The Only Dad I Knew: The Father Who Raised Me
My mom and Jared, or Dad as I knew him, married when I was three years old. They got married in Texas and then we drove to California, stopping at Disneyland on our way to the Bay Area where my dad was born and raised. As a party of three with no one else to watch me, they stuffed my tennis shoes with toilet paper and took me on all the Disneyland rides. That’s how it was for a couple of years—just me, Mom, and Dad.
When we arrived in the Bay Area, I met a new grandma and grandpa. They welcomed me with open arms, even though the situation was a little unexpected. My parents were both in their early twenties and my dad had brought home a widow and a three-year-old. But I must have won them over with my cuteness. The story goes that when I was watching Grandma roll out her pie crust, I said, “Oh, Grandma Budge! You make BIG tortillas!” I had only seen my Mommy Martha (and I assume my Grandma Gallardo) make homemade tortillas.
My dad was all fun and games. He would take me for rides on his motorcycle. His best friends became my uncles (with my actual uncle living across the country and overseas). We made music videos and played Name That Tune on the piano. As I grew older, he would help me with my softball skills. He was my protector. I needed a lot of dental work done and my dad ended up grabbing me and taking me out of the dentist’s office when they wouldn’t let him stay with me.
My dad helped shape who I am. He taught me about being inclusive. He taught me about taking care of others in need. He taught me about trying my best in everything I do. And even after I graduated from college and moved out on my own, he was still there giving me advice but letting me make my own decisions. And after I got married and my husband and I did our best being adults, he was there to guide us. We were friends and had fun and loved spending time together.
Sibling Relationships and Shared Grief: Grieving as the Oldest Sibling
I’m the oldest of five kids. I have two sisters and two brothers. I am the oldest by five years. Three of them were born within a six-year span, and then the youngest came four years after them. When my dad passed, two of them were still in high school. The older of my brothers had just gotten home from a two-year church mission in Mexico. Like he had only been home for three days.
We were all separated the day he died. My sister, who was nine months pregnant, was on her way to St. George with my mom, about four hours from where my parents lived. She had been up north to welcome my brother home and spend Memorial Day with the family. My brothers were driving to Southern California to help my dad’s best friend move. Eli and I were working. I was working as a sixth-grade teacher at the time and was six months pregnant. And my youngest sister was spending time with her friend. Enjoying some time alone, my dad had taken his Shelby Cobra out of storage to clean up and get ready to enjoy the summer weather with.
Eli and I were settling in for the rest of the day. I was easily tired during that time, especially being pregnant and then having spent all day on my feet with a bunch of 12-year-olds. My mom called us and told us that Dad had been in an accident. She said that she didn’t have any details at the time. I asked where Dad had been taken and she said she didn’t know. She and my sister had turned around and were driving home. My dad’s friend was going to put my brothers on a plane as soon as they arrived and send them back home. My mom told us that she’d call us with more details when she could.
It was so hard to sit around and do nothing. I was restless and needed answers. Eli and I started calling hospitals to ask if someone matching my dad’s description had been brought in. We tried calling the non-emergency numbers for all of the local police departments to see if they knew anything. We had a friend on a police force nearby and asked him to look into my dad’s accident. Finally, my mom called me back and asked if Eli and I could drive up to her neighborhood, pick up my youngest sister from her friend’s house, and then stay with her until she could get home. It felt like the least we could do, so we hopped in the car and drove up.
After we had grabbed her, we went to my parents’ house and just sat around. There wasn’t much of anything we could do. We looked out over the valley from their balcony, seeing some type of commotion not too far away. There were lots of police lights and cars, and it seemed like they were blocking off a very busy road. We had a visit from my parents’ neighbor and bishop in their local LDS ward. He checked in on us as my mom had called him and told him the situation. After seeing that we were okay, albeit anxious to get answers, he left. He returned shortly after to tell us the truth: my dad had died in the accident. My mom hadn’t wanted to tell us over the phone, but as she was still hours away, he thought it was best that we know. The commotion we had seen earlier—the police lights blocking off a road—was the aftermath of my dad’s accident.
My sister had my mom. My brothers had each other. Eli and I had each other and Miranda. She was only 15 at the time. I remember us holding on to one another and just crying. I hated that in this horrible moment I had to call my school secretary and tell her what had happened and that I wasn’t going to make it into school for the last couple of days of school and if she could find me a sub. The bishop had stayed with us. In the LDS church, we believe in the laying on of hands to receive blessings. My husband gave me and my sister blessings. And in that moment, I felt peace. I don’t know why it happened, but I knew it was for a reason.
Things were a blur over the next few days. We had to tell others. My dad was loved so much. He was such a special man who loved people and adventures. He always seemed to make friends wherever he went. As I was the oldest, I felt it was my responsibility in helping my mom settle matters. I went to the funeral home with her to pick out my dad’s casket. I went with her to the cemetery to pick out a burial plot. As my sister was pregnant and due any day, I wanted her to take things easy. I felt the need to let my mom grieve and that she shouldn’t feel alone. But even that was hard to do. I had no clue how to plan a funeral or comfort someone whose husband had died. And there were so many people asking questions that I had no answers to.
Me and my extended family having “Breakfast with Grandpa” by his burial site.
The Grief of Losing a Parent as an Adult: Handling the Death of a Parent at 28
This experience was so much different than what I had gone through when processing my first dad’s death. With him, it was grieving the unknown. It was grieving the possibilities and opportunities we missed out on. I had all of those things with Jared—he was the only dad I knew, and I had solid memories with him. Not only that, we were moving into the next phase of life, and he was so excited to be a grandpa. I knew that he was going to be a fantastic grandpa and involved in my kids’ lives.
I’m lucky to have video memories of my dad. I get to keep his voice and mannerisms fresh in my mind. I often think back on the video where we told my parents we were pregnant with our first child, due just a few months after my sister. We had been trying to get pregnant for about three years. We were finally working with an awesome doctor who helped us get pregnant after just a few months. We gave my dad an early birthday present—a frame that had pictures of me and Eli as toddlers with a positive pregnancy test in the middle. When he opened the gift, it took him a minute to process, and then he shouted, “No Way,” jumped out of his seat, and started hugging us. There were even tears in his eyes. I love that I have that video to show my kids so they can understand how excited Grandpa was to meet them and spoil them.
They say that comparison is the thief of joy. It was really tough for me not to compare my dad to my father-in-law. My dad died at the age of 45, definitely a young grandpa. When our first was born, my father-in-law already had seven grandchildren and was in his early sixties. After she was born, I was so sad and angry. How was it fair that she only got to know one grandpa out of the three she should’ve had? It took me a long time to release that anger. It wasn’t my father-in-law’s fault that my dad had passed.
Not only that, I had to talk about death to my children from a very young age. They wondered where my dad was. They knew that Grandma had been married and that I obviously had a dad. They saw Grandma and Grandpa Adams as a pair. And then I had to explain everything with every child. And when they met my first dad’s family, I had to remind them that they had not one grandpa they had never met, but two. And here we are, almost 14 grandkids in, and we do our best to share memories of their grandpa that they’ll never get.
The video of my husband and me telling my parents we were pregnant.
Memory and Legacy: Remembering My Dad
For Christmas last year, my siblings and I had our home videos transferred to a digital format. It’s so awesome to be able to see and relive these memories, but especially to show them to our kids. My dad was a musician who picked up an instrument by ear. He played in multiple bands. Some of my favorite memories were of watching him sing and play the piano with several groups or going to support him at the local Rock and Bowl where his band provided live entertainment while people bowled. To be able to show that to our kids is awesome!
My kids love hearing about that time when I went to Disneyland with my mom and dad and they shoved toilet paper in my tennis shoes. But they also love hearing how they fed me warm sprite and cold pizza and I vomited all over my brand new Minnie Mouse sweatshirt. They bring it up all the time. I also think that’s part of the reason why I love going to Disneyland so much. We’ve taken our kids there way more than I or my husband ever did.
One of the biggest things that we do to remember Grandpa is listening to Billy Joel. My kids have probably been forced to listen to Billy Joel more than any other Gen Alpha child. But they know and recognize his songs, so whenever we hear them played in random places—like the grocery store—they always thank grandpa for the song.
My dad also came from a line of beekeepers and honey makers. My grandpa, his dad, used to have a honey extractor in his garage in California and was known as the “Honey Man.” The year before my dad passed, he got together with his cousin and started up Budge’s Honey again. We didn’t have the fields or beehives, but we did import honey from a Budge uncle who lived in Montana. We had a local honey house where we would help jar and label honey to be delivered to local grocery stores. So now we also associate Grandpa with bees. And even though my kids are deathly afraid of them, we always say that it’s just Grandpa coming to say hi. He was a social butterfly…or bee? And he hated missing out on anything fun.
As I’ve gotten older and talked about childhood with my siblings, one thing stood out to me. And it especially sticks out to me now that I have four children of my own. My dad, along with my mom, had a way of knowing what each of us needed individually. Sure, there were overarching rules in our home, but he really did have different expectations for each of us. What I assumed was disdain or unfair treatment toward me was really just him pushing me and knowing what I needed. I strive to give that to my own children. They are so individual and really do need different things. I see a lot of myself in my oldest child. She’s constantly calling us out as parents for not being fair and not doing everything exactly the same as her younger siblings, but I just explain that although we love everyone the same, we do not treat them all the same because that wouldn’t be fair to some.
My mom, my siblings, me and my Dad’s best friend at a Billy Joel concert in Las Vegas.
Grief and Gratitude: Finding Gratitude Amidst the Loss
It will be 14 years in May since my dad’s passing. And although there are times where the thought that he’s gone isn’t at the forefront of my mind, the thought is always there. All of my happy memories are a little bittersweet. They’re happy moments, but always tinged with sadness because I know my dad would have loved to be part of them. Every baseball game my son plays in, I know he would have loved to see. Each dance recital or singing concert my niece has, I know he would have been so proud to see her.
I don’t believe that we ever truly heal from losing a loved one, but we do learn to move on—because what other choice do we have? Again, I can look back and wish so hard that he could still be here, but I think back to the peace I felt that night we lost him. I think about the different paths our lives would have taken if he was still here. Also, the silver lining for me is being able to use my experiences to help others make it through. As much as it hurts for him to be gone, as much as I wish he were here to spoil my kids, this nonprofit organization wouldn’t exist for me. I wouldn’t be able to help my closest friends deal with the loss of their loved ones. It’s not a journey that I would wish upon anyone, but I feel so blessed and called to help those going through the same thing. And I have my dad to thank for that.
