Yesterday, Sunday, October 30, 2022, marked the sixth year commemoration of when my beloved daughter Morgan, drew her last breath. I was holding her hand that dark night. Her brother, my son, was in the room. At 11:31 p.m., the physician’s assistant gently whispered, “She’s gone.”

For the first time, I am forced to revisit that dark night once again on Sunday, the day of the week that my life as I knew it, ended. And yet yesterday in Dallas, the day was a “Chamber of Commerce” day. A brilliant robin’s egg blue sky having been washed clean by days of rain. A glorious temperature. The night brought a picturesque crescent moon illuminating the night sky.

Nonetheless, until the end of my days, that dark, horrible Sunday night will remain a personal tragedy. Morgan’s friends have moved on as surely they must. They have started their own families. To those who were in treatment with Morgan, those wonderful souls have likewise moved on with their lives. As for the eating disorder community, Morgan is merely a statistic and a forgotten statistic at that. However to her daddy, Morgan will always be the catalyst for my soul connecting with me.

When a child is claimed by this illness, a parent is filled with unspeakable pain. Depression. Remorse. Anguish. Nothing can change that reality. No insightful words designed to inspire others. We not only feel the loss, we live the loss.

And to the eating disorder community, we are a living reminder of its failure. They shake their angry fists and yell loudly to whomever will listen, “Once every 52 minutes, a person dies from an eating disorder.” But that is merely a statistic. That is merely a number. That statistic does not have a face. That statistic is not a person. That person does not have a life. That person’s humanity is stripped away. It is far easier to classify those who have been taken as a mere statistic.

The parents who have been left behind make people uncomfortable. Our faces of grief are the living reminders of the community’s failure. It would be so much easier if we would simply go away. And sadly, most do go away. To mourn in isolation. To let their grief, individualistic as it is, consume them alone.

When an annual death day arrives, a parent rises knowing that that day will certainly bring sadness as memories come flooding back. You wonder “what if?” What children would they have brought into the world? What joy and happiness would they have experienced? What greatness would have been within their grasp?

That day a parent walks a razor’s edge of emotion … the slightest nudge can send one falling into a chasm of despair. And yet, life, the endless possibilities that life seems to offer, keep finding ways to intervene, to keep one walking on that razor’s edge.

October 30 will continue each and every year. And in our grief and pain, we must surely embrace the reality that life belongs to the living. Life is about laughter and love. It is about experiencing life to the fullest. Recognizing the simple things which exist. The smile on a baby’s face. Stolen kisses between lovers. A gentle breeze on your face. Our senses bringing wonderful, yet subtle aspects of life and the living to us.

11:31 p.m. beckons.

I am sitting on the patio in front of the house. The inflatable dragon standing tall. The red Christmas lights in the Yaupon tree ablaze. (I know. I know. The company which installed them last year was in the neighborhood this past week, reached out and I caved.)

I settle in with a Cuban cigar (thank you to Dra. Eva Trujillo for holding a conference in person in Mexico which I attended and of course resulted in me bringing those little gifts back to the Republic of Texas), a glass of bourbon neat, music playing on my iPhone. The moon is beautiful. The gentlest of wind. The aria, “O Mio Babbino Caro” is found on my playlist.

And tears come so very easily. Memories of a life taken far too soon. But pain simply will not exist by itself no matter how hard I focus on that. Other thoughts, feelings, and emotions come. I have been surrounded by love. By laughter. By sweet, innocent children. By people who care. By people who love. So much has strengthened and bolstered me all day. And I know that I am not alone. I embrace the two handwritten notes of love written by two young angels who live down the street. I understand that even in my solitude, I am not alone. And never will be.

Then it dawns on me. I am not alone because I am so well-loved. After all, I can be a cantankerous, pot stirring curmudgeon. That person responsible for a number of “Steven Dunn Voodoo Dolls” being sold on the dark web!

I am not alone, and never will be alone, because of how well-loved my Morgan is. The strength and hope she inspired in others. The lives that she helped save when she was here. Her memory still inspiring others to recover. Even in her physical absence.

How wrong that physician’s assistant was six years ago. Her words, “She’s gone” could not be more incorrect. Morgan is not gone.

And the biggest drawback is that I can no longer just cling to her memory by myself. A part of her belongs to each person she inspired, and still inspires to recover. To once again, find laughter, love, life and hope.

To be well-loved. In the darkness of that night, the full realization hits. Morgan’s face is not representative of failure. No. She is the purest representation of life itself.

And for a daddy who so misses her, that is an incredible gift to cherish.