The Moment My Father Was Truly Gone
The Rebuild Series by Marty B.
Grief doesn’t just break you—it remakes you.
This is the first installment of The Rebuild Series. It begins where many stories of manhood begin—
not in strength, but in loss. When my father died, something inside me shattered. But in that grief,
something else emerged.
If you’ve ever faced the silence after a loved one’s last breath, if you’ve had to become the man your
father could no longer be — this one’s for you.
I didn’t fully grasp that my dad was gone the day he passed.
It hit me in pieces—watching my mother shattered, leaning on a community that my father had
once held together. Watching my sister tune out, becoming unreachable to all of us, even my
daughter. Watching the family dynamic unravel, leaving silence where once there was presence.
Grief didn’t hit me like a wave. It lit a fire.
I ran. Every day. Until I burned out my hips and was diagnosed with bursitis. On those runs, I would
listen to ESPN radio, and every time one of those old Coach Jim Valvano cancer awareness ads
played—“Don’t give up, don’t ever give up”—I’d break. Not in loud sobs, just quiet tears sliding
down my cheeks mid-stride.
That’s when I knew he was truly gone. When I couldn’t outrun it anymore.
My father passed during the first summer of COVID.
We knew the hospitals wouldn’t let us visit him, so we decided on a home death. His bed was
placed facing the patio doors, looking out onto the garden he loved. His battle with cancer had
started in August 2019. On June 11, 2020, his doctors put us on 2 weeks’ notice.
For those two weeks, we rotated shifts. My mother cared for him with unwavering love. My sister
managed the meds. I was the muscle—lifting him, guiding him to the bathroom, eventually helping
him transition to diapers when the cancer no longer allowed him to stand.
I watched him fade. Moment by moment.
When he finally passed, the backyard went still.
The birds stopped chirping. The breeze stopped.
And in that deep silence, I heard a strange buzzing sound.
That was the moment.
The bomb dropped.
The silence after the blast.
My world had changed forever.
My father was a classic Canadian dad, the kind who bled red, white, and blue—for the Montreal
Canadiens.
He turned the entire basement into a shrine: vintage jerseys, signed pucks, banners, team photos,
the whole deal. He built me a backyard rink in winter. Had me on skates at 18 months. Coached my
hockey teams from youth all the way to juniors. He became a Level 4 certified coach (one of 5
nationally at the time) to be there with me until the end of my playing career.
He was the polar opposite of his own father—a man who was never around, always working. My dad
made a choice: to be present. He never left me on my own. Never made me feel abandoned. He
didn’t pass on a legacy of workaholism or emotional distance. He passed on presence.
He taught me how to teach.
How to connect.
How to support others.
How to collaborate.
How to coach.
But like many men of his generation... he never taught me:
How to advocate for myself
How to set boundaries
How to define and protect my own values
His death forced me to learn those things myself.
And in the process, I stopped being a son. I became a man.
Not the loud kind. Not the aggressive kind. But the kind who:
Knows his limits
Leads his daughter with integrity
Protects his peace
And never takes love for granted
I miss my dad every day. But in losing him, I found the pieces of myself that were waiting to be
claimed.
To the men reading this:
How did your father’s passing change you?
What did you lose—and what did you find?
No matter what your relationship was like... his absence shaped you.
What did it call you to become?