On Sunday, I just sat with my dad for a little while before before the ambulance came to transport him to the hospice. Half of his face was already paralyzed and he could barely speak. I talked to him about a night six or seven years ago, when he came into my room while I was messing around on my laptop. He sat on my bed and told me that his father never told him that he loved him, and he wanted to make sure that he didn’t do that. I reminded him of that night, and told him that I loved him too and that just about everything good about me was because of him.

In a soft, struggling voice, he said, “I’m very lucky.”