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Dear Dad,

Three years ago this evening, I sat at your side as you took your last breaths. I'd flown from Colorado to Illinois the previous day, after receiving the phone call from your wife, my step-mom, that I'd been dreading for a few years. "If you want to see Dad, you need to come now", was the message. I'd taken the day off work and knew when my cell phone rang, and your mobile number was displayed, that this was the end.

My husband (my knight, my rock) helped me pack and arrange care for our daughters, and I saturated his shoulders with my tears while I was on hold with the airlines, trying to schedule a flight for the next morning. I prayed - out loud - that you would live until then.

We dropped the girls off at 6AM the following morning and headed for the airport. I was physically ill, suffering from stomach cramps, the shakes, and cold sweats. Silently, I was begging God to let you live until I got there, just so I could tell you I loved you. Our flight departed on time, and once we arrived at the small regional airport, the rental car was ready, a map was in the glove compartment, and we sped down the oak-lined interstate directly to the hospital.

Entering the ICU, I saw both of my step-sisters and my step-mom immediately. I'd held my composure from the time we boarded the plane in Denver until now, and then whatever semblance of control I had flew out the fifth floor window of the hospital. We sobbed, the four of us "girls". We cried for you, for your suffering, for the peace you were going to feel when you left us, and for our loss. We cried for the time we hadn't spent together, and for the time we knew we wouldn't be together after all this was over.

My step-mom told me to be prepared when I went into your room. "The ventilator is noisy and it looks like a gas mask. He's not making sense and I think he's delirious. But he'll be SO glad to see you."

It took me five or so minutes to gear myself up for the trip down the hall, but no amount of time could have softened the shock and sadness I felt when I walked in to see you, my daddy, hooked up to so many machines. Noisy contraptions droning, whining, pushing air in, MAKING you live. Initially, you didn't realize my husband and I were there. You were staring at the ceiling, your eyes glassy and almost hollow. I touched your hand, thin, bony, and cold, and put on as though I'd just popped in for a surprise visit. Your mind suddenly snapped to attention and the recognition showed in your beautiful, light

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