At the end of my freshman year of high school, my first boyfriend broke up with me over the phone. Rather than taking the high road, I took the low road. I cried, I screamed, and I begged. I PLEADED with him to change his mind and stay with me.
That’s when my dad abruptly walked into my room, took the phone out of my hand, hung it up, and unplugged it from the wall.
I yelled, saying that “He had ruined everything!”
He looked down at me and said, “I will not tolerate you begging anyone—especially an ignorant boy—to stay with you.”
That only redirected my fury to him and I collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor.
My dad sat down beside me like a fire marshal watching a brush fire burn itself out—close enough to step in if it spread, wise enough not to interfere while it burned. His back rested against my bed, his long legs stretched across the carpet. He held my Swatch phone in his lap, the cord wrapped tightly around it, his other hand sitting palm up next to me.
When the last of my flames finally died down, he said, “Noelle, do you know that if you hold sand in your palm, it will stay? But as soon as you close your fist around it, it slips away.”
Then he added, “You deserve so much more.”
He hugged me, I didn’t return it, and he took my phone, and left.
I translated my dad’s wisdom to mean he was old, out of touch, and had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. In fact, I didn’t speak to him for a week.
Over the next 6 years or so I had a few relationships, and somehow that sand analogy kept resurfacing in my mind.
I’ll admit, I may have gotten the lesson backwards and held the sand a little too tightly. I may have even been labeled “psycho.” But every passionate, strong, girl has been called that at least once, right?
I went to college in Los Angeles and around my junior year I met and fell in love with a guy in Hollywood, and two weeks later he moved across the country.
This time, however I let the sand sit comfortably in my palm.
I mean, I talked to the sand. I explained that I thought it would be a really good fit in my palm. But I didn’t squeeze it or anything.
The sand still moved away.
Then 2 months later, without any prompting, the sand moved back to L.A.
That was more than twenty-five years ago.
With that success, I thought I had mastered the whole sand-in-the-palm analogy.
But My dad never explained what happens when a big gust of wind comes along.
In August of 2023, I sat on a Zoom call with my parents while an oncologist told my 87-year -old father that the large mass they discovered in his MRI was likely his pancreatic cancer returning. As they discussed treatment options, they asked him whether he wanted quality or quantity of life.
He thought for a moment and said very clearly, quality. Meaning He would not be doing chemotherapy. And that was it. I was speechless.
The call ended, and I watched as my dad quietly retreated to his bedroom and shut the door. I immediately wanted to take over, I told my mom we could convince him, pressure him, force him to try everything possible to stay alive as long as he could for us. For US.
And then I remembered my dad’s words.
“Noelle, you should never beg anyone to stay with you.”
But this was different I thought. He wanted to stay.
He knew the statistics and was surrendering to things he knew he could not control.
And I had no choice to do the same. No matter how much I wanted to take over, nothing I did would have changed the outcome.
The next five weeks were filled with peaceful happiness, family, stories, and togetherness. He was never alone. My brother, Nathan took a leave from his job and I was able to work remotely so we could help my mom.
One night, while I was on my “dad watch” on the floor beside his bed, I found myself studying his face.
The face resting on the pillow was unmistakably my dad’s, but it looked like the cancer had slowly been taking pieces of him away. The man who had answered every question I’d ever asked seemed to be somewhere just beyond my reach.
By then, hospice had given us morphine to manage his pain, and his responses were few.
I had been wanting to ask him a question, but I’d been too nervous.
I could always talk to my dad about anything.
But not this.
To catch you up to speed, The Hollywood sand and I had four sons now, ranging in age from thirteen to twenty. We were all under the same roof that week, taking shifts beside my dad’s bed, telling stories, and pretending we weren’t all counting time. My oldest talked to him. Another read to him. Another prayed with him. My youngest rehearsed lines for an upcoming play. Even when my dad couldn’t respond, they all knew he was listening.
The truth is, I spent years believing motherhood would get easier as my boys grew up.
Instead, I’ve found myself wanting to hold on even tighter. And every time I do, I think about that handful of sand.
Even though my dad was in and out of sleep, I knelt on his bedroom floor near his head.
I started the question the same way I’d started thousands of questions throughout my life, like
Dad, can I take your car?
Dad, can I have some money?
And then it hit me.
This would be the last question I would ever ask him.
I took a breath.
“Dad, I promised you I would take care of Mom.”
“Can you PLEASE watch over the boys?”
He didn’t respond.
Because the truth was, I was scared.
And just like the fourteen-year-old girl on her bedroom floor, I crumbled, lying next to him
Sobbing.
A little while later, Nathan came in for his Dad shift and to administer more morphine. As he prepared it, I hugged my dad knowing he couldn’t hug me back. I stood up, leaned over and kissed his forehead and whispered goodnight.
And ever so slightly, he nodded, his head just once.
Two nights later, on October 13, I was lying awake in my childhood bedroom when I felt Nathan’s hand on my shoulder.
Somehow...I already knew.
“Noelle...”
I opened my eyes.
“Dad is gone.”
“What?”
“Dad has passed away.”
“What?”
He paused, looking at me
“Dad died.”
After a moment, I managed to say, “Okay.”
I knew exactly what he was saying. My brain just refused to let the information in. Apparently “what?” was the only word I had left.
Now we laugh and wonder how many more ways Nathan would’ve tried.
“Noelle... Dad kicked the bucket?”
That was over two years ago. We had the funeral exactly as he had wanted it. His children and grandchildren all participated. I wrote and read the eulogy, my brother and son sang Danny boy while my sister-in-law played the piano and niece played the cello. His grandsons were pallbearers and even so, all I kept thinking about was my dad’s nod.
I wanted it to mean everything would be okay.
I wanted it to mean he would take watch for just a moment so I could finally exhale.
But grief has a funny way of making you revisit old lessons.
I’ve never understood those lessons more than after becoming a mother.
Four boys. Four pieces of me living outside of my body. There have been moments when I would’ve taken their pain as my own if it meant they didn’t have to carry it.
For years I thought my dad was teaching me about sand.
He wasn’t.He was teaching me to trust that the people I love could survive the burn. Even when standing beside the fire feels harder than running into it.
He sat on the floor.
He stayed close. Palm up
And he trusted that I could survive the burn.
I finally understand what he meant by an open hand.
I thought an open hand was passive.
But there is nothing passive about standing beside someone you love when every instinct in your body is screaming to take their place.
My dad never told me what to do when the wind came.
He never told me what to do when the cancer came.
He never told me what to do when my boys grew up and faced battles I couldn’t fight for them.
My dad did not let go of me when I was fourteen.
He didn’t fix it.
He couldn’t stop my heart from breaking.
But he stayed.
Thirty years later, he couldn’t stop my heart from breaking again.
Only this time...
He couldn’t stay.
I had to let my father go.
And now, every day, I am learning to let my sons grow.
Maybe that nod meant yes.
Maybe it didn’t.
What I know for sure is that my father gave me the answer on a bedroom floor.
I just hadn’t lived long enough to understand the question.
