My dad couldn’t say much Saturday night. At best, we could get an eyebrow raise or head shake.
That’s what made our last conversation so memorable.
Two hours earlier, I had rolled him from his spot in the living room to the space where his favorite chair had been. So many hours spent there watching movies with my mom or playing on his iPad. Now he was literally on his deathbed as we turned on the Final Four.
Four hours earlier, the hospice nurse had been refreshingly blunt. My dad was “actively dying.” That’s a big term, but … duh. He couldn’t talk, walk or eat. No amount of drugs could reverse this.
The thing is, he’s been dying since November when the scan revealed chemo didn’t work on his lymphoma. Yet doctors — some of the best in the world at the Cleveland Clinic — failed to explain how quickly it would take him.
So my dad continued to hope he could make that trip this summer. A European vacation was certainly deserved after a 50th wedding anniversary. He fell 104 days short. How Cleveland is that?
Ultimately, though, this isn’t a sad story.
It’s a strange thing — wanting your dad to die.
But he was 77. He was in tremendous pain, and even if his third treatment had worked, bigger issues awaited.
It was time.
No more pain. No more blood checks. No more pills.
Bob Voth had a great run.
What stinks is my mom’s likely going to live another 20 years. Sorry, mom, that in itself doesn’t stink, but the unfulfilled memories do.
Then there are the five grandkids, a total to which I haven’t yet contributed. And, sure, there’s plenty of sadness.
But my dad helped start a family and kept it together. Neither are easy. Both are bigger accomplishments than anything we admire in arenas or on fields.
Want to hear something strange?
It’s been 10 hours since I held my dad as he took his last breath and I haven’t cried since. Before that, oh, the tears flowed. But as crazy as this sounds — I couldn’t have scripted a better way to go.
Everyone who wanted to say goodbye did. His family drank, laughed and cried into the early hours of Sunday morning. A few hours later, when he finally cashed out, a nun was by his side. And it wasn’t just some last-rights thing. Sister Marilyn is a family friend who just so happened to stop by at the right time.
Dying with a nun by your side? Well played, dad.
Again, this isn’t meant to be a sad story. The circle of life happens, and my mom, brother, sister and I are so fortunate to have had the greatest man we’ve ever known in our lives.
I’m not quite sure why I’m writing anything at all. Some say it could help in the grieving process. But while we’ve all heard and read it a bazillion times, it’s my turn to scream this out loud: Hug your loved ones!
Treasure the moments. Cherish the times. Life is so ridiculously fleeting, and when you’ve been dealt as lucky a hand as I was, it’s easy to take for granted.
So about that last conversation. Really, it was a “conversation.” We think my dad was listening.
I described Villanova’s blowout win over Oklahoma and asked if he had that in his bracket.
He shook his head slightly.
“Hey, Dad ... Syracuse and North Carolina are about to start. Who are you rooting for?"
In 1996, I decided I wanted to go to Syracuse. Somehow, my dad made it happen. Obviously, he was an Orangeman, right?
His answer was inaudible but unmistakable.
“North Carolina,” he mouthed.
Maybe he stood to make some cash with his lawyer friends. Perhaps he was messing with me one final time. But there's no question he would’ve been nervously rooting for Syracuse if he was truly with us. Instead, he ended up being right.
Know how I know he wasn’t really invested in Carolina’s win? He peaced out Sunday. As brutal as his cancer was, I have no doubt he would've hung in there through Monday night if Syracuse was in the national championship.
Because it's where I live, my dad kinda liked the Tar Heels, but he had no skin left in the game. And as cheesy as this sounds, this much is wild and true — he left us in a shining moment.
Condolences for your loss.
We all die. I hope to of touched mine near as much as your father, clearly, has touched you. Im sorry for your loss.
Sorry for your loss Bill, it was a beautiful entrance indeed.
Sorry for your loss, Bill.
Terrific tribute, Bill. Thanks for sharing. My condolences to you and your family.
What a wonderful tribute to your dad. Keeping you and your family in our thoughts and prayers.
It’s sad to see your dad go,mine went in a similar fashion,but time heals your feelings.Very nice tribute.
I lost my Dad in a similar fashion just over a year ago. You don’t want to see them go, but you know that it’s time and it’s best. I just wish I could have written a tribute as nice as this one.
Sorry for your loss Bill. My dad passed away with cancer in 05 shortly after the Heels won it all. He was the biggest Tar Heel fan I ever knew. I knew he was going as he slept through the championship game. Thanks for sharing this. Dads are awesome.
Bill, Very sorry for your loss. I know your Dad must have been proud of you. Prayers are going up for you and your family.
So sorry Bill. Thanks for sharing a thoughtful testament to your love for family.
Beautiful story, I’m glad for you that it ended so well.
Condolences Bill. This is a great tribute to your father, I’m glad you shared. I’m sure he left this earth very proud to have you as his son.
Bill – Just catching up on all the BnB articles after a month of traveling. Really sorry for your loss, we are fortunate to share the beautiful moments you had with your dad. I am sure he was proud of the work you are doing.