What were you going to say, Dad?

Dad, I love you.

And I am no longer sitting next to you, wondering what you are thinking.

I know you wanted to tell me what you were thinking, because three times on that day, you mouthed my name and only a slight sound came out. The day before that day, I could still hear you talk but I couldn't understand you at all. The day before that, you were still speaking and hard to understand, and you told me you were sorry about the talking - that you couldn't help it. And I knew, Dad. I told you that I knew. And before that - well, you were combative and you couldn't help it, but in that state of mind you were not in the mood to talk.

If you could have talked, what would you have said? I thanked you for saving my life. I reminded you that you held my hand when I went into surgery, and when I woke up from surgery. I told you that I saw you on Christmas Eve, when I looked out at you and you waved and smiled at me, and I smiled back. I will never forget that. And I told you that Lori likes classical music like you did. And after all of this, and several times throughout that day, the expression on your face changed. It looked like you were content. But you wanted to tell me something, and I won't know what that is and whether it was you in a different world, or something I needed to hear. So while I suppose I got to be with you so much during the last few weeks, I will never know what you were going to tell me.

And about those few weeks. I know you didn't want those few weeks. I know you didn't want to be in the hospital, but there was no choice. In the hospital, when things changed and you went into hospice, I knew you wouldn't like that either. At the hospital we were there with you. In hospice, we were there with you. We worked remotely from hospice and tried to help as much as we could. And that was strange.

I left Thursday night and told you I would be back on Friday morning. On Friday morning I decided to go to physical therapy instead of coming to see you first. After physical therapy, I drove to see you and met Mom in the lobby. She was up early! But she was up early because your baptismal journey had ended. And so we went into your room and you were still in the bed. And you were still very warm and you stayed warm. I thought you might wake up. I really did. It was as if you were still just asleep. I told you I loved you and then I sat next to you for hours, while we all came to terms with all of this and waited on next steps. Those few hours were really rough. And the whole last few weeks were rough, but during those hours it was as if someone pulled all the tears out of me. They even gave me my own kleenex box.

Then they came to take you and we waved to the mini-van that took you away.

And then we packed up and left - almost like leaving a hotel.

The whole past couple of weeks have been surreal. Things I never thought I would do, or even knew existed - I did those things. Things went too fast and at the same time I am now at home trying to get caught up on the basics like doing laundry and thinking about taking down the Christmas decorations.

About the Christmas decorations... we all seem to have them up still. It is as if time froze there - on the first day of Christmas, which was your last good day. I don't want to let that go - when the Christmas decorations come down, it's like a final stamp on something, a stamp I don't want.

And you are loved by so many - that is very clear. So many students loved your classes. The professors who worked with you are very sad. And you're my dad

So Dad, what did you want to tell me? I love you, Dad.

Peace.