I have given many speeches in my life. For work, school, trying to impress a girl or two, or to encourage a group of people dealing with type 1 diabetes,

But, this is by far my most important time on stage.

For those that were close to dad, they likely enjoyed some of his stories. He was an incredible, gifted speaker/storyteller. I hope to tap into his talents as I share some final words on dad and his final days.

Dad went through a lot during suffering, frustration, disappointment, pain, and the continued decline of his health and mental abilities.

While those days were the hardest of his life, he was amazing through it all. Some of his most dominant and best qualities shone brightly during this challenging time.

Dad continued to show his patience, long-suffering, love, thankfulness, a side of optimism, and a pure lack of worry every day.

He would share how thankful he was for the life he had lived.

I visited with him at home or in the bleakest environments, such as the ER, his hospital room, or finally at a care center…I would be laden with a sense of peace. A peace that I needed and clung on to.

He had no idea that while I was trying to help him out as his caregiver and son, he was helping me out.

He had a calmness, lack of worry, peace, and love that stirred my soul.

Many of you know that I am a photographer at heart. I am so very thankful for two final photos, which include dad. Mom and I stopped by the care center to visit with him. The timeline would later reveal that this was two days before his passing.

Mom and I would remark that this was the best we had seen him in the last month or two. Little did we know.

I pulled the camera out to snap a touching photo as mom kissed dad’s hand. The love that these two had was epic and would be worth its own story.

As we were leaving, dad began to roll his wheelchair in our direction, following as best as he could. We cleared the doorway one last time and turned around to see him continuing to stay connected with us, and I am guessing a thought that he might be going home. He was, but not his earthly home.

I felt sad to share that he could not follow us as his hands stopped their forward motion. The wheelchair sat at the doorway, his feet resting in the hallway—almost freedom.

The unusual scene struck me. I could not see his face, but I knew that this was a moment worth capturing, and I snagged my camera one last time. Click.. and we soon departed the facility and zoomed home.

Dad would silently exit room 313 two days later, on September 18th. Finally, free of pain, discomfort, and suffering.

Thank You, Dad, for showing me your greatness amid a genuinely dark time.

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