Until a month before, he had been living his ordinary days in his ordinary health. Then came aspiration pneumonia, and the hospital. The fever eased and his lungs grew calmer, but swallowing never came back to him. Each breath was carried in on a gentle stream of high-flow oxygen.
He was moved to the hospital where my brother works, and there he stayed, neither better nor worse, as if time had paused around his bed. I am grateful that I brought my mother to see him. For one hour they sat together, side by side once more. Now I know it was a gift.
On the night of September 14, at 22:08, a LINE message from my brother lit up my phone: his heart rate is dropping. I saw it at 22:10 and wrote back, I'm coming. I drove through the dark toward him. When I arrived, a little before eleven, my brother told me quietly that he had gone at 22:18. He left while I was still on the road. They say he went peacefully, the way a tide goes out without a sound.
His funeral was simple, yet it moved me deeply. For the first time in years, our whole family gathered in one place. Even in leaving, my father brought us back together.
I am proud of my dad. His life, from beginning to end, was a remarkable one. Nothing in it was left unfinished, and none of us carries any regret for the life he lived.
Goodbye, Dad. Thank you.