10/27/2025
This was the only bouquet from the garden that I managed to pick this season, and it was for my dad. Jeffrey Jon Kennedy passed away on October 9th, the day before my birthday.
I was away from work, my life and markets for 2 months while I drove back and forth to MA in the days before his death, trying to see him as much as I could and to be of some support during a traumatic 6 week hospital stay and numerous serious complications. He eventually passed with his family by his side.
And I’m back here in Vermont trying to pick up the pieces. I wish I could just grieve, that I could just be a mourning daughter because that feels like a big enough job but my relationship with my dad was incredibly complicated. I was estranged from him and his fiancé off and on for most of my adult life. My father was an alcoholic who chose his vice over his children. He was missing from most of the important milestones in my life, didbt really know whst i did for work and had never even seen my home here in VT where we have lived for 7 years.
I don’t know if my father truly loved me. So the layers of trauma, hurt, anger and confusion makes the deep sadness that I feel over losing a man I didn’t really know that much more difficult.
Over the last 6 weeks we kept being given hope that he would pull through, that we might get a second chance at having a dad and he seemed to want that opportunity. For weeks I’ve mused on the idea of having a relationship with my father. And I really wanted that. I’ve always loved my dad but I wanted him to have the chance to know and love me.
It’s why I kept showing up. It’s why I chose to be a more involved caretaker for him in his last days than he ever was for me. It’s why I comforted him through the delirium of alcohol withdrawal, it’s why I asked to stay past visiting hours to read to him, it’s why I advocated and navigated through a horrifically unethical and broken medical system to get him the right help, it’s why I slept in his hospital room the night before he passed and why I held his hand and sang to him with my sister as he took his last breaths.
In the end we didn’t get a second chance. I didn’t get the closure I needed. I got a heap of medical trauma, nightmares, the guilt of feeling like I made poor decisions as a health care proxy, a mess of paperwork to sift through as I navigate being an “heir” though I never got to be a daughter and a lot more pain.
But I’m glad I showed up. I realized that the aching pain in my heart whenever I thought of my dad was always love that didn’t have anywhere to go. And these past months I got to pour into him all that love I’ve never been able to share. It was love that had hardened stubbornly into trauma in my heart and was buried deep in my belly and bones but as I spent time with him and witnessed his fear, shame, humanness and even moments of tenderness it softened and rose to the surface and bubbled out.
It was love that was rightfully his and I didn’t want to carry it around anymore wondering where to put it as he left this earth. So I gave it all to him. And I’d like to say that it was a selfless act of unconditional love. But there is a part of me that hopes that perhaps he will carry a bit of that love into the next life and find me and try being my father again. So until we get our second chance, RIP dad. 🩵