Sometimes when I go swimming I get this shortness of breath inside my chest. It maybe a strong possibility of overworking the lungs.  But it was a familiar feeling when my dad's body was being carried out of that funeral home on Westchester Ave. That same shortness of breath ran throughout my entire body. An overwhelming thought came across and I couldn't believe what was happening. I would never get the opportunity to speak with my father. We would never get the chance to clear the air and I would never see him again. I never found my voice even as an adult when it came to my issues with my him. Now I'm grieving and trying to figure out all my frustrations and where we went wrong on my own.

On January 2nd, I'll never forget the call. I could tell my sister was crying and struggling to get the words out. "Trace dad died." Just like that sitting at my desk in my office wondering what the fuck I'm suppose to do with this information. Although we already knew he was suffering from depression and sick with a heart condition. It still gave me a shock of numbness.

Both my sisters kept trying to reach out to him. We heard so many different stories, he was being taken advantage, physically abused, getting high again and suffering from a deep depression. We were told he had made comments he was tired and ready to go with the lord. My dad suffered from a bad heart condition, he had two heart attacks, had an open heart surgery and he was supposed to take meds everyday. That did not happen. His first lie was he couldn't afford the medicine so my sister offered to pay he refused. Then she approached him about getting high again and asked him about his comments saying he was fed up and wanted to die. He denied everything. There was a point when he just stopped taking calls. I kept telling my sisters I would try to reach out. I kept convincing myself that I would call but I never did.

When I got the call on January 2nd all I could think about is I fucked up. I convinced myself I contributed to his depression by shutting him out and some how I was a huge part of his downfall. But the truth is he always suffered from depression which is one of the reasons he started getting high in the first place. I remember clear as day he says someone getting high on drugs is committing suicide slowly. But I believe his last marriage is what did him in. His ex wife and the mother of his youngest daughter kept my little sister her away from my dad. Until this day she keeps her away from all of us. I understand they had their problems but what the fuck does that have to do with the other brothers and sisters. She's just a real controlling bitch.

For my father's wake she requested to have a private viewing for her and my little sister. But my My grandmother wasn't having it and blames her for my father's death. She told her there will not be a private viewing and you are not welcomed. My granddaughter has every right to say goodbye to her father but you cannot come to the viewing. And just like that they were both a no show. As a mother I don't think I would ever take the chance away from my child to say goodbye to someone they cared so deeply about. I know my little sister had a strong bond with my dad. But her mom always has the need to get her way.

His ex wife is also a big part of why I stopped speaking to my father. You see I forgave him for all the years he was on the street getting high, I was willing to move forward after he abandoned us throughout those years but it was the abandonment after his recovery that I couldn't let go. He came out of prison, asked for forgiveness then basically disappeared again. He got custody of my younger sister and brother from foster care, got married and had another daughter. They went on vacations together, my full sibling sister and I were never invited. We were forgotten on the holidays and even our birthdays. I convinced myself I didn't give a fuck but every once in a while I picked up the phone to spend time with him or talk with him. There were times I left voicemails and he would he never got the messages. Which to me meant his ex was deleting them. I don't recall the feelings ever being reciprocated and I could never approach him on anything because he was always right or I was making a big deal out of nothing. But somehow in the end I always ended up hurt and disappointed. After a few tries I gave up, I was tired of feeling like I was forcing myself into his life and feeling like a I didn't belong. I was getting annoyed with the non existent birthday or holiday calls. So I convinced myself fuck this I don't need him.

Our relationship was never the same. Our conversations were short and always awkward.  Whenever I was around him my mind was always running a mile a minute but never not once said a word. I was left with so any questions, so many things left unsaid. Then when he died I was consumed with guilt and regret. I cried myself to sleep for so many days. I blamed myself because I never made that one phone call that could have possibly saved his life.