There’s no small joy like unsubscribing from unnecessary emails. For me, the practice of severing the connection with an overfamiliar Instagram brand, or a newsletter I haven’t read properly since the days of Zoom quizzes, gives me some semblance of control over my overflowing inbox. Yet, over the last month or so, hitting the opt-out button for a certain type of email has felt more solemn than satisfying. Every time a sender has asked whether I’m interested in receiving emails about Father’s Day, I select the “no” option. Because this year, for the first time, I have no need for discounts on greeting cards, chunky socks or jazzy ties.
In the early morning of Sunday 18 September 2022, my dad, Glen Vassell, died unexpectedly. I found out over the phone at 6.30am, having missed eight calls in the 15 minutes before. No news at the crack of dawn is good, so in the few seconds I had between answering the call and hearing my sister’s words, I braced myself for something shattering. Dad had suffered a massive cardiac arrest around 2am, she told me. By the time the ambulance arrived 10 minutes later, he was already gone. He was 56. The phone call with my sister lasted less than two minutes, but our lives had been forever changed.
The next month passed in a blur of cancelled plans, unruly tears and more bunches of flowers than I had the energy to count. My mum, sisters, brother and I organised the Nine Night – a Jamaican tradition that gathers the friends and family of the deceased to reminisce and mourn together nine nights after their passing. Then came the funeral. Two black horses drew his coffin three miles from our house to the church he grew up in. Apparently, my sister and I delivered a beautiful eulogy. Because we’d opted for an open casket, I saw Dad’s body one last time at the end of the service. It was him and it wasn’t. His siblings, my uncles and aunties all sobbed. And then, we were done.
When you lose someone and the resulting admin is completed, all that’s left to do is to carry on living. For a while, I wasn’t sure what that really meant. As much as I knew that my own life wasn’t over, I couldn’t confidently imagine a time when anything would feel like it mattered again. What sense did it make to go to a spin class when someone I loved could die at any moment?
But the advice books, the therapist and the friends who’d been through this already told me how necessary it was to get back into a routine. Even if my head felt too foggy to work, they said, or even if going for a walk around the block wouldn’t immediately get rid of the smothering numbness of the day, “keeping on” is the best way to eventually get to a better place. I faked it. I jumped into conversations in the office. I made witty asides at the appropriate moments. I went on nights out with friends and broke out my best Beyoncé impressions. I dove back into my after-work musical theatre rehearsals and learnt how to sing new show tunes. Even if it felt hollow to start with, picking up my normal patterns did eventually help me see in colour again.
Nine months on, I’m pretty used to what my life and family look like now. I can go back to my childhood home without expecting to hear Dad walk in the front door at night. When I see a white van, one that looks just like the one he drove for work, I feel a pang of sadness – but I no longer briefly wonder if he’s behind the wheel. I even shared a dark laugh with my family when his jury duty letter arrived, three months after his funeral.
Then just when I think I’ve mastered the process, along comes a reminder that grief has no fixed endpoint. Recent surprise triggers have included: hearing on the radio Ed Sheeran’s “Eyes Closed”, a song about his late friend Jamal Edwards; celebrating my mum’s birthday and realising she’s the only “proper adult” around her children; Succession season four.
And now, of course, the big one: Father’s Day. Ironically, last year it went largely unacknowledged for us. Dad and I often butted heads over the things he’d heard on LBC Radio, and he also wasn’t my go-to parent whenever I needed emotional support and a warm hug. Still, we joked around. We admired each other’s ambitions. Our extroverted personalities. Last year, though, I wasn’t in the mood for card-giving and a family meal. Busy schedules and the remnants of a recent disagreement meant that we marked the day with a quick phone call and a loose promise to see each other soon, before moving on with our days. If I’d known that it was our last Father’s Day, maybe I’d have overlooked our differences and pushed for something more sentimental. But you always think that, don’t you?
My relationship with Dad may have been imperfect, but it doesn’t change how much his death broke my heart. It also doesn’t mean that the run-up to my first Father’s Day without him hasn’t been increasingly anxiety-inducing. For all the gift idea emails I delete, I’ll see twice the number of ads elsewhere. It’s unavoidable, and the thought of seeing a flurry of patriarchal appreciation all over social media leaves me sour.
I’ve reached out to friends who’ve spent more time in the Dead Dads Club to see how they get through it. From what I’ve heard, this first Father’s Day is likely to hurt the most. Trying to avoid it altogether, though, will be a waste of energy. Instead, I’ve been advised to busy myself, and find other ways of commemorating. One piece of advice particularly resonated: “Honour your dad by doing what he’d want you to do.” So, on Sunday morning, I’ll lay fresh flowers on his grave. I’ll look through old pictures and laugh with my siblings about some of our favourite memories – the time his bank card failed in Majorca always places highest in our retellings. And then I’ll go to my theatre rehearsal and try to find as much joy as I can within the rest of the day. From riding his motorbike to tending to his prized home aquarium, Dad was someone who always gave his best to the things that made him happy. I’ll do the same.
