Oh Rachel, my heart goes out to you and your family, especially your mom. You hit the Dad lottery and you sharing him with us, by way of your heart allows him to touch us too.
When my father died, someone said to me: “Grief is love with no place to go. That place is gratitude.” It didn’t happen at first, but that became an emotional inflection point for me.
It’s been a little over four years and my relationship with my dad continues to grow.
Thank you, James! This means so much, especially coming from you. Your tribute to your dad was beautiful, and I've thought about it more than once since reading it.
Yes, I absolutely hit the dad lottery. I'm grateful for that every day, and I always will be. It's nice to hear from someone four years down the road that the relationship keeps growing.
What a beautiful picture of your hand in his, and what a wonderful memory.
What stayed with me most was your description of your father's withdrawal. We assume our loved ones will want to spend every possible moment with us, but your essay made me realize that, in the end, death is a journey that can't really be shared. We know how to share life. We aren't prepared for the quiet retreat that comes with dying.
Thank you so much, Elizabeth. That was one of the most surprising parts for me too, but once I understood it, it made complete sense. I can’t imagine how much internal processing must happen in a moment like that, or how necessary that quiet retreat may be. Thank you for reading and for such thoughtful words.
Rachel, the poignancy of how you patted the ground beside you and said “sit here” to your dad— and he did it!—gives me faith in humanity. As James said, you hit the dad lottery. It’s helpful beyond my ability to articulate it when you share these precious moments. It’s never too late to have a loving father once we reimagine one with a little help from our outstanding writer friends.
My gosh this is profound. You’re gifted beyond measure with words. Whatever you focus on comes to life.
The dying process is indeed sacred, as sacred as the living process. Your dad is reading this over and over now, deeply proud and grateful for his beautiful, gifted daughter.
I spent so long on this essay because I wanted to do him and his legacy proud. He really was an incredible father and an incredible man, and I’m so glad that came through. Your words mean more to me than I can say. And honestly, so much of your own vulnerable storytelling made me want to be brave enough to share this one.
Rachel... well the many days and hours you spent did indeed do him and his legacy proud - but also the depth of your relationship with him comes through in your stunning writing ability.
"Sit here." This story of your father's passing is such a gift to each of us growing children facing the death of our parents. The willingness to sit still and be present with the process is a huge milestone in life; we experience as directly as possible the completion of this life so that we can become prepared for ourselves and our loved ones. I'm so grateful for the Barbara Karnes' book, given to me when my father's life was ending, and read again when my mother began to bow out of hers. (There's a whole set of pamphlets, so useful and heartening.) I kept wondering why we know so little about the end of life; where were the stories that would help us all understand and be less afraid? Why don't people talk about this stuff??? Thank you so much, and thanks so much to your wise and generous father, for this exquisitely rendered story of what we will all share.
Thank you so much, Alden. I completely agree. Being forced to sit still and accept what was happening—to really be present for it—was a difficult and needed lesson for me. We talk so openly about births, weddings, and other major life milestones, but we tend to shy away from death. I wish I had known more going into it. As painful as the experience was, it was also incredibly profound, even sacred. I’m so grateful for people like Barbara Karnes, who gently share these stories and this wisdom so the rest of us can feel a little less afraid and alone. Thank you for reading, and for sharing your own experience with your parents.
Alden, I think it's ironic that we live in such a death culture- where violence surrounds us, and is shown as somehow an acceptable way to solve our conflicts-- and yet actual, real death is too raw, too emotional, let's not talk about it we say. I've not heard of Barbara Karnes' book- I'll look it up. Thanks.
Opted to leave this as a comment as my restack note started to get long…
One of the aspects of this post that resonated with me most was how your intro paragraph acknowledged the reader experience. It’s not a “trigger warning”- a conceit that has always bumped me in general— more in fiction and memoir than online posts about real world people— given the proactive negative connotation the term carries.
For me, this was such a considerate and inspiring acknowledgement of real world readers and all the life experiences that a reader brings to this post, working through loss on their own timelines. By writing it this way, you invite the reader to be more open talking about death. For anyone who has lost a parent, the first time often includes so many surprises and unknowns. This felt like your version of the Barbara Karnes book. Love that. Tremendous post. Your father would be proud. Well wishes to you and your family.
Thank you for noticing that, Matt. I went back and forth on whether to include a note at the beginning, but I kept thinking about how difficult it might have been for me to read some of this in the immediate aftermath of losing my dad. I wanted to acknowledge that readers may be coming to it from very different places. And I agree—although I appreciate the intent behind the phrase “trigger warning,” the term has taken on a life of its own ◡̈
I really do hope we all get a little more comfortable talking about death. It's a hard experience, but also one with a lot of beauty in it. I recall reading somewhere that hospice nurses have exceptional perspective, and I can see why. Thank you for reading this so thoughtfully.
Powerful. Poignant. Moving. Raw. I felt every bit of it. I lost my dad 22 years ago. He was the finest man I’ve ever known.
3 weeks before his death, my wife and kids and I were with him at his house, as I had work nearby. We stayed for about 5 days. We left before we had to, because I had an important meeting back in my office several states away that Friday.
Turns out the meeting wasn’t that important.
We talked on the phone several times in the interim.
Then, when I was in the federal grand jury presenting a case for indictment, there was a knock on the door. This was highly unusual, as the grand jury is super secret and ordinarily cannot be disturbed for run of the mill questions or events.
This was not “run of the mill.” I was to,d that my dad had suffered a heart attack (it was actually a dissected aorta) and was in critical condition in a hospital two states away.
I left the room … the case … the grand jurors … the witness … and my file and ran back to my office. I drove home and then drove alone the 500 miles to my dad’s bedside. God was watching over me, because I drove about 90 mph the whole way in a haze of tears and prayers.
I made it there before he died early the next morning. He was in a coma and couldn’t talk. I held his hand and begged God for a reprieve, but in His infinite wisdom, He did not answer yes.
I told my dad as much as I could about my love, respect, and gratitude for him. Who knows if he heard.
And then, the heartbeats grew further apart, the breathing slowed, and he slipped away.
He was mowing and weeding his lawn when he started to feel poorly and called his brother nearby who called an ambulance.
How frustrated was I that I could have easily had a few more days with him had I known.
Different kind of death and reckoning than the story of your dad, but the end result is the same: We all wish we had a little more time with those precious few people in our lives who love us unconditionally.
Wow, Steven—what a story. That must have been quite a scene, and I can so relate to how quickly all of our supposedly “critical” work obligations fall away as meaningless in moments like that.
It means a great deal to me that, as someone who has walked through something similar, this story resonated with you. And for the record, I 100% believe your dad heard everything you said to him. I also can’t imagine that he would want you to carry guilt for the time you missed, though I know that is much easier said than done.
There never is enough time, you're right. But I’m grateful that I had a dad worth grieving so deeply. It sounds like you did too. Thank you for sharing this with me.
Rachel, thank you for furnishing what is so much more than a "fragment of humanity"; it embraces and holds dear a pretty hefty chunk of the whole human experience. And you said it best: your essay is "... for anyone who has walked through a similar loss, and for anyone who hasn’t yet." In other words, this piece is for everyone.
I recall the time, 13 years ago, when my dad had about a week left on this Earthly Plane. I was helping him enjoy his favorite yogurt when he said, "I never thought I'd see the day that *you* would be feeding *me*." How I didn't collapse in tears remains a mystery. In any event, I wish I'd read your essay back then. It would've helped so much ... and I know that it'll help anyone fortunate enough to read this.
I’m going to make a beeline to Amazon and pick up a copy of “Gone From My Sight …” And, if you get a chance, check out “The Fall of Freddie the Leaf,” by Leo Buscaglia. It’s a simple but profound story for all ages.
Thank you so much for reading and for such a thoughtful comment, Larry. Dying is something that eventually touches all of us, and it’s pretty incredible how little we tend to know about it or talk about it. I’m so glad the essay felt helpful to you, and I do highly recommend Barbara Karnes’s booklet. As Alden mentioned, she has a whole series of very helpful materials about dying and grief.
I loved that story about your dad. That inversion of caretaking is so emotional. And thank you for sharing your own stories so generously over the years. They helped inspire me to share this one.
"When I was a toddler, I would sit on our front stoop and pat the spot beside me. “Sit here,” I’d tell Dad. He always did." Oh Rachel, I'm in tears right now. This is an exquisite tribute to love and beautifully written. Bless you and those gorgeous hands of yours as you carry this grief forward.
Thank you so much, Dana. It means a lot to know this resonated with you. I agonized over every word, wanting it to be a fitting tribute to someone who meant so much to me. Your comment means more than you know.
Rachel, this is beautiful. Difficult but still beautiful. Your dad saw our world in ways so many of us just take for granted. And he passed this curiosity & wonder on to you. You look AT and INTO, and that helps you to really SEE. Thank you for sharing this with us. Hugs to you.
Thank you so much, Dawn. I’m so glad that part of Dad came through for you. He had such a wise and beautiful way of looking at the world and noticing the wonder in it. It means more than I can say to hear that you see some of that same curiosity in me. Thank you for reading and for such a kind comment.
This personal story is one of the finest things I've read in a very long time. But also, there is little about this crown-jewel in your writing portfolio that surprises me. Everything that you've written has been a forecast of the size of your heart and spirit as well as the depth of your bond with your parents. Now, as you pull back the curtain we see in full, not only your talent as a writer, but who your father was through your expression, your way of seeing, your way of celebrating the moments that matter. You are the result of being fathered by a man who when told by his daughter as a toddler to "sit here" does so without delay, the torch of presence now with you, no doubt in your hand as you sit beside your own children.
Wow, Rick. I’m honestly a little overwhelmed by the generosity of this comment. I still remember one of our very first interactions, all the way back in Write of Passage. You said some kind things about an essay draft, but then asked me, “Where are you in this?” That question stayed with me.
I’m so grateful for the steady encouragement you’ve given my writing over the years and for encouraging me to pull back the curtain on myself a little more. It means so much that you could see my dad, and what he gave me, in this piece. Thank you, truly.
Well now the secret is out, that your personal experience, the richness of your life and your ability to express it with stunning insight and heart is just right there waiting to be shared.
Oh Rachel, this is everything wrapped up into one monumental piece: the pain, the terrible loss and grief, the immense love, the awe, the grace. The unfathomable. And what will always remain. Thank you, Rachel, dear friend. I am so sorry for your loss and wish I‘d had the chance to meet your dad 💗
Thank you so much, Brigitte. I appreciate both the kind words and the help you gave me with this piece (plus so many others). I feel very lucky to have you as both a thoughtful reader and a good friend. And I wish you could have met my dad too. I think you would have liked each other very much ◡̈
Thank you, Charlie. I'm really glad you found it informative. It really amazes me how little we talk about death and dying. It is a profound and universal experience, yet I had no idea what to expect. Thinking of you and your family ❤️
Rachel...the photo of your tiny hand in his right from the start went straight to my heart. As many beautiful souls here have shared, your writing on so many levels is profound. Thank you for taking the time, the days, the hours to sit with and tend this beautiful piece into the world. And I second Rick's comments for you- to take that next step and add yourself into your writing more often. I too found / still find it challenging. But there's a way that new layers of understanding ourselves show up as we suss out the words to tell our stories.
I missed both of my parent's passing. The actual moment for each of them was theirs alone. My father in particular is so often in my awareness. They really don't leave us.
Thank you so much, Linda, for taking the time to read and leave such a generous comment. I love that photo too, and I was so grateful my brother was able to find it. It has actually become the wallpaper on my phone because I love getting to see it every day.
It took me a long time to find the right words for this, so it means a lot to hear that it landed with you. I’m going to keep pushing myself to put more of myself into my writing, because this was incredibly cathartic for me. Athough I doubt the next essay will be quite this personal ◡̈
And like you said, I very much believe my relationship with my dad is still continuing, just in a different form now. Thank you again for such thoughtful words.
Thank you for sharing this deeply personal and poignant reflection on your father’s passing. It’s a powerful reminder of how fragile life can be and how much can change in an instant. This is beautifully written, both through your memories of your dad and the perspective of the hospice and “blue booklet” timeline. I could feel every word.
Meeting you will always be the greatest gift I received from Write of Passage. It’s a gift that keeps on giving. 🙏🏼
Oh Suzanne, this is so kind of you. Thank you. I really agonized over how to tell this story and what to say, so it means so much to hear that you felt it with me.
And I'm so grateful our paths crossed in Write of Passage too. Would love to catch up some time soon!
This is so beautiful, Rachel. I teared up in the first paragraph and the full body sobs came by the end. Your writing, the love that pours through your pen--I can feel it. Your dad was lucky to have you and you him.
Oh Sarah, thank you so much. It felt overwhelming at times to try to put all of those moments and what they meant to me into words. I really appreciate that you could feel the weight of it, and the love underneath it all. Thank you, friend ◡̈
Oh Rachel, my heart goes out to you and your family, especially your mom. You hit the Dad lottery and you sharing him with us, by way of your heart allows him to touch us too.
When my father died, someone said to me: “Grief is love with no place to go. That place is gratitude.” It didn’t happen at first, but that became an emotional inflection point for me.
It’s been a little over four years and my relationship with my dad continues to grow.
Hugs and love to you. 🤗 ❤️
Thank you, James! This means so much, especially coming from you. Your tribute to your dad was beautiful, and I've thought about it more than once since reading it.
Yes, I absolutely hit the dad lottery. I'm grateful for that every day, and I always will be. It's nice to hear from someone four years down the road that the relationship keeps growing.
What a beautiful picture of your hand in his, and what a wonderful memory.
What stayed with me most was your description of your father's withdrawal. We assume our loved ones will want to spend every possible moment with us, but your essay made me realize that, in the end, death is a journey that can't really be shared. We know how to share life. We aren't prepared for the quiet retreat that comes with dying.
Thanks for sharing.
Thank you so much, Elizabeth. That was one of the most surprising parts for me too, but once I understood it, it made complete sense. I can’t imagine how much internal processing must happen in a moment like that, or how necessary that quiet retreat may be. Thank you for reading and for such thoughtful words.
So very true.
Rachel, the poignancy of how you patted the ground beside you and said “sit here” to your dad— and he did it!—gives me faith in humanity. As James said, you hit the dad lottery. It’s helpful beyond my ability to articulate it when you share these precious moments. It’s never too late to have a loving father once we reimagine one with a little help from our outstanding writer friends.
My gosh this is profound. You’re gifted beyond measure with words. Whatever you focus on comes to life.
The dying process is indeed sacred, as sacred as the living process. Your dad is reading this over and over now, deeply proud and grateful for his beautiful, gifted daughter.
Thank you so much, Kathy. Now I’m crying ◡̈
I spent so long on this essay because I wanted to do him and his legacy proud. He really was an incredible father and an incredible man, and I’m so glad that came through. Your words mean more to me than I can say. And honestly, so much of your own vulnerable storytelling made me want to be brave enough to share this one.
Rachel... well the many days and hours you spent did indeed do him and his legacy proud - but also the depth of your relationship with him comes through in your stunning writing ability.
"Sit here." This story of your father's passing is such a gift to each of us growing children facing the death of our parents. The willingness to sit still and be present with the process is a huge milestone in life; we experience as directly as possible the completion of this life so that we can become prepared for ourselves and our loved ones. I'm so grateful for the Barbara Karnes' book, given to me when my father's life was ending, and read again when my mother began to bow out of hers. (There's a whole set of pamphlets, so useful and heartening.) I kept wondering why we know so little about the end of life; where were the stories that would help us all understand and be less afraid? Why don't people talk about this stuff??? Thank you so much, and thanks so much to your wise and generous father, for this exquisitely rendered story of what we will all share.
Thank you so much, Alden. I completely agree. Being forced to sit still and accept what was happening—to really be present for it—was a difficult and needed lesson for me. We talk so openly about births, weddings, and other major life milestones, but we tend to shy away from death. I wish I had known more going into it. As painful as the experience was, it was also incredibly profound, even sacred. I’m so grateful for people like Barbara Karnes, who gently share these stories and this wisdom so the rest of us can feel a little less afraid and alone. Thank you for reading, and for sharing your own experience with your parents.
Alden, I think it's ironic that we live in such a death culture- where violence surrounds us, and is shown as somehow an acceptable way to solve our conflicts-- and yet actual, real death is too raw, too emotional, let's not talk about it we say. I've not heard of Barbara Karnes' book- I'll look it up. Thanks.
What a well-taken point, Linda. I agree! I think you'll really enjoy Barbara Karnes' work.
Opted to leave this as a comment as my restack note started to get long…
One of the aspects of this post that resonated with me most was how your intro paragraph acknowledged the reader experience. It’s not a “trigger warning”- a conceit that has always bumped me in general— more in fiction and memoir than online posts about real world people— given the proactive negative connotation the term carries.
For me, this was such a considerate and inspiring acknowledgement of real world readers and all the life experiences that a reader brings to this post, working through loss on their own timelines. By writing it this way, you invite the reader to be more open talking about death. For anyone who has lost a parent, the first time often includes so many surprises and unknowns. This felt like your version of the Barbara Karnes book. Love that. Tremendous post. Your father would be proud. Well wishes to you and your family.
Thank you for noticing that, Matt. I went back and forth on whether to include a note at the beginning, but I kept thinking about how difficult it might have been for me to read some of this in the immediate aftermath of losing my dad. I wanted to acknowledge that readers may be coming to it from very different places. And I agree—although I appreciate the intent behind the phrase “trigger warning,” the term has taken on a life of its own ◡̈
I really do hope we all get a little more comfortable talking about death. It's a hard experience, but also one with a lot of beauty in it. I recall reading somewhere that hospice nurses have exceptional perspective, and I can see why. Thank you for reading this so thoughtfully.
Powerful. Poignant. Moving. Raw. I felt every bit of it. I lost my dad 22 years ago. He was the finest man I’ve ever known.
3 weeks before his death, my wife and kids and I were with him at his house, as I had work nearby. We stayed for about 5 days. We left before we had to, because I had an important meeting back in my office several states away that Friday.
Turns out the meeting wasn’t that important.
We talked on the phone several times in the interim.
Then, when I was in the federal grand jury presenting a case for indictment, there was a knock on the door. This was highly unusual, as the grand jury is super secret and ordinarily cannot be disturbed for run of the mill questions or events.
This was not “run of the mill.” I was to,d that my dad had suffered a heart attack (it was actually a dissected aorta) and was in critical condition in a hospital two states away.
I left the room … the case … the grand jurors … the witness … and my file and ran back to my office. I drove home and then drove alone the 500 miles to my dad’s bedside. God was watching over me, because I drove about 90 mph the whole way in a haze of tears and prayers.
I made it there before he died early the next morning. He was in a coma and couldn’t talk. I held his hand and begged God for a reprieve, but in His infinite wisdom, He did not answer yes.
I told my dad as much as I could about my love, respect, and gratitude for him. Who knows if he heard.
And then, the heartbeats grew further apart, the breathing slowed, and he slipped away.
He was mowing and weeding his lawn when he started to feel poorly and called his brother nearby who called an ambulance.
How frustrated was I that I could have easily had a few more days with him had I known.
Different kind of death and reckoning than the story of your dad, but the end result is the same: We all wish we had a little more time with those precious few people in our lives who love us unconditionally.
Wow, Steven—what a story. That must have been quite a scene, and I can so relate to how quickly all of our supposedly “critical” work obligations fall away as meaningless in moments like that.
It means a great deal to me that, as someone who has walked through something similar, this story resonated with you. And for the record, I 100% believe your dad heard everything you said to him. I also can’t imagine that he would want you to carry guilt for the time you missed, though I know that is much easier said than done.
There never is enough time, you're right. But I’m grateful that I had a dad worth grieving so deeply. It sounds like you did too. Thank you for sharing this with me.
It was my pleasure. Thank YOU. It was a wonderful piece.
He heard.
Rachel, thank you for furnishing what is so much more than a "fragment of humanity"; it embraces and holds dear a pretty hefty chunk of the whole human experience. And you said it best: your essay is "... for anyone who has walked through a similar loss, and for anyone who hasn’t yet." In other words, this piece is for everyone.
I recall the time, 13 years ago, when my dad had about a week left on this Earthly Plane. I was helping him enjoy his favorite yogurt when he said, "I never thought I'd see the day that *you* would be feeding *me*." How I didn't collapse in tears remains a mystery. In any event, I wish I'd read your essay back then. It would've helped so much ... and I know that it'll help anyone fortunate enough to read this.
I’m going to make a beeline to Amazon and pick up a copy of “Gone From My Sight …” And, if you get a chance, check out “The Fall of Freddie the Leaf,” by Leo Buscaglia. It’s a simple but profound story for all ages.
Thanks again for a wonderful essay.
Thank you so much for reading and for such a thoughtful comment, Larry. Dying is something that eventually touches all of us, and it’s pretty incredible how little we tend to know about it or talk about it. I’m so glad the essay felt helpful to you, and I do highly recommend Barbara Karnes’s booklet. As Alden mentioned, she has a whole series of very helpful materials about dying and grief.
I loved that story about your dad. That inversion of caretaking is so emotional. And thank you for sharing your own stories so generously over the years. They helped inspire me to share this one.
"When I was a toddler, I would sit on our front stoop and pat the spot beside me. “Sit here,” I’d tell Dad. He always did." Oh Rachel, I'm in tears right now. This is an exquisite tribute to love and beautifully written. Bless you and those gorgeous hands of yours as you carry this grief forward.
Thank you so much, Dana. It means a lot to know this resonated with you. I agonized over every word, wanting it to be a fitting tribute to someone who meant so much to me. Your comment means more than you know.
Rachel, this is beautiful. Difficult but still beautiful. Your dad saw our world in ways so many of us just take for granted. And he passed this curiosity & wonder on to you. You look AT and INTO, and that helps you to really SEE. Thank you for sharing this with us. Hugs to you.
Thank you so much, Dawn. I’m so glad that part of Dad came through for you. He had such a wise and beautiful way of looking at the world and noticing the wonder in it. It means more than I can say to hear that you see some of that same curiosity in me. Thank you for reading and for such a kind comment.
This personal story is one of the finest things I've read in a very long time. But also, there is little about this crown-jewel in your writing portfolio that surprises me. Everything that you've written has been a forecast of the size of your heart and spirit as well as the depth of your bond with your parents. Now, as you pull back the curtain we see in full, not only your talent as a writer, but who your father was through your expression, your way of seeing, your way of celebrating the moments that matter. You are the result of being fathered by a man who when told by his daughter as a toddler to "sit here" does so without delay, the torch of presence now with you, no doubt in your hand as you sit beside your own children.
Wow, Rick. I’m honestly a little overwhelmed by the generosity of this comment. I still remember one of our very first interactions, all the way back in Write of Passage. You said some kind things about an essay draft, but then asked me, “Where are you in this?” That question stayed with me.
I’m so grateful for the steady encouragement you’ve given my writing over the years and for encouraging me to pull back the curtain on myself a little more. It means so much that you could see my dad, and what he gave me, in this piece. Thank you, truly.
Well now the secret is out, that your personal experience, the richness of your life and your ability to express it with stunning insight and heart is just right there waiting to be shared.
Oh Rachel, this is everything wrapped up into one monumental piece: the pain, the terrible loss and grief, the immense love, the awe, the grace. The unfathomable. And what will always remain. Thank you, Rachel, dear friend. I am so sorry for your loss and wish I‘d had the chance to meet your dad 💗
Thank you so much, Brigitte. I appreciate both the kind words and the help you gave me with this piece (plus so many others). I feel very lucky to have you as both a thoughtful reader and a good friend. And I wish you could have met my dad too. I think you would have liked each other very much ◡̈
🥲
This was heart-wrenching and beautiful and informative and I needed to read it. Thank you for writing this for us. I'll return to this.
Thank you, Charlie. I'm really glad you found it informative. It really amazes me how little we talk about death and dying. It is a profound and universal experience, yet I had no idea what to expect. Thinking of you and your family ❤️
Rachel...the photo of your tiny hand in his right from the start went straight to my heart. As many beautiful souls here have shared, your writing on so many levels is profound. Thank you for taking the time, the days, the hours to sit with and tend this beautiful piece into the world. And I second Rick's comments for you- to take that next step and add yourself into your writing more often. I too found / still find it challenging. But there's a way that new layers of understanding ourselves show up as we suss out the words to tell our stories.
I missed both of my parent's passing. The actual moment for each of them was theirs alone. My father in particular is so often in my awareness. They really don't leave us.
Thank you so much, Linda, for taking the time to read and leave such a generous comment. I love that photo too, and I was so grateful my brother was able to find it. It has actually become the wallpaper on my phone because I love getting to see it every day.
It took me a long time to find the right words for this, so it means a lot to hear that it landed with you. I’m going to keep pushing myself to put more of myself into my writing, because this was incredibly cathartic for me. Athough I doubt the next essay will be quite this personal ◡̈
And like you said, I very much believe my relationship with my dad is still continuing, just in a different form now. Thank you again for such thoughtful words.
Thank you for sharing this deeply personal and poignant reflection on your father’s passing. It’s a powerful reminder of how fragile life can be and how much can change in an instant. This is beautifully written, both through your memories of your dad and the perspective of the hospice and “blue booklet” timeline. I could feel every word.
Meeting you will always be the greatest gift I received from Write of Passage. It’s a gift that keeps on giving. 🙏🏼
Oh Suzanne, this is so kind of you. Thank you. I really agonized over how to tell this story and what to say, so it means so much to hear that you felt it with me.
And I'm so grateful our paths crossed in Write of Passage too. Would love to catch up some time soon!
This is so beautiful, Rachel. I teared up in the first paragraph and the full body sobs came by the end. Your writing, the love that pours through your pen--I can feel it. Your dad was lucky to have you and you him.
Oh Sarah, thank you so much. It felt overwhelming at times to try to put all of those moments and what they meant to me into words. I really appreciate that you could feel the weight of it, and the love underneath it all. Thank you, friend ◡̈
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing 💗
Thank you, Bryanna ◡̈