Reflections on My Father’s Passing

My father passed away on a hospice cot in our living room. He was surrounded by family, books, records, and the chair where he read the newspaper every morning. His death at 58 was not peaceful. He was angry. When the nurse offered morphine, he resisted, saying, “You don’t have to drug me.”

Even in his pain, life was precious to him. He fought to hang on, fulfilling the poet’s concept of resisting the end. His last words, spoken possibly in delirium, were about UFOs, “They’re real, you know.” It was nighttime and his mind was fading.

He passed away in August 1999, with sunlight pouring into the yard. His family was gathered, waiting for his heart to stop. When his father entered, took his hand, my father let out a final noise, and it was over.

I have now lived longer without him than with him. Understanding his death, both a significant challenge and a driving force, helped shape my life. Facing his mortality pushed me to embrace my own, prompting me to pursue my desires fearlessly and swiftly.