The hardest realization of my life was the fact that I am going to outlive my parents.

It was shortly after Thanksgiving when my father took seriously ill. I think we all knew this was the end, even though none of us could admit it. Maybe not even to ourselves. 

Seven years earlier my dad had a massive heart attack and required triple bypass surgery and a valve replacement. But the drugs they had to give him to keep him alive slowly deteriorated other parts of his body. I remember him as a strong man, and a caring father. So many good memories of my childhood come back to me when I think of him.

In that sense, it was very difficult visiting him in his hospital bed. He had lost a lot of weight in the previous few months. At one point he wanted to reposition himself on his bed and needed my and my brothers help. It surprised me how light he was. But more than anything it shook me that he needed my assistance. 

I remember watching the nurses pump morphine into his IV, and thinking how dangerous that was. Then it dawned on me that they weren't concerned with him becoming addicted because they knew he wasn't going to be around that long. He had devoted his life to taking care of his family, and in the end it all came down to this; those machines weren't there to keep him alive. They were there to make him comfortable while he died.

We could tell the end was near. He was occasionally coherent, but mostly he slept. One time when he was kind of lucid my brother leaned over and whispered "greens and fairways dad", referring to my fathers love of golf. For the life of me I couldn't think of the right words to tell him, something he could take with him. Then I realized that I didn't need any fancy words. We had spent years exchanging words, talking about many things that seemed so minor to me at the time.

All his life he was a blue collar worker, and I can remember his pride when I told him I got a job as a Systems Administrator. "You don't have a job anymore, Brian" he said. "You have a *position*."  It wasn't until I had kids of my own that I was able to understand the look of happiness on his face. I remember talking to him about his business, or about how he felt when his first grandchild (Michelle) was born. 

I wasn't there when he died. My brother and I had gone to my brother's house to catch a few hours of sleep before going back to the vigil. People that I'm close to, and who know what happened, ask me if  I'm troubled that I wasn't able to give my dad any last words.

But my dad and I had lots of words. Many, many  words over a lot of years. They made me the person I am today; they gave me my moral compass, my work ethic, the pride in my family, and the love that I have. So many things he was able to give me, and so many things I wanted to tell him. So I told him the best way I knew how.

The last words he heard from me were "I love you, dad."

No regrets.