Some of my favorite family memories are from Las Vegas. The dry heat. The bright lights. The trips to the desert, the Grand Canyon, and the Hoover Dam. The kid-in-a-candy-shop energy that took over my usually introverted, financially-reserved dad, as he splurged for helicopter rides over the strip and shows like George Carlin and Siegfried and Roy. Those trips cemented my love for the west, fueled my desire to travel, and taught me to always go big on experiences.
There was a period of time when my family would travel to Las Vegas every July for my parents’ anniversary (July 7). Sometimes I’d get to go, other times it was just them. But we always went to The Mirage, if not to stay, at least to gamble. To my dad, The Mirage was the best hotel and casino in Las Vegas.
My dad died in December 2023, and in July 2024, just 10 days after what would have been my parents’ 47th anniversary, The Mirage closed its doors for good. It seemed like a sign from the universe that I needed to take my mom for one last hurrah, on her first wedding anniversary since losing my dad.
So I did.
I need to preface this story by acknowledging that I’ve had a pretty fortunate life. At 38 years old, my dad’s death was my first experience with deep, life-changing grief. The kind of identity-shifting grief you can’t prepare for, explain, and others don’t understand unless they’ve gone through it. As one way of coping, I tried to experience each moment as intentionally as possible, doing everything I could think of to avoid any regret down the road. This involved meaningful conversations at his bedside. Taking FMLA to spend 100% of his final weeks and days with him, including the moment he took his last breath. As hard as it was, I said yes to seeing his body one last time in the casket before he was cremated. I wrote him a note and tucked it into his hands, to have my words go with him. I spoke at his funeral. I put the “#1 Dad” keepsake I bought him 30+ years ago into his niche alongside his urn.
When I heard The Mirage would be closing just a week after my parents’ anniversary, it felt like a chance to do something special for my mom during what I knew would be a difficult day for her, all the while commemorating my dad's life. Since it was seven months after he died, it also seemed like a chance to provide some much-needed closure as we moved past this initial phase of losing him. I thought of it as a sort of bookend on this moment of loss, that would allow me a chance to move forward while carrying this grief, rather than allowing it to hold me down.
We flew into Las Vegas on my parents' anniversary with my dad's ashes in our lockets, and immediately followed his tradition: throw money into the first slot machine you see. My mom lost $100 right there at the airplane gate. I personally hate gambling, but in honor of my dad I recklessly threw money into his favorite machines all week long, hitting “max bet” every time. That was always his thing: bet big, win big. So I went for it, and despite the fact The Mirage was giving out $1.6MM in winnings for their epic finale, I lost. Over and over. I guess my dad wasn't bringing me luck after all.
When we arrived at The Mirage, the glass-door entrance etched with palm trees felt like a familiar hello. The bronze mermaid statues were still there, but the aquarium was gone, now in its place a black curtain. The hotel room was just like I remember, which, as a nearly-40-year-old who’s no stranger to lavish suites, wasn’t great. Old carpet, an outdated bathtub, and beds that were broken down in the middle. But we did have a view of the volcano, which seemed so much smaller from 14 floors up, than it did gazing up at it from the strip as a 12-year-old.
After settling in, The Mirage sent us a bottle of Prosecco and chocolate covered strawberries to celebrate my parents’ anniversary, and a note from their concierge that brought on the first tears of the day.
After resting a bit we went to the pool, where the classic rock soundtrack brought me right back to those summer road trips, my dad driving us from Ohio to Las Vegas. We used to listen to Van Halen and Ozzy Osbourne on repeat in the car, so every time they played Van Halen (which was a lot—once they placed Hot For Teacher twice within 15 minutes), my mom and I would look at each other and smile.
My parents always went for steak dinner on their anniversary, so in keeping up with tradition that's exactly what my mom and I did. We went next door to Caesar's Palace to eat at Joe’s Seafood, Prime Steak & Stone Crab and enjoyed a fantastic meal.
The rest of the trip was actually very relaxing. Another thing I've learned about the grieving process is that it takes a lot out of you mentally and emotionally, so when you have moments to rest and be still, your body kind of takes you up on that, whether you want to or not. When we weren't laying in bed we visited with family, went to another casino my dad loved to frequent, and counted the days before returning home. But we didn't leave without fulfilling one last goal.
When we first heard that The Mirage was closing we thought it was being torn down. So I told my mom we should bring something of my dad’s to hide throughout the building so that a piece of him would go down with the building. My mom packed up about a dozen "In Memory Of" cards from his funeral, so that photos of him could be tucked into the building. We threw them from the window onto the roof, tucked them into cracks in the wall and under the carpet, and in the elevator shafts. We later found out that they’re just renovating the space and turning it into a Hard Rock, but at least we can say there are photos of my dad that will be ripped out with the rest of what remains of The Mirage.
When it came time to leave, we were ready. Las Vegas wasn't the same as it was 27 years ago, and neither were we. The Mirage will always hold a special place in our hearts, and I'm glad that we got to spend one last vacation there, celebrating our family, my parents' anniversary, and my dad by doing what he loved most. It truly felt like the end of an era. But now that The Mirage no longer exists, it is kind of sad to know that we'll never have that connection to my dad and Las Vegas ever again.
Grief is a hell of a process in which there is no way to prepare. I'm glad I was present and thoughtful throughout the process of losing my dad, but the aftermath of losing him has hit me in ways I couldn't have imagined. I remember reading a quote years ago about people who worry or pre-grieve situations such as losing a parent before it happens:
"How can you prepare for famine if you’ve never experienced hunger?”
I think that's a perfect quote to remember if you ever find yourself trying to prepare for a major loss.
You can’t really imagine what it’s like to go the rest of your life without someone who’s always been there from day one until you actually start to experience it. Until you show up at their house and they’re not there. Until you have a question you’d normally ask them and they’re not there. Until you go to celebrate a life moment or share good news and they’re not there. Only then can you start to understand how it feels to accept that they’ll never be there. Ever. Not for these small moments, and not for the big ones that will follow.
But as we all know, death is a certainty and losing our parents is something a majority of us will go through. I was fortunate to have 38 years with my dad in my life. But in losing him, I do think it has helped me handle it better by seizing these moments and opportunities to express my love and gratitude, celebrate him, honor him, and pay his life the proper respect.
As this cruel chapter of life would have it, within hours of returning, sleep-deprived on a red-eye flight from Las Vegas, we found out that my Uncle Doug—my dad’s brother pictured in The Mirage photo above, and the person who’s always been like my second dad—was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. The same day we were preparing to close this chapter of grief to move forward, we found ourselves right back in it. His health declined fast, and he passed away less than two months later.
Obviously this lengthened and compounded this moment of grief for me, and in some ways it felt very surreal. That experience is another story for another time, but I now find myself in possession of a handful of ashes, ready to take another trip back to Las Vegas, to spread on a mountain that holds a tremendous amount of meaning to my uncle. But unlike The Mirage, at least this mountain is something they can never tear down.