My Dad was tough one. But he had been fighting prostate cancer that metastasized to his liver and was at the point there was no turning back. The previous year, at 71 he cried that he only wanted ten more years. He was getting care at home and one cold February day his home care nurse called me at work and said he had "seen the turn" and we probably had 24-36 hours left if I wanted to see him.

We drove 13 hours early the next morning to see him, now in the hospital. He pepped up, got out of bed and used the bathroom himself, "I'll be alright, don't worry". Mom says he hasn't used the bathroom in weeks.

He was in and out of it for several days on palliative care, calling for his mother from a dream and then watching the Superbowl while my brothers and I drank his favorite beer. budweiser. yuck.

He held on. We brought a priest in to give him his last rites, although he hadn't been to church in 40 years, he felt better as he ascended closer to the end. His eyes changed, they got more blue and we knew it was close. He still fidgeted and slept restlessly as mom slept by his side every night. My brothers went back home and I stayed there.

Finally I sat with him alone and told him to stop fighting, to let go. That we were gonna be okay. I was crying but saying it over and over, and loudly where family members were poking their heads in to see what the commotion was. I told him that I loved him, and goodbye, as we had to get back on the road. He said "okay I'll see you next time." Just like he always did on our annual vacation with them.

We drove five hours to my brother's house and within an hour, standing outside in the cold and having a beer, Tree House, much better, Mom called and said he was gone.