Two years ago, on Nov. 15, my dad died.
It was the fall semester of my freshman year, and I had just spent my first weekend at Central Connecticut State University. Although I was a campus resident, my weekly routine was going home every Friday. But that weekend, for the first time, I decided to finally stay on campus. I remember it like it was yesterday. I spent time with my best friend binge-watching movies all day Saturday. Then, on Sunday, I went to the mall with a close family friend.
Before I left for the mall, my mom and dad stopped by my dorm to visit. My dad stayed in the car while my mom went to my dorm with me. As I walked her back to the car and kissed her goodbye, I walked to the driver’s side to hug and kiss my dad goodbye. He had a glossy look in his eye as I hugged him. He said, “I love you, and I am so proud of you.” I smiled and walked back to my dorm hall, not knowing that that would be the very last time I would ever see him.
On Tuesday, my early morning class was canceled. I reset my alarm and fell back to sleep. I awoke with my phone filled with missed calls from my mom. The top message read, “I am outside your dorm hall.” I rushed to the lobby. At the door were my mom, my little sister, and my grandma. Confused, I let them in, and my mom ushered me to a couch in the lobby. She began to walk me through that morning and how she never heard my dad leave for work. Then she got a phone call from my uncle saying that Dad had collapsed at work and was being rushed to Waterbury Hospital. She said that Dad didn’t make it. He passed away that morning.
A gray fog engulfed my vision as denial began to vomit out of my mouth. With a flick of a switch, not only did my dad just die, but a piece of me did as well. All I could remember thinking was that finals were around the corner.
Then, after the two longest weeks of my life, I returned to class. This professor asked each of us students how our Thanksgiving holidays went. I told the class about my dad. The professor’s reaction was to tell the next student, “I don’t know how you can top that one off.” He later told me that he never received my email, although I had heard back from all the other professors. And he showed up late to a meeting with me.
All of my other professors were wonderful.
Since my dad’s death, I have been diagnosed with PTSD and extreme anxiety. I have not been able to live on campus for more than three days, and I can’t go near my old dorm hall. Sadly, I’m not alone. Studies show that one in five students experience a traumatic event in college.
This time of year is really hard for me, but I am grateful to have such a strong support system with my friends and family. I see a therapist, and I journal. Journaling is a huge coping mechanism whenever I miss him because it feels as if he is still here. I was so close to my dad that I got a tattoo on my inner forearm that says, in his handwriting, “So proud of you, love Dad.”
A lesson that I am learning is that it is OK to go at your own pace with life. For a college student, there are pressures to achieve certain goals at certain times, such as feeling that you have to graduate in four years or you will fall behind. But a tragedy changes all that.
To other students who have lost a parent or a sibling or a friend: Yes, it’s an awful club to belong to, and the pain will never go away. But you manage to work around it. Since my dad’s death, I have experienced tons of highs and lows. And I’m finding that my plan isn’t what the universe’s plan is. But everything happens for a reason.
Ashley Harris, of Waterbury, is a third-year student at Central Connecticut State University.