Two years ago, my Father had come home from the hospital and was settling in for the evening. Leaving his room that night, I kissed him and told him I loved him. He called to me. “Christopher!” I turned, standing in the doorway and replied: “yeah Dad?” He said, “keep up the good work.” I replied, “ok, Dad.”

I sort of chuckled to myself at the absurdity of the comment. No context. A simple directive. I didn’t think much of it and went about my evening. Those would be the last words my Father would ever speak to me.

It’s difficult to write that sentence. It was two years ago, and as I write this I can feel a deep swell of emotion in my chest. I used to run from that emotion. Dad was ill for six years. I didn’t allow myself to feel the terror of his terminal diagnosis of ALS-Lou Gehrig’s disease.

I drank a scotch to numb the pain. I worked too much to avoid speaking about my pain with my wife. I lost myself.