Six years ago this week, my dad died.
In the weeks before his death, I struggled with when to leave my home in California and get to Florida to see him.
If you’ve ever had someone close to you dying far away, you know this struggle.
You don’t want to go so soon that you get there and have to get back to work and kids before your loved one passes.
And at the same time, you don’t want to wait so long that you miss being there at the end.
As a mom of two young children and a very needy bricks and mortar business to run, I was torn.
When to go?
In the middle of the night I was scheduled to fly out, the phone rang.
As soon as I heard it, I knew. He was either gone or would be soon.
I jumped out of bed to answer the phone and my sister and stepmom were on the other end letting me know, he was going without me.
I wouldn’t make it in time to see him.
I think he knew I was coming the next day and didn’t want me to see him at the very end, a mere shadow of himself.
We were resolved; had said the things there were to say; had talked on the phone nearly every day before he got too sick for that.
I knew he loved me and he knew I loved him.
And he chose to go before I got there.
Thanks Dad. You were always my hero. In life as in death.
I love you.