Personal Narrative: My Father's Death

I remember the day my father died; it felt as if a gigantic piece of my life was stolen from me. My dad was not what you would call innocent; he made mistakes like everybody else, but he was a good father and I loved him. I loved him like a five year old loves a teddy bear-with every fiber of my being. But my father was very unhealthy. He was addicted to marijuana and prescription drugs, and he constantly shoved food down his throat as if he was trying to fill a hole. Every doctor told him he had to change or he would die, but he didn’t want to listen. My father lost his life at 42 years old because of a heart attack, due to overeating and drug addiction. Let me tell you why February 16th, 2007 is a day I will always remember.

I thought that day would be the same as every other Friday; I would be out of breath from playing at recess, and sweaty from running in the scolding, hot sun. I lived with my grandmother at the time, while my mom was in Canada with my older and younger sisters. That day felt like another ordinary day, until I heard something I will never forget.

It sounded as if I was at an opera; and the lead was screaming as if to try and shatter glass with her voice. My sister was screaming; she sounded so terrified and frightened, and I had never seen her like this before. She called for my Aunt Theresa, my Grandma, and my Grandpa to come quick. They ran down the hallway as if they were cheetahs chasing down their next meal. She told them she couldn’t wake my dad, so they said to call 911. The EMT’s arrived on the scene shortly thereafter, and they got to work to help my dad. After a few minutes, they broke the news to us and said it was too late: my father had died. When I heard that, it felt as if time was frozen; I couldn’t move and no words left my