting to my “new normal,” but what do you do when the new normal feels so foreign?