My dad, Frank, died over a year ago at the age of 91. When he finally came to live in Denver two years before his death, I thought I would be able to help him have a better life, a happier old age. It turned out that the real job was to support him while he moved closer and closer to death.
As the days of his life grew shorter, my confusion multiplied. As much I knew he would die one day, I was caught up in Dad’s insistence that he would live to be “at least” 100. I think it seemed easier to accept this idea than to understand that death was creeping nearer to us with every passing day.
The last days and weeks of Dad’s life were very difficult for all …
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