I knew having an older dad meant less time with him, but that didn’t make losing him any easier

He was older, but he didn’t act like it

My dad was 46 when I was born, and despite being an “older parent” by societal standards, he never seemed that way to me. He was a vibrant person who always stayed active and healthy.

In his youth, he was a well-known basketball star and was drafted by the New York Knicks in 1963. When I was growing up, he played in local tennis tournaments and volleyball leagues.

He also enjoyed any activity that meant spending time with my mom, the love of his life, so he eagerly joined her in hunting for rare antiques and gardening at our country home.

I was his little girl

I have much older siblings from my dad’s previous marriage who were adults by the time I was born. I’m sure my arrival felt like a second chance to relive the joys and challenges of raising a child.

He was in a different stage of life then, compared to having my siblings in his late teens and 20s. This meant he could devote his attention entirely to being a dad, which was to my advantage. I was “daddy’s little girl.”

We shared countless memorable moments, like annual summer fishing trips with classic country singalongs. Those times meant so much to me that I surprised him with Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places” for our father-daughter dance at my wedding one year before he died.

My dad was also playful and creative. He crafted elaborate scavenger hunts for me and my friends, leading us all over the house only to discover our treasures waiting for us in the microwave. He was the most dedicated fan at my basketball games. His energetic presence and booming voice from the stands were impossible to miss.

He embraced being silly, never took life too seriously, and always spoke his mind — all qualities I undoubtedly inherited from him. I was confident he would always support me. I just wish he were still here to see how far I’ve come.

When he died, I wasn’t ready

My dad’s death hit me hard. Even though I anticipated losing him sooner than my friends would lose their parents, I wasn’t prepared to say goodbye.

It felt unfair. My 2-month-old would never know his grandpa, and that’s the hardest part for me. But during that time, my son became a comforting distraction for both me and my mom as we handled his funeral arrangements.

We keep his memory alive, even though he’s not

Reminders of my dad are everywhere. My son hears stories about his Grandpa Ray, whose Minnesota Gopher hat proudly sits on his bookshelf.

I miss my dad so much that it hurts, but I’d give up having him back if it meant my son could spend even a few minutes with the grandpa he’s never really known. I’m grateful for the time I did get, but it won’t ever feel like enough.

His death made me realize how fleeting life can be. Each year, as my friends’ parents grow older, I find myself wondering who might be the next to experience this kind of loss. And when that moment inevitably arrives, I’ll be there to share the unique pain that only those who have lost a parent can truly understand.