Every time I look in the mirror I see a picture of you, a person who wasn't the best at everything they did, wasn't always a good husband or father, but was there when it counted, who did not know how to voice how he felt or be comforting without being awkward in times of need. When I look in the mirror I see you, my father who I miss every day, who I regret not spending enough time with while I could. It's been three years this April and I still fight the urge to cry whenever I talk about you, when I sit and reminisce about the time we spent together and how much more time I wish I got to spend with you.

You were diagnosed with cancer in the summer of 2021, I was staying with you in Colorado that summer while Morgan stayed here in Hawaii. You knew the day that I flew in, you knew for a week before you sat me down and told me. I didn't want to believe you and I thought that the doctors were wrong, that you would get better soon. Looking back I realize just how deep I had fallen, I was drowning in denial, so deep that I had blocked it out entirely, disregarded that you had been diagnosed, decided that it didn't happen at all. I felt like I was totally alone. I didn't have my main support system, Morgan, and I didn’t want to make you or Ann feel like you needed to worry about me, you already had so much on your plate. You went and had surgery so that they could try to cut it out of you, to make you better. It didn't work. They had to put an ostomy bag on you. I know it made you embarrassed. It meant you couldn't use the bathroom the normal way, that you couldn't control anything, everything went into the bag and you had to leave to empty it constantly. Over the course of that summer, I didn't eat much. I felt almost guilty. I watched you struggle to sit through a meal or eat at all, the medication and ostomy bag made it hard for you to have an appetite or eat without throwing up. You lost so much weight I had never seen you so skinny, you had always been overweight then out of nowhere you started to lose weight so fast that your skin couldn't keep up, you had hanging skin everywhere. I knew it made you insecure that you couldn't eat, that you looked so different, that you had no energy. I lost weight too. 15 pounds in 5 weeks. We went to see your aunt in Vermont. I thought it was a way for you to get some fresh air to get away and have fun. I didn't realise it was because you knew you probably weren't going to see her again. I just thought of it as a fun trip. Oh the naivety of a child in denial.  She lives in the woods. We spent time hiking around and playing cards, and going to breweries. At the end of the summer before I left to come home you started chemo. I didn't know anything about how it worked and I refused to read up on it, leaving myself in the dark. I wouldn't start to learn about it until you died.

You kept doing chemo switching treatments more often than regular people do. I didn't know that it was different. I didn't want to know. You were in denial too. You didn't want to accept that you were as sick as you were, that you were going to die. I didn't want to accept it either.

We called every week I watched as my father looked even less like himself. I came back to Colorado in December this time with Morgan at my side. You picked us up from the airport. It looked like a gust of wind could knock you over, I'd never seen you look so weak. When we got home, Morgan and I went upstairs while you made dinner. We made eye contact in the hall and quietly broke down into tears. You looked so different, an entirely different person, one we knew was not going to make it through this fight. That winter I spent as much time with you as I could and I resented myself for taking all of the time I had neglected to spend with you before for granted. Before we got on the plane to go home I hugged you. I wish I didn't let go. I wish I remembered it more. I wish I could hug you again.

We kept calling. You kept changing. Morgan got ready to graduate. April 4th, I called you, you opened up a bit on what was going on, you told me that you couldn't breath after you coughed, you said the next day you were going to the hospital to get on hospice. I was scared, I didn't show it, I waited until we ended the call to cry, I wanted to show you that I was strong. The next day I was called out of class, I was going home. I ran into Morgan in the hallway. We looked at each other and at the same time told each other that it was dad, no matter what mom and Sean told us. Sean said he got hurt and he needed to pick us up, drop us off at home and go to the hospital, and that mom was on her way home from work early. I sat in the backseat and cried. We got home and Ann called and she told us the news. He was gone. He died in the hallway when he was getting ready to go to the hospital.

I took a day off and went right back to school, I wanted things to be normal. I still think of you all the time. I wear your ashes in a cross around my neck everyday. There are little reminders of you scattered around in my perception of the world. I'm still learning to accept that I'll never see you again, I've already learned to accept that it's for the best, you're no longer in pain. But it never makes it hurt any less. I've grown a lot, achieved so much, I just wish you were to see it all happen in person. Morgan is doing so well at everything, Mathew got married. But no matter how much we achieve, you'll never come back. The only thing we can do is keep growing, keep achieving.

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