THE LIFE I MADE FOR MYSELF

As I sat beside my dad's hospital bed, I couldn't help but feel a sense of desperation wash over me. The beeping of the machines, the antiseptic smell of the hospital, and the faint glow of the fluorescent lights above all seemed to fade into the background as I gazed into his weary eyes. My dad, the strong and resilient man who had always been my rock, was slipping away from me, and I was powerless to stop it.

The memories of our time together flooded my mind like a tidal wave, threatening to engulf me in a sea of sorrow. I remembered the way he used to read me bedtime stories, his deep voice bringing the characters to life in a way that made me feel like I was right there with them. I remembered the way he used to take me on adventures, exploring the woods behind our house, and the way he used to make me laugh with his silly jokes and antics.

But as I looked at him now, I saw a man who was tired, tired of fighting, tired of living. His eyes, once bright and full of life, were sunken and dull, his skin pale and clammy. His breathing was labored, and his voice was barely above a whisper. I felt a lump form in my throat as I realized that this might be the last time I would ever hear his voice, the last time I would ever see him smile.

"Dad," I whispered, my voice cracking with emotion. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't get to spend more time with you, that I didn't get to tell you how much I love you more often."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a deep sadness, and I could see the tears welling up in them. "I'm sorry too, kiddo," he whispered back. "I'm sorry that I won't be here to see you grow up, to see you graduate, to see you get married and have kids of your own."

I felt a wave of grief wash over me, and I buried my face in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. He stroked my hair, his touch weak but comforting, and I felt a sense of peace wash over me. This was it, I thought. This was the end.

But then, he spoke again, his voice a little stronger now. "Christabel, my angel," he said. "I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise me that you'll be strong, that you'll keep going, no matter what. I want you to promise me that you'll make me proud."

I looked up at him, my eyes streaming with tears, and I nodded. "I promise, Dad," I said. "I'll make you proud. I'll be strong. I'll keep going."

He smiled, a faint smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I know you will, kiddo," he said. "You're a fighter, just like me. And I know that you'll do great things, that you'll make a difference in this world."

As he finished speaking, the machines surrounding us began to beep more rapidly, and the nurse rushed in, a look of concern on her face. "Time of death," she whispered to my stepmom, "14:20, November 15th, 2009."

I felt a sense of numbness wash over me, as if I was floating outside of my body, watching the scene unfold below me. My dad was gone, and I was left to pick up the pieces, to navigate a world without him in it. But as I looked at the brown envelope that his assistant had handed me, the one with the mysterious contents that I was to open on my 18th birthday, I felt a sense of hope, a sense that my dad was still with me, guiding me, even in death.

The days and weeks that followed were a blur of tears, grief, and funeral arrangements. But as I stood at the podium, delivering my eulogy, I felt a sense of pride and strength that I had never felt before. I was my dad's daughter, and I was going to make him proud, no matter what. I was going to keep going, to fight, to make a difference in this world.

Two weeks had passed since funeral had taken place. My dad was finally laid to rest, and I was left to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart. As I stood at his gravesite, I couldn't help but feel a sense of emptiness and loss. He was gone, and I would never see him again. But as I looked up at the sky, I whispered a silent prayer, hoping that he was finally at peace.

"He left and never came back until I met him in eternity," I whispered to myself. "He is with Mom now. I hope they are happy to see each other." I smiled through my tears, thinking about the reunion that must have taken place in heaven. My dad was a good man, loved by many, and he had always put others before himself. I knew that he was watching over me, guiding me from above.

"I love you, Dad, more than any other thing in this world," I said, my voice cracking with emotion. "You are gone, but you will always remain in my heart. I will tell your unborn generation about how wonderful you are. I will make sure I study hard, so that your hard work will not be in vain." I took a deep breath, feeling a sense of determination wash over me. "May your gentle soul rest in perfect peace. AMEN."

As I returned to school, I was met with pitying glances from my classmates. Some of them came up to me to offer their condolences, but I just nodded my head in response. I didn't know how to process my emotions, and I didn't want to talk about my dad's passing. I just wanted to be left alone.

I walked to my seat, feeling like I was in a daze. Everything around me seemed void and empty, and I couldn't shake the feeling that my dad was still with me. What if I returned home and found him waiting for me? What if he told me that it was all just a dream, and that he was still alive? I imagined all sorts of scenarios, from him taking me to the zoo to him watching movies with my stepmom and little Junior.

But as I sat in class, staring blankly at the whiteboard, I realized that it was all just a fantasy. My dad was really gone, and I was left to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart. I began to cry, and my vision became blurry. I didn't notice Uncle Jude standing in front of me, talking to me, until he hugged me and said, "Thank God, you're back, Christabel!"

My teacher's voice cut through my haze, and I looked up to see her standing beside Uncle Jude. "Where are my classmates?" I asked, feeling disoriented. "All gone home," she replied. "This is six pm. You've been like this since morning." I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me, and I apologized for worrying everyone.

But as I stood up, I couldn't help but ask, "Daddy, is he home? Please don't tell him what happened. I don't want him to be worried." Uncle Jude's expression was somber, and he said, "I'm sorry, Princess." My teacher intervened, telling Uncle Jude to take me home, and I knew that I had to face reality.

For a month, I was insane, seeing and talking to my dad as if he was still alive. But with Uncle Jude's help, I began to see a therapist, and I slowly started to come to terms with my loss. I resumed school, and my friends and teachers welcomed me back with open arms. I was finally on the road to recovery, and I knew that my dad would want me to be happy and move on.

I know that I will never heal from it but I believe with time, I will come in terms with the pain. Everything will be a painful memory that I will never forget.