My father passed away on a hospice cot in our living room. He was surrounded by family, his beloved books and records, and the chair where he often read the newspaper. His death was not calm. At 58, he was filled with anger. When the nurse applied a morphine sponge to his lips, he protested, insisting he didn’t need the medication.

This memory has evolved over time. I now see the depth of his determination to cling to life. Even in pain, he held onto existence, embodying the poet’s idea of resisting the end fiercely.

In one of his final moments, he spoke to me about UFOs, claiming their reality. This might have been a result of delirium. I wondered if he thought it was the most crucial message to share. Did he understand that his time was near?

He passed on a sunny August afternoon in 1999. We, his family, were there, anticipating his last heartbeat. His father, my grandfather, entered, took his hand, and with a sound—a cough or sputter—it concluded.

I have now outlived the years I had with him alive. Along this journey, I accepted a challenging truth about his death. It was my toughest ordeal but also a profound turning point in my life. Witnessing the death of such a strong figure made me acutely aware of my own mortality. This acknowledgment propelled me to pursue my desires with urgency and courage.