My Dad Died 5 Years Ago. When I Talk About Him, It's Like He's Still Here.

My dad in Italy. I was not there and did not take this photo but thought it looked cool so here it is.

It’s strange how the cancer attacked my dad’s brain—my favourite thing about him. He was so smart. So smart that it actually got annoying how much he knew and how often he was right. He was so curious. He never stopped wanting to learn. Whether it was the piles of “For Dummies” books he accumulated, the newsletters he was subscribed to, or the way he intently listened to my friends and asked them questions about their lives, he always wanted to learn more and genuinely cared about knowing you.

It’s difficult to put grief into words. Especially when you felt it for years before the person was physically gone. My dad’s death was prolonged. He started dying the moment the tumour that had been troubling his vision was discovered to be glioblastoma multiforme. I’ll save you the Google search: the most aggressive, terminal brain cancer. YIKES.

For nearly three years, the moments varied: normal, peaceful, exhausting, devastating, at times even terrifying. The only thing that could be guaranteed was that nothing was guaranteed: not improvement, not painlessness, and certainly not time of great quantity or quality.

And so we did the best we could, each passing day both a blessing and a curse; a day further from the dad I knew and a day closer to losing him completely.

I’m okay. I didn’t think I would be. I remember the feeling of coming home that day. September 10, 2019. The house felt quiet. I remember it was oddly easy to fall asleep. Before I dozed off, I remember wondering how I would go on to live life without my dad in it. How I’d wake up the next day and just keep doing that—going to bed and then waking up—on loop for the rest of my life and he’d never be part of it ever again.

I remember feeling shocked that buses were still running. That people were still going to school and work. That life was still moving while mine had frozen still. How could everyone else be okay while my life as I knew it was over? How could they just go on with their days when my dad had left the world? It makes you feel quite small, the realization that the world doesn’t just stop when yours does.

People kept telling me it would get better. I very genuinely did not believe them. Sure, I nodded and accepted their advice because I know there’s no right thing to say. And of course I wanted to believe them. I just didn’t see a future in which I wasn’t punched in the gut by every reminder of him.

Five. I’ve oddly been looking forward to that number and yet simultaneously dreading it for, well, five years. It seemed at the time like such a daunting milestone. It’s equivalent to the amount of years I spent in high school. It’s a long time, yet as time goes on it feels so short. Time’s a construct, yada yada. I remember when I was sad about leaving high school, a beloved teacher told me that it feels big because I was only 16 and 5 years is like a third of my life, but as I get older that amount of time will be smaller and smaller and thus less and less significant to my experiences. She was right, but she also scared the living crap out of me. Because while that is true for high school, that is also true of the time I’ve spent with my dad. 17 years right now, at 22, is most of my life. But one day it will be just a fraction.

As I mused about what ‘five’ would be, part of me thought it would be drastically different—that I’d have some massive revelation about the meaning of life and death or maybe just matured a lot or maybe even stopped thinking about him every day. Another part of me dreaded the thought of not thinking about him every day: the pain so present, so pressing, how could I ever not feel it with such weight? How could I forget it for even a second, let alone an entire day?

I’m happy to report that I have yet to live a day without a reminder, though they’ve grown increasingly positive as time has passed. The sight of bananas and freshly squeezed orange juice at brunch used to make me cry in public at a restaurant to a very puzzled waiter (this did indeed happen while my dad was in palliative care at the hospital and my uncle insisted we go eat breakfast at a place across the street, the first time we’d left the room since he’d been admitted, therefore the first time I experienced his favourite breakfast foods—he loved breakfast—without him. You don’t think these little details will hit you when you wonder about what the death of your loved one will feel like. You think the big milestones will sting—and they will—but the freshly squeezed OJ never crosses your mind until it crosses your table). That’s not to say that I don’t still cry or that little things don’t still get to me—rather, that I’m always surprised by what it is that matters most. Sure, it has sucked to not have him at my birthdays. But it has sucked far more to not be able to call him when I’m bored on my walks home from school or to get his emails about the newest scam I should be aware of or his latest idea for the invention that will make us billionaires.

This is from my preschool notebook. It holds true.

They were right. It did get easier. But in some ways, it has also gotten harder. 5 years is a really long time, but it’s also no time at all. Sometimes I forget what his voice sounds like. Or what his handwriting looked like (very angular, especially his r’s). And then I get hit with a wave of grief like no other. If these immense and tangible details are already slipping away, what will be left of him as I continue to grow up or when I have kids of my own?

What I lost is immeasurable: a parent that I felt so connected with, who really got me, who I resembled in so many ways. What I gained is also unimaginable: unrelenting empathy, optimism, and perspective that have shaped the person I’ve become. There’s so much to mourn and so much to be thankful for and that all hits me at different times and in different ways.

Five years later, my grief is equalled by my gratitude. How lucky am I to have had 17 years with a dad who loved me unconditionally? I was raised by a man who wholeheartedly believed his three daughters could be anything they wanted to be, who championed us to strive for greatness, who challenged us to be our best selves. Every 95% I brought home was met with the question: “Where’d the other 5 marks go?” Good one Dad, never got old (it got old so, so quickly).

I got to spend time with and learn from a truly funny, sensible, curious, driven man who was so generous in time and in spirit. Every single person who knew him loved him dearly because he was thoughtful: he paid attention to the little things, he was open-minded and he was resolved to help those around him. His loved ones were all that mattered, and that of course meant his family, but also his friends, teammates, co-workers, and sometimes even Uber drivers. I never speak in my Ubers, yet my dad somehow managed to make friends and meaningful connections with his. He cared about where they came from, their families, their ambitions; he got their contact information in case he ever heard of opportunities for them. He was a mensch in every sense of the word.

So, frankly, I feel as though the greater loss is in those who will never know him. I got 17 years and some people won’t even get a moment. So many more lives could have been marked by his heart. He had so much more to give, and others had so much they could have taken. I wish that you, reader, could have known him. I bet you would have loved him, and I bet he would have loved you. I bet you would have felt seen by him the way I and so many others have. I hope that my words can give you a sense of the person he was and the profound loss that his death is not just for me and my family, but for the community and for the world. I didn’t even mention how unmatched of an athlete he was in literally every sport imaginable; despite how irrelevant it feels, I know he’d want that in here somewhere. Crazy golfer, baseball player, hockey player, tennis player. You name it, he was the best at it.

I wish I could tell him who I am. How I’m doing. The movies I’m watching, the songs I’m listening to, the articles I’ve read. I wish my inbox was still full of iPhone tips and tricks and warnings against new drugs on the streets. I wish we could have gone on The Amazing Race. I wish I could ask for his advice. I wish I could hear him threaten to kill a teacher or peer who hurt my feelings (a teacher once didn’t let me retake a test when I missed it because of strep throat and my dad was NOT thrilled). So many wishes that I can’t even name yet because they come up randomly as I go through life. When I try a new food I know he’d love or accomplish a new driving milestone (he LOVED to drive and I like to think he’d be very proud that I am the same way) or even have a sip of a really great freshly squeezed orange juice, I’m reminded of how much he’s missing out on and how much I’m missing out on in not being able to share my life with him.

So, Dad. You were right about tomatoes and cream cheese, killer combo, sorry for ragging on it all those years. Yogurt and bananas I’m not as turned onto yet but runny eggs on toast is a true delicacy. Mom often makes them in chili oil, I think you’d devour it.

I love you so much. I can’t thank you enough for being the Dad that you were. I know you’ll never read this cause, you know… but in the event that there’s some afterlife where you have access to Substack, know that my promise to you will never be broken: I will always tell people about you. My kids and their kids and all who follow will know Ira Goldstein as well as if you were playing shaker with them. I wish I could know what you would think about me and what I’m up to. I wish I could know for sure if I’m making you proud. But just know that a day has not gone by without you crossing my mind. And know that your funeral was PACKED like literally no room #humblebrag. You were so unbelievably loved. And are so unbelievably missed.

I wonder where the next five years will take me. It’ll probably feel a lot like this. Hopefully they will be full of love, happiness, and some grief—it’s all that’s left of him, after all. And to anyone who can relate to any of this: I’m sorry and I love you. All we can do is keep moving forward and feel the feelings as they come: tears are good, smiles are good, laughter is everything. Embrace it all, don’t shy away from it, and talk about them if you can. Their spirit lives on if we put it into words. Their memory remains if we share it.