The Greeks didn’t write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: “Did he have passion?”
Two months ago today, my father died (the obit I wrote). It was the culmination of three very intense days that bookended his nearly two-year battle with colon cancer—an inevitability that wasn’t lost on me, yet the suddenness of his departure (I was expecting a slow decline, not a hammer being dropped) has left an indelible mark on me.
There are so many moments from those three days that will forever be etched in my brain. Emotions and decisions I only had an inkling about contending with coming to the forefront. Images that I’ll never forget. But there is one memory in particular that, in retrospect, is the most surreal of them all:
The moment I left the hospital after he died.