When I was driving my mom and I to the hospital, I knew that my father, who had been on a ventilator for about two months, couldn’t breathe anymore, even with this heavy-duty machine. My mom got the call from the doctor as we were at least 40 miles away. She remained calm. Tearless. I knew my dad was dying and they were asking her permission to take him off the ventilator. His breaths were escaping through his five chest tubes. But she didn’t say a word to me. (This was a gift I’ll never forget.) We drove in silence, as I clutched the wheel and refused to lose my composure. We drove in silence, while I tried to keep us safe and keep myself sane at the wheel. That day was weird. For me, it was a mix of tears and numbness. At the service, there were more tears and even laughter (when the Rabbi read a funny memory my cousin had written). But largely, I felt empty. I wondered where the torrent of tears had gone. And I thought there was something wrong with me. That I didn’t love my father

Source: On Grief, Loss and Coping | Psych Central – Part 2