How Do You Keep Someone Alive After They're Gone?

My relationship with my dad has always been complicated, so I guess the only way to tell this story is to start from the beginning.

When I was a little girl, I was 100% a daddy's girl. I wanted to do everything with him. He took me paintballing, bowling, fishing, taught me how to ride a bike, shoot a gun, and play softball. He showed me how to mow the lawn, change the oil in a car, and fix things around the house. We never just sat around doing nothing. There was always an adventure waiting.

Every day I would wait by the window for my dad to come home from work. He was my favorite person.

When my parents divorced, I was only 5 years old. I didn't fully understand what was happening. All I knew was that we moved over an hour away from my dad, and my mom took everything when she left. I remember going to my dad's house on the weekends. The house we had once lived in together was almost empty. There was barely any furniture left.

Even as a little girl, I remember looking at him and feeling sad for him. He looked lonely. Like he had lost everything.

But my dad wasn't innocent either.

I remember walking into my parents' bedroom one day and seeing my dad with his hands around my mom's neck. I remember learning that he had been having an affair. I remember him taking my sister and me to his girlfriend's house before my mom even knew about her. The reason my mom found out was because she asked me to take her to the house I had been to before. I can still picture the day she knocked on that door and my dad answered.

That moment changed everything.

After the divorce, my parents constantly went back and forth. Some weekends my dad would drop us off at my mom's house, then end up staying the night in her bedroom. As a little girl who wanted nothing more than her parents back together, it was confusing. One day they acted like a family, and the next they hated each other again.

Despite everything, I stayed incredibly close to my dad.

Every other weekend we would go to his house. He continued teaching me life skills, taking us bowling, fishing, into the city, and giving us experiences instead of just buying us things.

Then he met Colleen.

She was the love of his life.

She had kids the same age as my sister and me, and we all got along perfectly. Honestly, I used to wish I could live with them. But I never said anything because I was terrified it would hurt my mom if I left.

When I was around 14 or 15, my dad and Colleen broke up.

After that, everything changed.

For the longest time, we couldn't even find him. He stopped calling. He stopped coming to see us. Eventually, after I got my driver's license, my sister and I started driving up every Sunday to spend a few hours with him.

By then, alcohol had taken over his life.

He still worked, but every free minute he had was spent at the bar.

When my sister graduated high school, she planned to move in with him while attending college nearby. She asked me to come too, so I did.

That was when our relationship became the hardest it had ever been.

By then, my dad had lost his driver's license years earlier because of his drinking. Every morning he would work a couple hours at the apartment complex where he was employed, then spend the rest of the day at the bar until he stumbled home drunk.

Some mornings I'd wake up and find him passed out on the floor by the front door because he never made it to his bedroom. Other times he'd mistake my laundry basket for the bathroom. He'd call me in the middle of the night asking for rides, and if I didn't answer or go get him, he'd say hurtful things to me.

Watching the strongest man I knew slowly disappear into alcoholism was heartbreaking.

The dad who once taught me everything had become someone I barely recognized.

When I got pregnant with my first son, I moved out.

Even then, I still drove up to visit.

Despite his addiction, he absolutely adored my son. He went to the zoo with us, came to birthday parties, celebrated holidays, and joined us anytime we planned something close to where he lived.

Around that time, I became more than just his daughter.

I became his caregiver.

I bought him clothes because his were full of holes. I bought him toothbrushes, deodorant, groceries, and anything else he needed because every dollar he had went toward alcohol instead of taking care of himself.

I just wanted to make sure he was okay.

When my second son, Avery, was born, nothing changed.

He loved both of my boys with his whole heart.

He was an amazing grandpa.

Then one day...

He was just gone.

The guilt is something I still carry.

He used to call me just to talk or ask when I was coming to visit again. Sometimes I'd answer already feeling annoyed because I knew the conversation would go nowhere, and I'd rush to get off the phone.

The last phone call I ever had with my dad was one of those conversations.

I didn't know it would be our last.

I wish I would've stayed on the phone longer.

I wish I would've visited more.

I wish I would've helped him more.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have just told him to move in with me.

Would it have saved him?

I'll never know.

As much as alcohol destroyed our relationship, I also know alcoholism is a disease. My dad didn't choose to become addicted.

He chose alcohol over almost everything else because by then, he couldn't survive without it.

But addiction wasn't all that he was.

He was still one of the most generous people I've ever known.

He had almost nothing himself, yet if someone else needed help, he'd give them whatever he could.

Growing up, my dad always stopped for homeless people. We'd hand them our extra food or a few dollars. He taught my sister and me that everyone deserves kindness.

Today, I do the exact same thing with my own kids because that's what my dad taught me.

There are so many little ways I try to keep him alive.

Every year we go to the Sandwich Fair because he took us every single year.

I've taken my kids to Six Flags multiple times because that's where he always took us, even if they aren't big ride kids yet.

Another tradition my dad loved was going to car shows. On the weekends, I'd often drive us there, and we'd spend hours walking around looking at all the classic cars. It wasn't really about the cars themselves—it was about spending time together. We could wander for hours, talking about nothing and everything, and those are some of the conversations I wish I could have one more time.

But if I had to pick my favorite childhood memory with my dad, it would be camping.

Camping wasn't just a weekend trip for us—it was an experience. We'd spend the entire weekend outdoors, sitting around campfires, swimming until our fingers wrinkled, riding our bikes all over the campground, and making new friends. We were outside from the time we woke up until we crawled into our sleeping bags at night.

Looking back, those weekends were simple, but they were some of the happiest memories of my childhood.

That's another tradition I've tried to carry on with my own kids.

A few years ago, we started taking them camping. Watching them spend all day outside, riding bikes, making friends with other kids at the campground, swimming, and just being kids reminded me so much of my own childhood. It made me feel like a little piece of my dad was still with us.

Unfortunately, those camping trips came to an end because of something that happened with my mom—but that's a story for another day.

I still hope someday we can start that tradition again, because camping wasn't just something we did.

It was one of the greatest gifts my dad gave me.

He loved taking us to the Taste of Chicago, so I hope to make that a tradition too.

The only real family vacation we ever took was to Florida after my grandma moved there. He took us to Disney World, and those memories still make me smile.

His favorite ride at any carnival was the Tilt-A-Whirl. Every single time we'd find one, we'd ride it together, and he'd teach us exactly how to lean so we'd spin even faster.

My dad was just a big kid.

Lately, though, I've realized something.

I'm starting to forget.

I'm forgetting the sound of his laugh.

I'm forgetting what his voice sounded like.

Some memories aren't as clear as they used to be, and that scares me.

I don't really have anyone to talk about him with anymore.

My husband never got the chance to meet him. My kids were too young when he passed to remember much about him. My sister and I aren't close, and we don't really talk about things like this.

The only time I truly feel connected to my dad is when I'm with his side of the family, and I only see them maybe twice a year.

Sometimes I'll try bringing my dad up to my husband. I'll tell him a story or mention something that reminded me of him.

But the conversation usually ends there.

He doesn't really ask questions or keep it going.

Maybe he doesn't know what to say.

Maybe he doesn't realize how badly I need someone to listen.

So I stop talking.

And it makes me feel like nobody cares.

There are still little signs that make me feel close to him.

Sometimes I'll be sitting in a bar and one of the old country songs he always played comes on. Not a popular one—one that I've only ever really associated with my dad.

For just a second, it feels like he's there.

When I see cardinals in my backyard, I think maybe it's him or my grandma stopping by to say hello.

When I was little, my dad worked for Schwan's. We always had Schwan's food in our freezer, and every product had a number. My sister and I knew all the numbers by heart. Our favorite was 727, the orange drink.

After my dad passed away, I started ordering from Schwan's again.

Not because I needed the food.

Because it reminded me of him.

His favorite song was Neon Moon.

Every time I hear it, I stop and listen.

He loved country music, but he also loved AC/DC. We listened to both on long drives together, windows down, singing as loud as we could.

Those songs still bring me back to being his little girl.