I thought I had 10 more years with my Dad.
He treated his CLL so effectively the last decade, sometimes I forgot he had cancer.
An infection took his brain so quickly that by the time my red eye landed we could only have simple yes or no conversations. Within 48 hours, it was a coin flip whether he would be able to recognize me. A week later, our last flicker of hope went out and we said goodbye.
There was no warning. No heads up to get some quality time in.
Why didn’t I call him every week? Why didn’t I ask him to show me pictures of him from when he was my age and explain that phase of his life? Why don’t I have more photos of him? With him?
I’m angry at myself for all those moments I wasn’t present with him. I’m angry at the world for how suddenly he was taken. So early. Six months before my wedding. Never able to meet my kids. To be able to call him “grandpa.” I couldn’t wait to give him that, and now I can’t.
The last few weeks I’ve been desperate for control. I couldn’t control the bureaucracy that denied him a bed at the specialist hospital he donated to, even when we paid for a private medical plane to transport him. It hurts even more that, in the end, it wouldn’t have made a difference.
I can’t control what happened to my Dad at this point, but I can control how I move forward. I won’t make the same mistakes again, Mom. I won’t let the family go without a strong leader they can rely on. I won’t let my kids grow up without knowing who you were, Dad. Your energy. Your overwhelming optimism. Determination. Work ethic. How your hard-driving intensity turned into a distinct tenderness in your later years.
I will continue to make you proud with what I accomplish, even if I can’t experience the joy in seeing the pride in your eyes anymore. I’ll pass on the values we shared. I’ll give my kids everything, just like you did.
Talk to your parents.