01/18/2026
Reflections on Conversations With My Dad
Yesterday marked 6 months since we said goodbye.
One might think I would have been more prepared to lose my dad, given that he was 95 years old. Add to that the fact that he survived multiple bouts of cancer over the last 20 years, and logic would suggest some level of readiness. When you’re 60 and your parent is 95, it seems reasonable to expect that you’d be emotionally prepared.
But grief doesn’t follow logic.
The truth is, my dad was still incredibly sharp, perhaps more thoughtful than he had ever been. I think living that long, with limited mobility and fewer places to go, gives you more time to reflect… more time to be present. That presence became a gift to those who saw him regularly, and especially to me.
When I was young, my dad was very much a man of his time. He was busy working, providing for his family, while my mom managed the household and raised the children. On top of that, he had political ambitions, which brought both excitement and stress into our lives. I always loved him, but our relationship evolved in a beautiful way later in life.
As he began to slow down and savor life more, I was raising my own babies. That timing was a gift, not just for my children, but for my parents. He loved sharing in their care alongside my mom, and looking back, I think it allowed them to bond in ways they hadn’t been able to when they were young parents themselves.
Sadly, that chapter was cut short when my mom died of cancer at just 66. The loss left a deep void, for him, for us, for everyone who loved her. Even so, my dad continued to be a wonderful dad and grandfather, doing his best to fill space with love, stories, and presence.
In time, he found companionship again with a truly special person who remained a loving presence in his life until the very end. I’m deeply grateful for that.
The last five to ten years of my dad’s life taught me more than I could have imagined… especially about living and dying. He was fiercely determined to maintain his independence. Even when he needed significant support near the end, his sense of self never faded. He was still him and he was quite a character! So interesting, funny and so loving.
We talked often and openly about death, his wishes, his feelings, his readiness. Sometimes he’d declare how ready he was to go. Then, after a good day or a small health improvement, or after cooking up some thing delicious he’d smile and say, “You know, the way I feel today, I could live a few more years.” It was a constant back-and-forth, a roller coaster of readiness and resolve.
What kept him going, I believe, was purpose. Boredom was his enemy. He always needed something to work on, something to build, something to improve. Even in his final years, he found inspiration in creating, designing, inventing, problem-solving. He tried to come up with some interesting gadget each week when my grandson Sullivan would visit. This gave him purpose and delight.
His living space reflected this perfectly. It was thoughtfully designed with small homemade gadgets and clever inventions to help him navigate daily tasks. It wasn’t overly simplified as he still needed to move, to think, to engage, but it was just right for the life he was living. Watching him adapt with creativity and intention was inspiring.
His rules for living were simple, yet profound:
• Never say you can’t.
• Learn something new every day.
• Help someone whenever you can.
So why, six months after his passing, does it still feel so hard to believe he’s gone?
Maybe because we talked about his eventual death so thoughtfully and so often that part of me believed he might live forever. Or maybe because I expected more physical decline, more fading. While there were signs in his body, his mind never dimmed. His expressions of love only grew stronger.
I am grateful he didn’t suffer long. I’m grateful his life ended swiftly. And still, I deeply miss those conversations, the humor, the honesty, the warmth.
Now, I just try my best to carry them with me.
I do hear his words every day. I try to consistently learn something new. I remind myself that I can do anything I set my mind to. And I do my best to help others whenever I can.
That, I think, is how he lives on.
