I was 6 when my father died of a heart attack on Christmas Day

I remember the heavy snow that afternoon and, at just six years old, I was so excited to spend the day with him. 

That year, he bought me a dictionary, a typical Caribbean gift; parents are always trying to get you to understand just how important education is.  

My father was 62 years old and my mother, Yolande Flores, was 44 when they had me so I, their only child together, was often nicknamed the ‘miracle child’. 

Then, as Christmas Day began, I was abruptly woken by my mum. My dad was having a heart attack.  

As Mum, a nurse, began CPR, I called the ambulance, as she had trained me to do in case of an emergency. Young, innocent and naïve to what was coming, I explained to them calmly what was happening. 

The next thing I can remember was the ambulance arriving and the paramedics taking him outside.

At that moment, I was unaware of the magnitude of what was happening so when two police officers knocked at the door a couple of minutes later, to tell me my father had just died, their words didn’t mean anything to me.

I walked upstairs to tell my mum and I could see she was trembling as she combed her hair.  

She was crushed, totally distraught that she had just lost her husband, the father to her child and her right hand.  

We had to go to the hospital to see him and as my mum held me in her arms, I reached out and felt my dad’s lifeless body. His hand was cold and limp. 

‘Is Daddy coming back?’ I asked. 

‘He is in heaven now,’ Mum replied. 

When I had the words later in life, I began to call that moment the ‘cold hand of injustice’. 

I just couldn’t believe my father had been taken from me. He was the man who had brought me to the pond to feed the ducks, who treated me to Happy Meals at McDonald’s, who taught me to cycle. The small moments that mean so much.   

When I couldn’t sleep, I would typically wander into my parents’ room and cuddle with them both; my father was always on the right side and my mum on the left. I hated God for what he had taken from me. 

Over the next couple of months, I witnessed my mum breaking down, and, despite her attempts to stay strong for her son, there were moments when she just couldn’t.  

I cannot fathom what it would have been like to raise a young man in a country that was not her home, all by herself. However, without my mother, I would not be here now.  

Everyone around me spoke so highly of my father and how he was a shining example of what being a man was – loving, kind, caring, patient, a good father and a great husband – but after his death, being raised by such a strong village of women helped me to come to a very different idea of what a man is. 

My aunties gave me a love that was warm, and consistent. They imbued me with emotional intelligence and resolve.

They did this by allowing me to speak and explore the complexities of my personhood, giving me advice and being there for me. Their mere consistent presence allowed me to have people I could confide in. 

It was an aspect of my personality I hated growing up, being around other boys who were so different and I felt too sensitive compared to my peers. 

It was only as I grew older that I learnt to embrace that side of myself. 

I learnt how much my aunties adored and cherished me like I was their own son. They taught me to read, took me to church and made sure I had adventures whenever we went out together. They taught me the power of community by being there for me and my mother.  

Thanks to their influence, I now consider being a man to mean being accountable, vulnerable, and transparent and leaving the world in a better place than I found it.  

At my master’s graduation, with all of the amazing women who raised me around me, I still surrendered to tears after thinking about how much I missed my father. 

But by then I knew that my father didn’t die so I would stop living; he died so that I can repurpose that pain into a passion and an undying will and commitment to living. 

Death is the only thing promised to us, hence why the present really is a gift. I now celebrate life for the ups and downs. I find myself in a renewed state of gratitude.  

Processing grief is not a linear journey. And what has helped me during this process has been to get in touch with my inner child again, the young boy who was hurt, while also recognising the young man who has emerged.  

My father’s death was my first introduction to the instability of life and I now celebrate and live for my dad. We all lose people we love in this life, that’s why we must remember how important it is to show family and friends just how much we love them.