The Day I Left This Dimension

Two years without my Dad, and the new version of me that grief created.

We all know that loss is sad, but I discovered that until it happens to you, it’s impossible to fully understand. It’s like an exclusive club you never asked to join. You don’t just feel sad — you become a new person altogether. You don’t ask for it, but one life ends, and another quietly begins.

Life without my dad has been confusing. He was a strong presence — handsome, talented, funny, creative, encouraging, upbeat, and incredibly kind. He had the style and charisma of his mother’s Italian ancestors and the “nice Jewish boy” qualities of his father. But more than anything, he loved his family.

My sister and I both had our things that really bonded us with our Dad. Rachel and he had an amazing connection to music. I can still see her as a 3 year old jamming with him on her pink toy guitar. It was so cute how excited my Dad would get when he would buy Rachel a new album for her record player. Always paying me the value of the record in cash of course because he never wanted either of us to feel there was favortism.

My Dad and I loved movies, often starting them 1/4 of the way through, and then committing till the end. During lockdown we watched Kill Bill Volumes 1 and 2 on live TV with commercials while missing the best opening scene with Vivica Fox. I can still hear him, “Where is the Viv’s?” when I asked him when her scene comes.

I remember every scene from every movie he once told me he loved. Or a specific childhood memory he told me about in passing. He was a bit of a mystery, so every time he said something vulnerable I tucked it away tightly in my memory.

It wasn’t always perfect. My Dad and I are both a bit intense. But the Covid lockdown years brought us closer than ever, maybe finally understanding and accepting how alike we really are. Somehow, non-verbally we came to a mutual understanding of each other. Mostly by figuring out how to communicate and talk things through.

He never expected anything from us, and when he got sick he was overwhelmed by our love. For the two months he was sick, we were by his side every minute. Sleeping with him in the hospital that last month, running immediately to get whatever he asked for. Cuddling with him, and telling him how much we love him. “Incredible” he kept saying to us – referring to everything we were doing for him. Which was crazy to hear because of course we would do anything for him without thought.

I loved when my Dad would hire me to design their nursery website, along with taking plant photos for it with the very specific muslin backdrop he prepared. I loved collaborating with him. He was so creative and always had a vision.

I loved weeding in the nursery and just shooting-the-shit with him. I just loved being with him. I hope he knew how much.

Back in his band days in the 00’s, my friends and I attended every single gig and danced our little hearts out, drinking a minimum of 6 captain and cokes. I called myself a “Rock Star Daughter” back then.

Once he was gone, Miami felt suffocating and unbearable. By the next spring, my mom, my sister, and I packed up and left our old life behind.

It’s weird though — it still feels like we’re on an extended girls’ trip that my dad will eventually join.

Technically, I’m living. I’m going through all the motions, but none of it really registers. I’m creating a beautiful new life for myself, but it doesn’t fully process. Sometimes, I feel like the old me faded away with my dad. Like I left this dimension with him.

I keep reading that grief isn’t linear — and it’s true. I’ll go weeks without crying or even feeling sad. Then out of nowhere, I’ll break down and cry for hours. For me, losing someone I love so deeply is more than just loss. I grieve my dad, but I also grieve my old life — and my old self. I am triggered by things that remind me of my old life. In order to move forward I had to re-invent myself completely.

So even though I left one dimension and entered another, it’s not better or worse — just different. I try to ride the wave. Some days I’m high, some days I’m low, but most days I’m kind of floating somewhere in the middle.

I think of him every single day:
When I use his digital camera.
When I water my plants or dig in the yard.
When I hear classic rock.
When I drive with the windows down.
When I see a bird.
When I cook.
When I watch a movie that made him laugh.
When I laugh.

After this life-altering event, I don’t think the same, see things the same, or even care about the same things. I try to do things I know he would be proud of — like running my business, which he always encouraged. I try to be strong for my family, as he always was for us. I try to live my life fully, because I know that’s what he would want.

Hopefully, our dimensions will intersect again someday — so I can tell him about all the cool shit I’ve been doing, and how much I’ve missed him.

Have you experienced this kind of grief? I would like to hear about them.

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