Dad is Stuck in the Stairwell

A 2-Year Tribute to my Amazing Dad, Blake Johnson

The shirt I wore the morning you died still hangs in my closet, tucked toward the back.

I can’t wear it.

But I can’t throw it away either.

I wore that shirt the last time I hugged you.

The last time I kissed the top of your head.

The last time I held your hand.

The last time I saw you.

As much as I want to let it go, something about that feels… wrong.

Like erasing a piece of you.

That last full day together was so hard. You could barely speak, but you tried.

You mostly stared off into the corner, but I knew you weren’t seeing this world anymore.

You were already looking beyond it.

I just wanted to make your death as peaceful as possible.

As good as death could be.

I hope I did that for you.

None of it mattered—not the training, not the classes, not all my life experience.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for losing you.

But in those moments after you passed, it was just you and me.

And God, those moments were sacred.

You were finally out of pain.

I could hold your hand without you crying out.

I would never want to see you suffer like that again.

And if your absence is the cost of that pain ending… then I’ll carry it.

I’ll be okay with it.

Somehow.

And then, in classic Johnson fashion, came the comedy of errors.

The funeral home arrived… at the wrong condo.

Your hospice nurse had to run outside to flag them down and redirect them.

We told Mom to go into the den and close the door—we didn’t want her to see them take you out.

Two funeral assistants arrived: a tall, older gentleman and a petite young woman.

I remember thinking, How on earth are they going to get him out of here with all those stairs?

When they brought you into the living room, it was time.

Surreal.

Kelsey and I followed them into the stairwell.

The first door was propped open.

They hoisted you up, every ounce of strength and intention in their bodies—

only to get stuck.

The door at the top wouldn’t open because of how you were positioned.

And the poor woman at your feet was practically losing consciousness under your Viking build.

Your hospice nurse and I laughed.

You were stuck in the stairwell.

I could almost hear your dry wit in the back of my mind.

Kelsey turned to me and said, “This is just so your dad.”

And I said, “Absolutely. This would be his kind of exit.”

They regrouped, carried you back down, and reworked the plan.

I wasn’t allowed to help, but Kelsey finagled the door like a pro.

With a good college try and a lot of heart, they finally got you outside.

But then came the next challenge—the outside stairs.

It was unseasonably cool for July, and the rain had started to fall.

I worried they might slip or drop you.

Kelsey asked if I wanted to go back inside.

I said no.

I would watch until you left.

And I did.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Because that was it.

Your body was gone.

This was the reality of it all.

Later, we told Mom about the stairwell fiasco and laughed—grateful no neighbors had tried to come through in the middle of it.

After Kelsey left, Mom asked me to stay for a while.

Just the two of us.

I stripped the bed.

Cleaned your nightstand.

Folded your hoodie—the one I now keep in my closet.

Packed away your walker and cane.

Disposed of your medications.

Kelsey took the unused hospice supplies with her.

You never wanted a hospital bed.

We tried to convince you that it would be more comfortable.

But you refused.

You wanted to be in your own bed.

Next to Mom.

That’s how you left this world.

On your terms. In your space. With your people.

God, I miss you every day.

We had—we have—an incredible bond.

I read once that the brain doesn’t fully grasp the finality of a loved one being gone.

That’s why we catch ourselves saying, Oh, I have to text them, or I need to tell them this,

because the brain runs on patterns.

And you were part of mine for 43 years.

The pattern was:

I have to tell Dad this.

I have to send Dad that.

Oh, Dad would love this photo.

Look at the moon—I have to text Dad.

And now… that thread is cut. And my brain doesn’t know what to do with the silence.

I haven’t heard your voice in two years.

I haven’t heard you say “I love you” in two years.

And I miss that more than I can put into words.

I listen to videos and recordings, but they aren't the same.

I miss your hugs.

Your voice.

Your humor.

And yes, your dark humor lives on in me now. It’s settled into my bones like some twisted inheritance.

How in the world it’s been two years is beyond me.

It’s like time is no longer something I understand.

It slips through my fingers like sand in an hourglass.

Oh, jeez—now I sound like that soap opera, Days of Our Lives.

But it’s true.

Each day folds into the next, and I get further and further away from the time you were here.

From you.

And I know—to some people, grief is something to move past.

Something linear. Something tidy.

Something you get over.

But the lack of empathy and understanding around grief? It still astounds me.

Because the grief I carry?

It will always be here.

It’s carved into my heart, etched into my bones.

And yes, I’ll have good days.

But I’ll also always have days that are harder than others.

I don’t need to be fixed.

I’m not broken.

I’m just…

Just a daughter who misses her dad.

More than anything.

I know you know, Dad, that we’re okay.

We’re getting through each day with laughter and tears and love and frustration.

I know you love hearing our stories.

I know you’re present for all the big things and the little things.

You’re still part of our lives, just in a different way now.

I love you, Daddy. So much.

I’m glad I could be there for you—even in the crappiest of times.

Even when it was brutal and sacred and messy.

We would find the humor.

We would laugh.

And that mattered.

If I’ve learned anything from your death, it’s that time is fleeting.

And spending it angry, or with hate in our hearts, or fighting with people?

It’s just not worth it.

You’ve always known that.

You always taught me to focus on the love.

To say, fuck what people think.

To be happy.

Just be happy.

I don’t know how many times you told us that—

even toward the end, when your body was failing, but your spirit wasn’t.

You still said it.

And that’s what I try to do every single day.

To respect your words.

To spend time loving. Enjoying. Having fun.

Some days, it’s harder than others. Especially now.

But I try.

And I do my best.

Thank you, Dad, for being my dad.

For loving me.

Guiding me.

Protecting me.

For making me the woman I am today—

bruised but unbroken,

a little scarred, edges rough from the world,

but with a heart that still loves hard.

I love you, Pops.

We will always have the stars.