My Dad, my hero

To say that 2025 was a hard year for me and my little family would be a massive understatement. It was one thing after another, to the point where I started to feel like God was slowly stripping everything away. But the greatest loss came with only weeks left in the year.

My dad-my anchor-died on December 6th.

It was unexpected, but not entirely. He was a coal miner, and while he loved his time in the mines, the dust never left him. Years of breathing in black dust took their toll. He developed silicosis, and year by year, it progressed.

Three years ago, we nearly lost him. His lung collapsed and he was admitted to the hospital. While there, he caught COVID, and honestly, we didn’t think he would ever come home. But he did—thinner, slower, and on 24-hour oxygen-but he came home. Over the months that followed, he regained much of his strength, and his quality of life improved with the oxygen helping him breathe.

This past year, he was hospitalized again with a lung infection. We were told it was COVID—again. That turned into pneumonia, and this time, he just couldn’t fight it off. His lungs couldn’t keep up, and the doctors had the palliative care conversation with him.

We were thinking we had months.

It turned out we only had days.

I was called home on a Friday morning. I arrived at the hospital around 5 p.m. and said my final goodbye at 1:35 a.m. on Saturday morning.

I’ve been through this before. I lost my mom 23 years ago, and I thought I understood what it meant to lose a parent. I was wrong. Nothing in this world could have prepared me for this level of pain. Losing my dad feels like losing my anchor in the world. I don’t quite know where to land now. Or how. Or even if I should land at all.

My parents divorced when I was 14; my brother was just 8. I won’t get into the details-that story has its own pain and is better told another day. My mom moved out of the province, and my dad stepped up. He rearranged his work schedule so he could be there for us. For years, he worked backshifts so he could be home with us in the mornings before school and there again when we got home. My cousin Gerard stayed with us at night while he worked. Later, he worked every weekend-Friday night straight through to Monday morning-just so he could give us his full attention during the week.

He wasn’t perfect, but he tried-so hard. I didn’t fully understand the depth of his sacrifices until I became a parent myself. I thought I knew. Now I really know.

When I was in Grade 12, just months before graduating, there was a mine disaster in Stellarton. The Westray Mine exploded. My dad was the captain of the mine rescue team at Lingan Colliery, and he was called into service. Along with his team, he went into what can only be described as hell, recovering the bodies of 26 miners so their families could have closure. He saw things underground that are impossible to put into words, and that experience changed him forever.

For decades, he carried the weight of what he saw and felt. About 25 years later, he was finally diagnosed with complex PTSD. At last, there was a name for the nightmares, the fear, the grief, and the flashbacks that never left him-and a treatment plan to help him survive them.

My father was a good man. He sacrificed so much-for me and my brother, for his friends, his family, and for people he didn’t even know. He helped as many people as he could, often quietly, without ever needing recognition.

I have so many good memories of him-so many happy times-and also some very hard ones. Life wasn’t always easy for us. We argued. We butted heads. But no matter what, he always forgave me-or asked for forgiveness himself. He always made things right. Always. He loved me unconditionally, even if he never hesitated to tell me what he thought I should do.

I honestly don’t know how to go on without him. This pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. It feels unreal, like my mind can’t fully wrap itself around the loss.

I am grateful-to God, and to the universe-that he passed so peacefully. He looked like a little boy at rest. And more than anything, I hope he knew just how deeply he was loved.