Reflections on a Father’s Passing

My father passed away on a hospice cot in our living room. He was surrounded by the familiar comforts of family, books, records, and his favorite chair where he often started his mornings with the newspaper.

His death, at the young age of 58, was not a peaceful one. Anger filled his final days. He resisted the nurse’s attempts to ease his pain with morphine, insisting, “You don’t have to drug me.” This recollection no longer haunts me. I now admire his desire to hold onto life, valuing it so intensely that he fit the poet’s vision of raging against the dying of the light.

The last words he said to me, possibly in a delirious state late at night, were about UFOs. “They’re real, you know.” These words make me wonder if he considered them his final, profound message. Did he understand that his life’s end was near?

He died on an August afternoon in 1999, with sunlight flooding the yard. His family was gathered, waiting for his final breath. My grandfather, his father, arrived, took his hand, and in response, my father made a sound, like a cough or a sputter. Then, it was over.

Since his passing, I have lived more years without him than with him. Over time, I have reconciled with the difficult truth of his death. It was both an intense challenge and the moment that propelled my life forward. Witnessing the death of a seemingly indomitable figure made me aware of my own mortality. This awareness drove me to pursue my desires with urgency and fearlessness.