A Life Lesson in Shedding Guilt Over My Father’s Death

Cassandra with her sister and her dad.

This is the story of Cassandra as told by Elizabeth. Our “Opening Our Hearts” stories are based on people’s real-life experiences. By sharing these experiences publicly, we hope to help our readers feel less alone in their grief and, ultimately, to aid them in their healing process. In this post, Cassandra tells the story of her father, George Stephen Seale, and how his death transformed her world and taught her the important life lesson of shedding guilt.

Sometimes when I think back to my father’s life and his passing it’s easiest to go to the regrets first. The things I wish I said or did. The times I wish I was more present with him as he deteriorated from early-onset Alzheimer’s. It’s a hard pill to swallow, the regrets. But there is so much more to my father than this illness and I’m so grateful for the memories I get to keep forever.

Before Alzheimer’s came and took my dad hostage from himself, he was a hardworking man who was full of life and humor. He loved keeping us on our toes and making us laugh with his sometimes-bizarre but always playful practical jokes, which absolutely rubbed off on my sister and me as children and connected us deeply.

My dad was great with his hands and built a lot of things, including designing and building the house in Maryland we lived in for many years. He also built a treehouse in the backyard for my sister and me. I remember one night when I was seven years old, we were up there with my mom who was probably reading us scary stories or something. My sister and I were leaning in when suddenly there was this dramatic growl coming from outside the treehouse, and rustling leaves. I had literally never been so terrified in my whole little life, and I found myself running down those small ladder-steps faster than I even thought possible. I pumped my legs so hard, hearing my mom and sister behind me, and it wasn’t until I collapsed inside the safety of our home that we realized it was Dad.

“Daaaddddyyy!!!” I squealed in between gasps of air and giggles. “It was YOU?!”

We all laughed so hard together, shocked that he got us so good.

This sense of humor was something we had in common when I was little and has carried me through to who I am today. I would often partake in my own little practical jokes, like filling a Bugle chip with pepper, topping the hole with peanut butter so my sister couldn’t see, and telling her sweetly that I prepared a snack for her. I burst out in giggles as I watched her unknowingly grab the snack with a smile, the black pepper falling from her mouth in flurries when she took a bite.

That slap-stick kind of joy and humor is definitely something I can trace back to my dad. It was a side of him that felt special to me, something we shared.

When most people talk about my dad it’s not his humor they mention, though; it’s his giant heart. What a sweet guy he was. He was a great and gentle man, never once raising his voice at any of us. My dad had a golden heart and the strongest work ethic you’d ever see. I don’t think anyone was more dependable than he was. Sometimes, though, when I was young, I thought his kindness got the best of him and didn’t do him any favors. The anger I’d feel in these moments, wishing he could be stronger and stand up for himself, would become the very beginning of the guilt that I developed through the years until it consumed me completely.

“That slap-stick kind of joy and humor is definitely something I can trace back to my dad. It was a side of him that felt special to me, something we shared.”

My father started a very successful business with a neighbor of ours, and it turned out that that neighbor was quietly embezzling money over several years.

“I just can’t work with someone like that,” my dad had said. And so he just left the business and that was that.

I remember even as a child thinking “Wait a minute! He’s the one doing something bad! Shouldn’t he be the one to leave the business and start all over somewhere else?” I remember wishing he’d done more. Feeling slightly bitter that he didn’t fight like I wanted him to.

My dad’s decision to leave the business totally upended our lives.

Goodbye to our house in Maryland.

Goodbye to the treehouse we loved so much.

Cassandra and her sister with their father at their house in Tennessee.

We never really recovered from that blow, but we sure did try. Everything really changed after this happened and there was so much unknown. But the one thing I could always depend on was that sparkle in my dad’s eye, something I always connected to his sense of humor, his sense of joy in life, and it brought me great comfort to see.

When my dad struggled to find a steady job after this, I believe he became depressed. I probably didn’t realize it then when I was young, but when I reflect on it now as an older adult and I remember him spending a lot of time on the couch—something that was pretty rare for him before— I realize there was some deeper level stuff going on with his mental health and in his mind.

“My inability to see this anchor in my life, my father who I felt safest with in the world, suddenly change into a person I didn’t recognize, forced me to look the other way.”

And as I get older and learn more about stuff like dementia and the chaos and disorder it brings to the person suffering, I have found that a lot of it goes hand-in-hand with depression. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the beginning of his decline.

When my dad started having to go to the doctor a lot for Alzheimer’s-related things, I would always have an excuse to not be there. My inability to see this anchor in my life, my father who I felt safest with in the world, suddenly change into a person I didn’t recognize, forced me to look the other way.

When my dad was first officially diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s he would say things like, “I should just go shoot myself in the yard,” and I would think that’s so terrible!

But eventually my dad became someone unfamiliar and it was hard to accept, hard to be around. He was a brilliant man who could build or create anything with his hands, but slowly this was no longer present in his life and it was very difficult for me to grasp. And so I’d keep myself as busy as possible— any excuse to avoid watching him become a stranger even to himself. And eventually that sparkle in his eye disappeared, telling me it was no longer my dad in there. I found it easier to look away than engage. And I really just wish I had engaged more. I wish it wasn’t so easy to write him off as already gone.

My mom became his caretaker when he inevitably lost the ability to care for himself and I know it took a lot out of her. I also knew that if my dad knew what was going on, he would be mortified. Maybe this is why I did everything I could to not be around him when it became this bad. Going from such an intelligent and capable man to depending on your wife to bathe you and help you go to the bathroom was too much for me to bear. I finally understood why he’d made that previous comment about wanting to shoot himself in the yard. He would have never wanted to see the things his wife and daughter had to do for him as he regressed. And even though they were happy to do it and loved him so, I just couldn’t imagine how awful it’d be for him to understand the full extent of what was going on. While many dementia patients tend to get mean in their decline because they don’t understand what’s going on, my father never did. Ever. Instead he just grew more and more sad, like a part of him understood he should be able to cut his own steak and feed himself but it just wasn’t clicking. And I just can’t imagine living in that sort of prison.

Dad and Mom.

After five long years of fighting this illness, my dad passed away in their little condo in Maryland where they had a hospital bed set up in the living room. He was surrounded by all of us who loved him best. It was 2014 and I was in my twenties still trying to figure out life, and when I received the call to come see him because it was probably the end, my initial response was, “Oh. I actually have to work.” I was still in complete denial, I think. Luckily my friends were like, “Your dad is dying. Are you crazy?” And with their pushes and encouragement, I was able to bring myself to accept this reality and rush to his side in time to be there with my sister and mom.

My sister and I slept there in the living room curled up on couches for a few nights. Every time we heard his snoring stop we would both jerk awake and run over to him, expecting the worst. And each time when he started breathing again we let out the breath we were holding.

We all stood around him as he took his last breath. Well, all of us besides my mom. She had stepped out to take a call from her pastor, and I swear it was like my dad waited for her to be gone to finally rest. It was like he didn’t want her to witness this last moment, to protect her from it. It was such a challenging thing to witness, because it was clear he did not want to let go.

“You raised us so that you can go,” I gently told him. “You left us in good shape.” But I think it was just all too sad for him to part with my mom still there.

This was actually my first experience with death and grief. I was pretty surprised at the sense of relief I felt for him, as sad as it was of course. But I understood he was now at peace and no longer suffering here. I think it also helped that I noticed that the sparkle in his eye that had since disappeared completely, suddenly came back with his final breath. It was as if he was looking toward something beautiful and breathtaking. And in that moment he was the father I remembered from my childhood, and he was looking forward to this peaceful transition.

My dad’s passing prompted the biggest transformation of my life. Grief tends to do this to a person. First I would spiral. Hard. Partying, avoiding responsibility, being nasty to people who didn’t deserve it. I didn’t know what I believed in anymore; all I knew was the universe was completely against me. I’d wake up every day noticing every single little miserable thing that happened to me, existence itself victimizing me. It took me a really long time to break this mindset, but one day it just hit me.

“Am I the problem?” I asked myself out loud, the epiphany startling like waking up from a dream where you’re falling forever. I knew I had to get out of this cycle.

I went to a medium after my sister gifted me a session. She knew I was harboring so much guilt for not being more present in his decline. Like I remember not even being around to help them move from our Tennessee home, while she was there to support them and help them every step of the way. It truly ate me alive after his passing when I fully realized just how distant and disconnected I became when everyone needed me the most.

Seeing this medium catapulted my journey to healing.

“He doesn’t hold any of this against you. He knows now how you feel about this,” she’d told me. And I just started weeping because I believed her and knew it was true. This dissolving guilt changed the trajectory of my life and brought me an intense sense of comfort to know.

I am so proud and feel so privileged to have more of his qualities these days than just his sense of humor. In this healing journey I became more and more like him, evolving into someone I know he is proud of. I have coworkers today who would even say that I am one of the most dependable people they know, and I wear this like a badge of honor just like my dad did.

A few years later we take a family trip to Korea to visit my sister who moved there. It’s so exciting to have everyone together— all the siblings, mom, brother-in-law, niece, sister, her husband, and their two kids. In Korea there’s this crazy rainy season that is impossible to deal with, and we happen to be taking this trip right against this season due to my niece’s school schedule. The whole time I’m nervous that it will start pouring at any moment and ruin the entire trip, but the trip is so lovely. My mom says how much she wishes Daddy was with us because he would love and adore seeing the grandchildren he never got to meet. I even have a nephew who looks so much like him, and at five years old he’s already showing promising signs of engineering/architectural skills and interest, which we all love to think comes straight from dad. He even sometimes mentions Pop Pop Seale, even though they never got to meet. I like to think my dad spends a lot of time watching over the kids, witnessing how beautiful they are and how much they are growing every day.

As the trip comes to an end and we’re sitting in a cab on our way to the airport, I look up at the sky, grateful the weather held up the entire time. On the radio Korean music pours from the speakers. We somehow successfully missed the rainy season!

Suddenly I’m taken aback as my ears perk to make sure I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing— my dad’s favorite band, Creedence Clearwater Revival. The song playing, shockingly titled “Who’ll Stop the Rain.”

I get chills up my arm to my neck as I smile out the window. What are the odds of this song coming on a Korean radio station right now?

I like to think it was my dad on the trip with us, sending us a little message. Who knows—maybe it was he who stopped the rain for us after all.