Dad, In a Thousand Lifetimes

Dear Dad,

You are gone to a place much better than where we are now. It brings me peace to know you are somewhere better, no longer in pain.

Watching you through this last five-and-a-half-year battle with cancer was so hard. You were incredibly strong during that time. I thought I knew how strong you were before, but you showed a kind of strength I had never truly understood. You never asked, “Why me?”

I remember sitting in the room with you when they first told us you had cancer. It felt like the whole room became heavy the moment those words were spoken. We all sat there in disbelief, sadness, and fear. Then we looked at you, waiting to see your reaction.

You took a moment to absorb it. For me, it felt like an eternity. My heart was breaking.

Then you said, “Well, what’s the plan? I’m not ready to give up.”

I appreciated how honest the doctors were—no beating around the bush—but it was heavy news to hear. Then you made a joke and broke the tension in the room. God, how I loved you for that moment.

I can’t speak for my brothers, but in that moment I was ready. I was thinking, “Let’s do this.”

None of us knew the battles that would take place over the next five years.

You were so strong, Dad. I admired you more than you will ever know. I can’t imagine how I would have handled hearing that kind of news if it had been me. I would like to think I’d be as strong as you were, but I honestly don’t know.

Even in the beginning of your treatments, I was in some denial about how sick you really were, because you hid it so well. I wanted to believe you were going to beat this, even though the doctors told us it would ultimately take your life.

You were always upbeat, even if, in the beginning, it was only for us.

Living so far away was never something that truly felt wrong until now. For the first time, the distance felt heavy. I am so grateful for my brothers, and I can never thank them enough for all they did for you, Dad.

Sometimes I felt a hint of jealousy and failure because I wasn’t there for you the way they were. That is something I know I will carry with me for a long time.

When we talked after your radiation and chemo treatments, I knew I wasn’t always hearing the full truth, but I wanted so badly to believe everything was okay. You would tell me you were just tired, or that you felt like the treatments were working, and I held onto those words with everything I had.

But when I spoke with my brothers, they told me how weak you were becoming and how much pain you were in.

I am sad they had to carry that burden, and that my experience of it was not the same.

Over the years, coming to visit you became harder. Every time I stepped through the doors of your house and saw you sitting there, I could see the toll this awful illness was taking on you. I could see how it was attacking you.

I felt angry, sad, and helpless. It seemed like there was nothing I could do.

Yet you were always upbeat, even at your worst. I honestly didn’t know how bad things were because you were so strong.

I wanted to make every visit last, even during the moments when I wanted to leave and run away from all of it.

Every time I had to leave, it made me so sad and helpless. I wanted so badly for you to be okay, but deep down, I knew we were only buying time.

These last six months were the hardest. I no longer saw my dad sitting in that chair. I saw a man going through the end.

Even though I am so grateful for the time you gave us, I wanted more. More time. More years. I felt like I had taken so many years for granted, living my life as if you would be there forever.

During our last visit, I knew we were getting close to the end. You were still battling every day, but this illness was going to win, and it was now right in front of us.

Watching my brothers in pain as they took you to appointments and hearing bad news after bad news was heartbreaking. They were breaking, and I was breaking.

We couldn’t stand seeing you in so much pain.

I can’t imagine what you were going through, or how you handled it all with such grace, still playing in the band.

I am so grateful I got to watch you play for our nephew’s graduation. You were in so much pain, and yet you made everyone in the room feel like you were not sick.

This was always the kind of man you were. No matter what was happening in your own life, you always made everyone around you feel important.

I have so many regrets, Dad. I took you, and our time together, for granted.

In the end, I guess we all do that. Maybe that is why the pain is so deep.

The day I got the call that you were gone was so hard to hear, especially since we had just talked the day before. I knew you weren’t doing well, but I didn’t know God was going to take you the very next day.

I was glad I was the one who got the news first. My brothers and sister needed to hear it from me, and from no one else. I think you knew that.

Making those calls was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

To hear my siblings break in sadness and disbelief was heartbreaking.

I will never forget their cries and pain.

I just listened as they cried, yelled, and hurt.

I had to keep it together—for them, for you, and for my family.

Telling my kids was heartbreaking. They loved you so much, Dad. I wish I could have taken away their pain as I held them in my arms while they cried. It was a cry so deep, one I had never heard from them before.

My wife was crushed too, but she knew she had to be strong for all of us. God gave me a great wife, and I will always be thankful for her.

My sadness was so heavy that I did everything I could to keep myself busy for the next twelve hours.

That night, as I was trying to sleep, I asked you to talk to me just one more time. I kept saying it over and over.

I’m not sure if it was my mind trying to process everything, or if you truly came to visit me.

But I could hear your voice.

I could not see you, but I could hear you.

I asked if you were okay, and you said, “I am good.”

I asked where you were, and you told me, “I’m home.”

I asked if anyone had come to see you yet, and you said, “Not yet, but I am so happy here.”

Then I woke up and kept asking you to talk to me again.

But I could not hear your voice anymore.

Flying home, I was numb and honestly not okay.

When I got to the funeral home, I saw everyone who loved you gathered in that room, making arrangements for you. It felt so surreal. There we were, talking about you and making decisions about your funeral. Those who have been through this know how hard that is.

Then we got to see you.

They did such a good job with you, Dad. You looked at peace. No more wrinkles. No more pain. Just a man sleeping peacefully forever.

I wanted you to talk to me. I wanted to hear your voice.

I talked to you for a while, hoping somehow you would hear my words.

I told you I loved you, and I said my goodbyes.

It was hard, but my soul felt lighter afterward.

The funeral was hard too, but it was good to see how deeply you were loved by so many people.

Picking up your urn was one of the hardest things for me.

No more Dad—just the ashes of a man who gave us so much.

Dad, you were not perfect, but you were our perfect.

And in a thousand lifetimes, I would choose this journey with you again and again.

I will continue to talk to you and share your stories, because they deserve to be spoken.

I promise I will keep your legacy alive and continue doing my part to keep our family close.

I love you, and I hope one day to see you again.

Sincerely,
Your Son