I used to hate stories about death. I hated when one of the characters would die, because the rest of the story would be sad and depressing. Why did the author have to dwell on it so much, anyway? I thought the author was just trying to create drama, and the easiest way to pull on a reader's heartstrings was to kill off somebody. Presto: instant sympathy.

But now I've been thrown into my own “death story,” and all I have is a giant knot of confusion in my mind. In books, the surviving character only feels one emotion at a time. But in reality, my emotions are never that clear-cut. I feel sad and happy, angry and upset, and more feelings I cannot name. Sometimes the pain is raw and intense, other times it is a dull throbbing that won't go away.

I guess I am lucky that I was there when Daddy died, that my mom woke me up in time so I could say goodbye. I guess I was lucky that he wasn't in pain when he died, that he was at peace. I have so much support, from my church, from my friends, form everybody. I know Daddy is in heaven. Everyone's trying to help.

But there is nothing they can do. There is nothing. I am scratching desperately at concrete walls that are impossible to knock down, but even though I know that, I scratch anyway, and my fingernails are bloody and shredded but I keep thinking that one more scratch will tear the stupid walls down and ease the pain in my heart. But there is nothing behind the walls but more walls. One more scratch just brings pain and frustration. There is nothing I can do.

I want my Dad more than anything in the world. I want to wake up from this nightmare and find him at his computer like he always is. He would gaze at me with concern and say, “oh, my little girl...” and take me in his arms one more time, one more time, just one more time... I need him to come back... I need him to come back... but he can't, he won't, I don't know, all I know is that he isn't going to come back. But I need him to come back.

I want my Dad.