My Darling Dad, I miss you.

Four weeks ago, I tried not to listen as a teenage girl rushed into the ICU and was told that her father had passed away.

I sat cross-legged on the floor of the waiting room, as her cries grew louder and louder. Just the night before I looked over at her as she chatted to her father, and felt a wave of jealousy as my dad lay in a coma.

If you've kept up to date with me on twitter, you'll know bits and pieces of what's gone on in my life over the last month. My dad, aged 70, had a stroke.

On the evening of Tuesday 13 August I arrived in Durban with my sister. As we landed we were told that my dad was being transferred from one hospital to another. He had had a routine stent a week prior and something went wrong. A neuro-specialist was called in, and rushed him to his neuro ward.

Upon seeing the family, my dad asked why we were there. We told him we'd come to help him get better and he seemed quite pleased. He even noticed the cellphone he had recently given me, gestured towards it and nodded. He was calm, content even. Happy to see his family, and we were happy to see him.

We thought he had gotten past the worst - the headaches, nausea, and dizziness. Little did we know that he would fall into a deep coma.

Showing no signs of improvement, the doctors decided that they needed to relieve pressure from his brain. The operation was a complete success and that evening he woke up. He wasn't singing, dancing and talking - but he nodded and shook his head in response to questions, he squeezed our hands when we asked him if he knew who we were. We told him how much we loved him. How important he was to us. We told him how proud we were of him. How everything was going to be ok. We told him that he was the best husband and father that anyone could ask for. We said goodnight, we kissed him goodbye and we left.

That night we slept like babies - sure that he'd turned the corner. Sure that things would be ok. However, by the following evening he was back in a coma. After visiting hours, we all came home. When my mom left the room I whispered to my sister, "as happy as I am that he woke up, I'm terrified that he was saying goodbye".

And he was.

My darling dad didn't wake up again.

On 30 August 2013, he died peacefully as my mom and I held his hands, telling him how much we loved him.

It has been a roller coaster few weeks. We hoped and prayed, bargained and pleaded, begged and cried for him to be alright. But it was his time to go.

I still can't believe that he is gone. It doesn't feel real. Like it is someone else's life and I am just watching it happen. I keep thinking he is going to come home. I keep wanting to call him and tell him things. I can't wrap my head around the fact that he is gone - forever.

During the day I cope. I think I avoid thinking about what's happened. But at night I lie in bed, and memories flood my thoughts. I can't believe that I will never see him again. Every night my heart breaks, and every morning I have to get through another day without my dad.

I know I'm not the first or the last person to experience loss. I just didn't expect it to happen so soon. I wasn't ready to lose him, there is so much I still want to say. And so much I want him to see.

Last week was the Jewish new year. I sat in shul (synagogue) and when I saw an older man holding his grandchild, it left me in tears. Something my dad won't be able to do for me. 

The biggest honour a Jewish child can do for a parent is to fulfill a year of mourning. I won't get into all the finer details, but in short, for the next year I won't listen to music, go to the movies, go to shows, concerts or big parties. I won't buy new things that I don't need. 

And for the first time in my life I will say Yizkor - a prayer said by children who've lost a parent - on all the main Jewish festivals. For the last 24 years I've walked out of shul during Yizkor, to sit with friends outside. Now I have someone I have to honour. And honour him I will.

My darling dad, Michael Bernard Levitan, I wasn't ready to lose you but I promise that you will never, ever be forgotten. You were the epitome of happiness and the light you brought to my life I will cherish forever.