I Lost a Parent, So I Became One

Words by Jillian Camera

On May 1st, 2024 I was upstate when I learned that my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My husband, Tyler, was in the woods behind our house foraging ramps to use for a special at our restaurant. I was pacing around the grass while on the phone with my dad. “It’s really bad,” he said, his voice cracking like ice thawing at the entrance of spring. He told me this was the first time he cried while delivering the news. 

I didn’t cry. Isn't cancer pretty treatable now? I thought. I couldn’t distinguish pancreatic from other forms. I gave him the same confidence that he comforted me with whenever I was stressed or upset: “It’s going to be ok! They caught it and they’re going to treat it! You got this.” 

Then I learned that most people don’t live more than five years past diagnosis. My dad was different, though: he had been hit by a felled tree some years before and, despite a broken back, ribs, and ankle at 63, he was back to work in just a few months. If 90% of people died from pancreatic cancer, my dad would be in the 10%. The worst case scenario is we only have five more years. That alone was devastating.

Tyler and I started to talk about trying to get pregnant. It had always been a light maybe, a curiosity, something we both felt open to but apprehensive about. If we only had five years left with my dad, though, we should consider doing it immediately so that he and our baby could know one another. I wanted my dad to see me as a mom. Tyler was on board. We would start trying soon, we decided. But my dad died on June 13th, 2024—only a month past his diagnosis. 

I had imagined that I might not feel the same urgency and excitement in becoming a parent once my dad was gone. Fatherhood was his greatest joy in life. He was skilled at it. From infancy to adulthood, he knew intuitively how to soothe, entertain, and nourish his children. I got to watch him with his second batch, my four half-siblings, who were born while I was in college. He was pure confidence and joy with zero anxiety. My driving force was to see him with my child and learn from him. Without that example, I thought, I may not want motherhood with the same assuredness. 

The friendship and love I shared with my dad occupied a lot of space in my life. I was so fulfilled by being his child; making him proud fueled me. His personal path was one of unconventionality and entrepreneurship. He didn’t bat an eye when I told him my plan to open a vegan burger restaurant in my Brooklyn neighborhood at age 25. He helped us find 30k to borrow, and built us a partition wall and moved some pipes around. He bragged to everyone about our success when we had paid back the loan within the first year. Years later, when we had saved enough to buy a house upstate, he was thrilled. “Real estate is the best,” he told me, “because it’s one of the only investments you get to enjoy.” He was right. Sure, we had spent everything we had—but what do you need money for now that you have a house to cook meals and watch movies in? 

I quickly learned that his passing didn’t negate my interest in trying to start a family. My life was already turned upside down. Things would never be the same again, already. I had experienced one of life’s most terrible and heartbreaking offerings.

Indeed, the grief was all-consuming. I couldn’t believe I was capable of surviving it. I couldn’t believe I could take a shower, drive a car, or place a Baldor order, all while experiencing the deepest pain I could ever imagine. As I read about the transformative effects of loss and grief, I felt space opening for more terrifying and intense but positive human experiences. I began to realize that there were only two things I feared and found impossible to picture in equal measure: losing my dad and giving birth.

I found out I was pregnant that November. We hadn’t tried very hard or long. I was shocked; Tyler wasn’t. He said he knew I was pregnant even when he was biking to buy the test. He asked the clerk where they were. “Aisle 5, King.” He was unquestionably stoked. His usual anxiety and over-thinking were nowhere to be found when it came to the idea of having and raising this child. His happiness grounded me the way my dad’s used to. At one of our birth classes, the instructor described the intensity of active labor and how a partner should create a protective bubble around the laboring person: support that doesn’t disturb their process. An image flashed in my mind, an out of body memory of the initial throes of grief. I saw myself in the bubble, and I saw Tyler. He had played this role before.

On July 27th 2025, at 1:46am, with the help of our midwife and doula, our baby Olive was born healthily at home. It was brutal but holy. Communing again at the portal of life and death. I thought of my parents, at times, as I pushed for four hours. It was visceral, physical, and psychedelic.

I had looked for signs and connections to feel that my dad was with me on this journey. My due date was a week after his birthday: that meant we were on the right track. When everything was lining up perfectly with setting up my healthcare and finding a home-birth midwife that made us feel so at ease, I thanked my dad. During my first sonogram I found out I had seven fibroids, but that they probably wouldn’t be an issue. I was a little freaked out and guessed that he needed to give us a couple bumps along the way, but it wouldn’t be anything devastating, I was sure. I wondered what it meant when I was 35 weeks on the first anniversary of his death. 

What would be the next synchronicity? Would they have the same birthday? She would at least be a Cancer, like him. I warned everyone that she might come early, but she came eight days late and is a Leo. I wasn't disappointed. I was surprisingly relieved. It freed me from the ritual of analyzing every minutia in the context of his doing. It helped me take a step back and realize that I actually trust, deep in my soul, that everything is happening exactly as it should be. Because that's what he would tell me.

My liquor cabinet top had been filled with cards of condolences, they morphed into ones of congratulations. Was it wrong or genius to purposely conflate a terrible thing with a wonderful one? When I miss my dad now, I simultaneously think how I’m so glad to have my daughter. I’m grateful for the disruption and bravery that his death awarded me. I wish he was still here with every fiber of my being. In a perfect world, I could have them both, and in my dreams I often do. But part of his legacy is being brutally acceptant, and making the best of the present moment with whatever tools you have.

Jillian Camera is the chef and owner of Toad Style: a Bed Stuy mom & pop institution that has been serving scratch-made whole-food veggie burgers for over a decade. They have been featured in the New York Times, Eater, The Infatuation, BK Mag and more. She and husband Tyler enjoy a simple life caring for their businesses, their senior pit bull Scully, and new baby Olive.