Things Left Unsaid: My Father’s Last Dying Wish

Death is a peculiar thing. Some of us, unwilling to confront it, push the thought of death aside for another day. Then, as the sun rises and breathes life into a new day, we do the same again. Others are consumed by the idea of death, spending sleepless nights in hospital lobbies, convinced that every mild symptom is a sign that their time is running out. And then there are those who try to outrun death entirely, building underground bunkers to survive everything from apocalyptic events to alien invasions, much like the imagined horrors in H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds.

For most of us, whether through faith, personal experiences, or stories passed down through generations, we understand that death is as much a part of life as living itself. We may try to push the idea of death from our minds, but it doesn’t vanish. Though the promise of eternal life comforts many, it doesn’t make the reality of losing a loved one any easier.

The questions we have about death are certainly strange. But the death of someone we love is even more bewildering. From the time we’re old enough to think for ourselves, we know that our time here is finite. We’ll all end up beneath a white sheet someday, signaling the end of our time on this earth. Despite this, it always comes as a shock when it happens to someone we know and love. Grief doesn’t get easier with time. Even when you think you’ve moved past it, something as small as a scent can suddenly bring you back to square one, and grief hits you again, unexpectedly, like a wave.

My first true experience with death came in 2006, when my grandfather passed away. I was too young to fully grasp what was happening, but after a long and heartbreaking battle with brain cancer, my mom’s father died. Although my memories of his last days are faint, I imagine that his final words were expressions of love for the woman who had been his wife for over fifty years and the mother of his five children.

One of the hardest things about losing someone is the inability to express everything you wish you had said. This loss leaves us questioning what their last thoughts and feelings might have been.

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Six years after my maternal grandfather’s death, we unexpectedly lost my paternal grandmother, a woman whom everyone would describe as a saint. As she lay sedated in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines, it was clear that she was nearing the end of her life. She had no strength to speak, but it was clear she had something to say. She signaled for a pencil, and with what little energy she had left, she began to scribble on a piece of paper. The effort was weak, and the message was lost in the scribble, but minutes later, her machines beeped, confirming her passing. My grandfather, who had been married to her for over sixty years, leaned over, kissed her forehead, and whispered that he would be joining her soon.

For months, I wondered what she had been trying to say in those final moments. Maybe she had met Jesus, or perhaps, in her angelic way, she just wanted to tell us she loved us one last time. Over time, though, I realized that whatever she wanted to express, we already knew it. It had been evident in her actions and the love she had shared with all of us during her lifetime.

Years later, death would reach me again, this time in a way that would change me forever. My father was a man of incredible stubbornness, and it took a lot for him to admit when something was wrong. In hindsight, I’ve come to understand that his stubbornness wasn’t a desire to be difficult; it was a sign of his selflessness. He would never complain about his own troubles, and he’d keep his struggles hidden from those around him. I remember him suffering a massive heart attack and brushing it off as nothing more than heartburn, only to later learn that two of his heart valves were completely blocked. It was a miracle he survived. Even then, he downplayed the severity of it, not wanting to worry the people who loved him. He’d always put his family first, and even when he faced cancer or a near-fatal heart attack, his thoughts were on us.

Then, a couple of years later, on a cold March day, he began complaining of stomach pain. Of course, he initially dismissed it as nothing, but after a few days, the pain became unbearable. When he finally went to the hospital, doctors quickly discovered that he had stage 4 liver cancer, so advanced that the only option left was to keep him comfortable as he neared the end of his life.

In the hours that followed, as my father lay dying, he mumbled words that didn’t make sense to me at first. Between tears, he asked, “How’s your baseball team looking?” It felt like the last thing I wanted to talk about in that moment. But then he asked again, “Tell me about the Tigers. Any good talent coming up?” My heart ached as I realized that my father, facing his death, was trying to comfort me by asking about something we had shared for years: baseball. It wasn’t until later, in the midst of my grief, that I understood his final selfless act. Despite knowing he was dying, he wanted to talk about baseball not for his own sake, but to take my mind off my pain and to comfort me.

That moment, when I think back, reminds me of my childhood. I can still picture him picking me up from the couch, carrying me to bed without ever waking me. He was my superhero. At 13, I thought I knew more than he did, but as I grew older, I realized how much I had learned from him.

High school came, and I felt invincible, my confidence bolstered by excelling in sports. But I was just following a path my dad had paved decades earlier. He was the real hero in my life, and I quickly realized I had always been following in his footsteps, and nothing made me prouder.

Losing someone, especially unexpectedly, doesn’t happen all at once. Over the past few years, I’ve lost pieces of him bit by bit. I miss the smell of his old Tigers hat, the tight hugs that made me feel like I was everything to him, the way he’d argue with TV personalities as if they were sitting in our living room, his loud sneezes, the way he’d slam doors. I miss his name appearing on my phone, and his voice that always encouraged me to do better. In fact, in the years following his death, I would occasionally text his old phone number, imagining my texts were being sent up to heaven. It only took about three months did this before I unexpectedly got a text back saying I had the wrong number, which broke my heart in ways I didn’t expect.

Sometimes I think I’m doing okay, and I’m hit with the crushing reality that he’s gone, and the only way to reach him is through prayer. And yet, sometimes, in the most unexpected moments, a butterfly will land nearby, or I’ll catch a familiar scent, and it will feel like he’s still with me.

It was during one of my sleepless nights after his death that I realized why he had asked about baseball in those final moments. He wasn’t concerned with his own fate; he only wanted to ease my suffering. His last act was one of pure selflessness, a reminder of the love he had shown me throughout my life.

When I close my eyes, I picture him in heaven, playing catch with his father, while his mother looks on. I can’t help but imagine him surrounded by those he loved, probably sitting around a table, eagerly anticipating a euchre game.

In the wake of his passing, I’ve learned that time is precious. We don’t have the luxury of worrying about trivial matters. We’re only here for a brief moment, so we must focus on what truly matters — our purpose, and the people we choose to spend our time with. Surround yourself with those who lift you up, who fill your life with laughter and positivity. These are the people who will help you achieve your dreams and who will stand beside you in your victories.

Finally, don’t leave things unsaid. Life is about love, purpose, and connection. Express what’s in your heart while you can, because you never know when the chance might be gone.

Though there will be storms, remember that life is a cycle of calm and chaos. Endure the storms, and you’ll find peace on the other side.

I know my dad is looking down on us now, proud of the family he built. He raised three college graduates, and though he never got to bond with his grandchildren, they will know him through the stories we tell. He was a great man, and I can only hope to be half the father, husband, and person that he was.

R.I.P. Dad.

P.S. One day, we’ll finish that talk about baseball. I love you.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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