Personal Narrative: My Father's Death

My mom came into my room in the middle of the night one day in April of 2014 and hugged me to wake me up. She told me that my dad had been a car crash. The hospital my dad was in had called her on our minute phone the government had given us. I remember feeling the way my throat constricted in itself as though someone put their hands around my throat. My parents were always vague about informing me and my sister about a situation when it was serious with this as no exception. My first thought was that he crashed into someone, he was a recovering insomniac and I had been in the car when he’d gotten so exhausted that he’d fall asleep. It had happened before, albeit being minor the woman saw no reason to take my dad to court because she realized

Later that day, I’d find out that my dad was ok with some injuries and the report was a mistake because of how ugly the crash was, but in that moment I thought my father could be dead. The man who raised me, took care of me while my mother worked, and just wanted me to go to college wouldn’t be able to see me even leave middle school. I missed school that day as I was desperate to see if my father was alive. My mother, my aunt, and I went to the hospital and I remember seeing my dad and breaking into tears because I had never seen him look so fragile in my life, and he’s a 6 foot 3 bodybuilder. We were reassured that he’d be alright but he needed rest so he stayed with my mother while my aunt and I sat in the waiting room. That’s when I heard wailing and to this day the sounds of the man screaming echo in my head. It was the man who crashed into my dad, they were finally able to get him out of his own car but it had taken them hours and he was heavily injured. I used to hate that man, to think someone could be so reckless and drive 80 miles above a speed limit while intoxicated boggled my

The whole year felt as though I was walking with no destination in mind. Even after months, my dad’s accident thumped in my head and into my daily life. My academics weren’t ideal and I felt as if I were the disappointment of the family. That was also the year my sister got accepted into UF. I remember how stressed she was and how she locked herself in her room and ignored everyone. We’re similar in that trait where we isolate ourselves when we’re overwhelmed, but she’s a genius and I had no doubt she would be accepted. My sister got her acceptance email and screamed so loud we thought she was hurt but when she ran into the living room blubbering like a baby, grinning as best as she could through her tears, we knew. That was the second time I’d seen my mother cry in my life. The other time was when my dad got crashed into months before. I remember sitting on my sisters bed and while my sister planned her orientation date, my mother looked to me and said she couldn’t wait until I got accepted into UF. I remember feeling guilty because of how I let her down academically and now she expected me to get into what I had known to be the best school in Florida, maybe even the country. Prior to learning about UF from my godmother, a proud gator alumnus, I had no actual knowledge of college except for the one that was built near my house and the University of Miami, one my teachers often bragged about. My dad used to say he wanted to see me go to