Four years ago I sat for two days and two nights and watched my father die.
At 93, it wasn’t a tragedy. But for him, it was a failure. He was not ready to go and he had so many things he still wanted to do.
They say that people leave this world as they live it. My father is testament to that - fighting until his very last breath.
The Man Who Refused to Age
Dad worked and played ice hockey until he was 80. He was obsessed with hydroponics and invented a machine to grow barley grass decades before wheat grass shots were trendy.
He loved his family, animals, hockey and maple syrup - in that order.
My father was someone who couldn’t believe he had become an old man. He was angry that his body had failed him. Angry that he’d ended up needing 24-hour care when all he wanted was to be skating at the rink.
When his health started declining, he rebelled against the obvious. He lived independently until three years before his passing, when a fall brought the inevitable broken hip, hospital stay, rehab, and the conversation we’d all been dreading.
The Letter I Never Wanted to Write
As the youngest of six, I was designated as the one to tell our father it was time for full-time care. My older brothers had tended to him daily, but with increased frailty and daily rehab needs, we knew dad needed more than they could give.
I’m a better writer than conversationalist, so I did what came naturally - I wrote him a letter.
“Dad, we love you so much that we worry about you when you’re home alone all day. We’re all scared you’ll fall and we won’t be there to help you.”
To my father, it felt like everyone had given up on him.
As he settled into his nursing home room, he pivoted between rage and resignation. Some days he’d demand to go home. He called me once to tell me he had a plan.
“I’ve decided to get an apartment on my own,” he said. “I don’t need help, maybe just a ride now and then.” He’d forgotten that his right leg had been amputated at the knee and he needed 24-hour care. He hadn’t forgotten that dignity was something he craved.
Other days he’d sit quietly, staring out the window at a world that had moved on without him.
The Phone Calls
In the months before he died, he started calling us. Leaving hopeful messages, just wanting to chat. He could barely hear, so phone calls were torture for both sides.
“Hey there, it’s your daddy here, just checking in. Well, I guess you’re out. Love you.”
“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Yes, Dad, I’m here.”
“What? I can’t hear you. Are you there?”
But he kept calling. Every few days. Like he knew time was running out and wanted to collect our voices.
His Final Fight
As he was dying, he was loud and shouting and anything but peaceful.
He knew his time was coming and he was furious about it.
I stayed with him for two days, playing music and trying to calm him down. He drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes quiet, sometimes thrashing and shouting as nurses gave him something to quell his agitation. I could tell he didn’t want to be calm. He wanted to fight this inevitable transition to death with every ounce of resistance he still had.
In his last few hours, I played the music he and my mum had listened to together every night - sounds that used to drift through my bedroom wall when I was a kid. Panpipes, Mary Black, Vera Lynn, Neil Young. Songs and music that lulled them to sleep or brought memories of their 64 years together.
His breathing slowed. Minutes between each breath.
I put lavender oil on his temples and stroked his gray hair, the same way he used to comfort me during childhood nightmares.
And I whispered in his ear: “You were a good daddy. It’s okay to go now.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was gone.
The Gift
My dad was 25 in a 93-year-old body. Stubborn, dreaming, refusing to give up even when those dreams seemed outlandish to everyone else.
When he finally took his last breath, his face relaxed into peace - heading to a place where his dreams could become reality again.
Being there for his final hours was a gift. It brought me a perspective on him and his life that I’d never experienced. He allowed me to witness his most vulnerable moment, and for that, I am honored.
I don’t mourn my dad - 93 years is a long life. But I wish he had found peace with what he’d achieved: children, grandchildren, a successful medical career, decades of hockey games, and a barley grass machine that was ahead of its time.
He taught me something crucial in those final days: it’s never too late to start something new, and never too early to refuse to give up on making the world better.
Even when your body fails you, your dreams don’t have to.
Grief is universal. And often hard to describe. As we age, grief and loss become more common experiences.
I hope that sharing our stories of our losses can help ease the pain, and also the fear that comes when we think about losing our loved ones. If you have an experience you’d like to share, leave a comment or send me a message.
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