Until we meet again
There are moments when the innocence of your childhood will disappear. Sometimes it’s a slow and steady tug on your security blanket, and sometimes it’s sudden and violent. The feeling of being protected leaves us, and we find ourselves standing alone. We feel completely vulnerable to life’s flagrant violation of our logic and rules. People shouldn’t suffer, lives should be full and well-lived. When it’s our time to go, it’s a peaceful and welcome transition to what lies beyond. Well, at least that’s my hope.
I experienced those feelings twice in my life. The first time was when my mother passed away in 2006, and the second time when Darin died in 2018.
In both situations, the transitions were not peaceful and welcomed. They were hard-fought battles that ended in submission to the brutal reality of our existence. I was hit with the sudden realization of life’s ultimate objective. None of us are getting out of here alive. Whether we are ready or not, life takes you when it takes you.
The phone call
I write this post with a heavy heart. Two weeks ago, I experienced the third episode of this kind of vulnerability. My father, 81 years old, passed away suddenly in the hospital. He was battling bladder cancer, and despite coming through his treatments, his body was weak and compromised. It wasn’t the cancer that took his life; it was his heart that had finally succumbed.
I talked to my father the day before he died, when his doctors told him there was nothing more they could do to stabilize him. They would have to let his body determine his fate. It was one of the most difficult, yet meaningful conversations I have had with my father. It wasn’t happy, but it was heartfelt.
I had just picked up my dog from the groomer and was pedaling home on my bicycle when my sister called me from my father’s hospital room in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She said, “Can you talk? Dad wants to talk to you.”
I said, “I’m on my bicycle. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”
My sister responded calmly, “No, I think you need to talk to him now.”
I quickly pulled over to the sidewalk and waited for my father’s voice.
When he spoke, his voice was strong and resolute. He said to me, “Son, there is nothing they can do for me, and they are going to let me go. I am tired of fighting.”
There I was, on the sidewalk straddling my bicycle, while passersby gave their attention to my dog. I began to cry.
I have lived most of my life away from my family, but knowing I was still the child of someone gave me security. There was always someone to watch over me. There was a safe space to call home. That safe space was shrinking again. That feeling of aloneness came back again. Once again, something was pulling away the blanket of security that blunted the traumas of life.
Our final words
I spoke with my father and told him how grateful I was for the life he had lived and for the respect he had shown me. I told him not to be afraid and to leave all of his regrets behind in that room that his body occupied. Everyone he had missed, everyone who had gone before him, was waiting for him to just make the transition. He would be reunited with all of them. I told him his destination was unimaginably beautiful, and he would be there soon, and every answer he ever sought would be waiting for him.
When Darin passed, I never had the chance to tell him those same words. I wish I would have had the same courage that I had with my father that day. This time I did not want to miss the opportunity to tell him that I loved him, to thank him, and to let him know that it was okay to let go.
My life with my father, once he understood who I was becoming, was good. After the death of my mother, we became closer. I know that it pained him to be alone, and we were fortunate that he had found a second chance at love with his companion, who was by his side when he transitioned on November 6, 2025.
He wasn’t alone when he left this place. Even though I was so far away, I felt peace. I was happy for his life well lived, the experiences we had together, and for the people we both became.
I had the opportunity to show my father my love for Europe, and my home in Italy. We had the chance to travel extensively after my mother died, and we spent much time together in California. I didn’t feel that I lacked time with him, despite a lifetime of distance between us. For that, I was grateful.
Vivi ogni giorno come se fosse l’ultimo
So, I leave you with this simple message: Live every day as if it’s your last. Live with no regrets, and if you have some that are hanging on to your past, do everything you can to release them. Carry no unspoken words of love and admiration. Say them often. Finally, always give grace to those who are on this road with us, even if you know nothing of their story.
I have included some of my favorite photos with my father below. These are the moments I will remember: two adventurers on a journey that we were fortunate to share for a brief moment in our forever story.
Non è un addio, Papà, ma un arrivederci. Ci rivedremo.
