Last September my family and I got the worst news imaginable.

“Dad probably wouldn’t make it the next year.”

I left work and rushed to my father’s house as fast as I could— He was distraught. I had never seen my dad cry before in my life and I was terrified.

Fast forward to January

Dad started to show some progress, my family and I were happy he made it through Christmas and New Year.

He goes to the hospital for a simple procedure that doesn’t work and the only option is surgery.

So he gets surgery.

When he comes out he’s on the ventilator.

They attempted to pull him off of it the first time.

Fail.

They attempted again.

Fail.

The last words my dad said to me was “Will you take me home Bryan?”

A day or two after that he went to sleep. The only thing keeping him alive was the ventilator.

Dad told my sister, brother and I since birth he didn’t want to live on a machine — at all.

So we consulted with the doctors and they said the chance of him coming out of the comatose state was slim.

Until that moment I didn’t know how much three words meant—comfort measures only. He was put on painkillers and that was it. The only thing there was to do in this part of the process was to make sure dad didn’t suffer, and believe me, he didn’t feel an ounce of pain in those two weeks.

Essentially he just slept.

I saw him at least four times a week for two weeks. Sometimes I wanted people in there and then sometimes I just wanted time with my dad.

At first it was weird talking to him when he couldn’t talk back, but everyone assured me he could hear me and dammit I hope he could.

I let him know it was OK for him to go ‘home’ and I told him everything about me that I was too scared to do when he was healthy.

February 25, 2013

 The day I’ll never forget.

It was just another day, I hadn’t made it to see dad that day because my schedule was busy with classes and newspaper work.
After school I went on a date with a guy I kind of liked, The Spaghetti Factory, great food and he was really sweet.

Then my phone rang. Angela’s (my sister) name was on the screen.

I hesitate … I look at him and immediately say “I’m sorry.”

“Hello,” I said.

I can hear the tears in my sister’s voice.

“He’s gone Bryan,” Angela said. “He didn’t feel any pain but he just stopped breathing a few minutes ago.”

All I could muster to say back was “OK, I love you.”

I hung up.

I went to the bathroom.

I sat on the commode for a minute and silently wept.

That was it, he was gone. I couldn’t call him and tell him about how life was anymore, he won’t see me get my degree and all these other thoughts flashed through my head and they still do almost every day.

Immediately I called my best friend Chris, he asked me where I was and if I needed to be picked up, while I was an emotional wreck I declined his offer.

I went back to the table and immediately shut down. My date asked questions and I brushed him off.

I waved the waiter over and handed him my debit card. “I’m paying for both of us, just make it fast,” I said. I did apologize to my date, but I had to leave.  As soon as I signed the receipt and left a tip I all but ran out of the restaurant.

I sat in my car and logged on to Facebook.

My nephew posted a photo of my Dad with a caption saying “R.I.P. pawpaw”— and I lost it. I must have been sitting-still for at least 30 minutes before I called Chris back.

When I called he was already on his way, bottle of wine in the back seat.

I drank the entire bottle. I shared stories about dad with him and that is when it hit me — my dad was the only man in my life to never let me down.

He was there for me even when I pissed him off.

When I came out to him, he simply said he didn’t care and that he just wanted me to be happy. My father showed me how to be a man, how to ride a bike, how to handle life.

I know I am lucky to have had someone like him as my father. He had unconditional love for his children and was one of the greatest people I ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I always understood that losing my father would be hard, but I didn’t know it would be this hard.

It has been six months since and I still reach in my pocket for my phone to call dad when I see a cool coin, airplane, or car that I want to tell him about.

Not a day goes by that I don’t wish for his voice.

I dedicate this to him, Phillip Lee Jones, high school graduate, my father and hero. My only hope is I turn out to be half the man and half the father you were to me to my own children one day.