I was one of the lucky ones. Among my peers, I was one of the few whose parents were both healthy, happy and still madly in love after 53 years.

“How are your folks?” my friends would ask.

“They’re doing great,” I’d reply.

“You’re lucky,” they’d say, wistfully, perhaps thinking of a mom who had passed or an ailing dad.

Two Mondays ago, my luck ran out when my father returned home after lunching with friends and, without warning, suffered a massive stroke.

The next day at noon, I was admitted into a club I never wanted to join: the survivors club.

What happened next remains a surreal, nightmarish blur. Preparations were made. Services held. Food consumed. Friends received and condolences offered. Tears were shed. Thousands and thousands of tears.

Wounds this deep don’t heal in days, even weeks or months, and today I still grieve. I grieve for my dad and even more for my mom. I mourn for my siblings and their children, my kids and husband – all adored the man we called Grandpa Tom. My heart breaks for Dad’s many friends.

I feel sorry for myself, too. There’s an aching in my chest that won’t go away. I sit up in bed every morning and literally shake my head until reality sinks in again: He’s really gone. How can this be?

Then – miraculously, mercifully – a wave of gratitude washes over me and I’m given a momentary reprieve. I think of all the people who have had to grow up without a father and remind myself that I had a dad – a wonderful dad – for 52 years.

I had a dad who wept with joy the first time I laughed out loud as a baby.

I had a dad who would wake at 2 am to the sounds of me gasping and barking with a case of croup, a frequent childhood occurrence. He’d carry me into the bathroom, turn on a piping hot shower, and hold me in his lap on the toilet seat. Eventually, the steam would envelop us, my cough would subside, and I’d fall asleep on his strong, sweaty chest.

Dad was my first dance partner. As a girl, I’d place my tiny feet on his, and we’d totter across the floor. He taught me the basics of the foxtrot and never lost his temper when I’d insist on leading or step on his toes. At father-daughter banquets in high school, he’d impress my friends with his groovy signature moves – something akin to The Frug (no one was ever quite sure) – and suffer gladly the silly, exhausting “Bunny Hop.”

In my dating years, he was a vigilant protector – TOO vigilant, at times, to my teenage mind. To my utter dismay, he’d wait for me to come home from a Saturday night date and make sure I didn’t linger too long at the door saying goodnight.

“Time to come in, Cath,” he’d call from inside, in a nonthreatening yet no-nonsense way.

“OK, OK,” I’d sigh, rolling my eyes dramatically. (I never told him, but there were some “goodnights” I was all-too-relieved to have him cut short. Thanks, Dad.)

My father taught me to shake a person’s hand with a firm grip and look them straight in the eye, to always speak up and make a strong first impression. His confidence – in himself and in me – was an invaluable gift.

We didn’t agree on many of the hot-button issues of the day, but after fiery debates, he’d give me a hug, kiss me on top of the head and tell me he loved me. And while I knew he was secretly thinking, “How in the hell could a child of mine cross over to the other side?” the message was clear: Don’t let a little thing like politics come between you and the people you love.

Most importantly, my dad showed me what a devoted husband and father should be. He was always available – not just physically present, but really there for his family – whenever we needed him.

I miss my dad more than words can express. But when a wave of self-pity comes on, I think about the millions of children being raised, for whatever reasons, without father figures.

Pity them, not me. Because I had a dad – a wonderful dad – for 52 years.

I was one of the lucky ones. I still am.