I was fortunate to be able to read the following letter to my father on his deathbed a month ago. (I was with him as he died of pancreatic cancer peacefully this morning, in my childhood home, surrounded by loving family.) When I read it to him, he said he felt deeply seen and understood by it, which was extremely meaningful to me.
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Dear Dad,
We know this will likely be the last letter I ever write you.
I could write a whole letter about all the ways you have loved me. You’ve cared when I was hurting, you’ve given great advice through the decades, and you’ve shown a passionate interest in my writing when I’ve shared it with you.
I could also write a whole letter about all the things I love about you: the unfathomable subtlety, beauty, and brilliance of your mind; your sense of humor when you get on a roll; the way you want the people you love to thrive, and the way you support them in doing that; and obviously, your care for the world and the inspiring way you manage to keep on fighting even though you’ve never felt much hope.
Here is what I want to focus on in this last letter: the way you have impacted me. The thing I most value about myself is that I’m a writer. (I know, I’m nice and caring and all those things I’m supposed to say I value about myself too—but what breathes fire in me is my identity and practice as a writer.)
I simply cannot imagine myself as a writer without you. Thus, I cannot imagine a version of Michael that didn’t have you as my father. (The same goes for Mom, and I’ll write her that letter too.)