Part 4
Dad passed on Saturday, August 23, 2025 — the day before his 80th birthday. He wanted to make it to 80 so badly, and he was stubborn enough that we really thought at 12:01am on 8/24 he would let go.
Jeremy and I got home late Thursday night August 21st and had Friday at home, which we needed after not sleeping much while we were there. He slept on the couch, and I “slept” in the recliner beside Dad’s hospital bed. Every cough, every stir — I was up, giving medicine, wetting his mouth, or using a straw to drip water so he could have some liquid. All the things.
Saturday morning, I woke to a text from my niece that the death rattle had started Friday night. It was time. I packed everything — funeral clothes, things to stay for a while — knowing I wouldn’t come back until after he passed.
The drive was mostly silent. It was happening. My mother had passed suddenly when I was 39, and now, at 50, I was losing my dad.
Cars lined the driveway when I arrived — mostly close friends of Dad and his wife. I slipped into the bathroom first, because once I saw him, I knew there’d be no chance to step away.
When I walked into the living room and saw him, I crumbled. My hands on my knees, bent over sobbing, the kind of crying I thought I had already released but hadn’t. My sister came over and just held me as those deep cries poured out.
I made my way to his bed, told him I loved him, and recited Psalm 23 over him. For hours, my sister, niece, and I stayed at his side. The hospice nurse was there administering meds to help him relax.
At one point, I sat at the foot of his bed, counting his breaths — eight in a minute. We were close. His wife sat beside him, my niece beside her, and I stayed at his left side. Then his color shifted. I watched him take a breath… and waited… and I waited…. My niece looked at me and said, “He’s gone.” And I replied, “Yes, he is gone.”
My sister came over and held me until the sobbing quieted. My dad — this man larger than life to me — was gone.
Once I could steady myself, I began making calls: first to my husband, then to my brother I’m close to, then to my other brother — the one who weeks earlier had hung up on me when I called for his birthday. To my surprise, he answered. After that, I used Dad’s phone to call his friends and our extended family.
In the days leading up to his service, I stepped into the role of organizing. I gathered pictures for the slideshow, coordinated with the church, met with the funeral home. Jeremy created a checklist and educated himself on what needed to be done. I picked out the casket spray, made lists of songs and pallbearers, and thanks to Jeremy’s nudge, even had my clothes ready.
That Saturday night, I wrote the final version of Dad’s obituary from the versions he had written and the draft Jeremy had started. Thankfully my niece read about eight versions that night and could still find my smallest typos. Sunday morning, I sat in Starbucks, editing the slideshow, making sure every picture was the best it could be.
By then, I knew there would be two speakers at the service, but I couldn’t ignore the stirring in my heart. I needed to speak too. Over those weeks, I had heard countless stories about Dad — how he served, helped, and advocated for people. My husband said it best: the man the community knew and the man we knew at home almost felt like two different people. But they were the same. And on that Saturday, both men died.
That Monday morning, after my prayers, I wrote his eulogy in one sitting. When I read it to Jeremy, he said, “It’s perfect.”