it feels impossible

“Have you gotten your results back yet? What is the range?”

"No. It should be anywhere between one and ten, and if it’s over five they’ll want to do a biopsy."

“OK,” I thought, knowing that with his symptoms it would likely be at or above five.

“Have you heard yet?” I asked again, trying his patience.

“Yes.”

Initially, his silence didn’t startle me. A pause I now attribute to the weight of the conversation before him. But then, the absence of his words became deafening; why wasn’t he saying more?!

He took a deep breath.

“My PSA is 487,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, I misheard you." I laughed nervously. "I thought you said 487”

“Yes, I did. That’s what it is.”

“I think there’s a been a mistake. Obviously, there’s been a mistake.”

“No. There’s no mistake.”

Just then, a thousand words came ripping across my tongue, crashing into the lips of a closed mouth, and came to rest like stones in my throat. I dropped to my knees in the kitchen where I stood, and the last thing I remember is the chill of the tile beneath me as I shifted my weight to lay on the floor.

But, this isn’t a story about Cancer.

It’s a story about death.

I’m sorry. That’s probably not what you wanted to hear…so let me back up.

Last Sunday, I celebrated what will undoubtedly be my last Father’s Day with my dad. It wasn’t easy. What do you say when you know it’s the last Father’s Day card you’ll ever write to him? How do you tell him that he is your hero and that you simply can’t imagine waking up in a world he no longer exists in? I sit with my grief every single day, even though he is still with me. I am preparing myself, little by little, to lose the greatest man I’ve ever known.

And it feels impossible.

I talk to friends and family about it and I try desperately to make sense of things that I feel so completely ill-equipped to carry. I began to think about how others in our lives have been handling the news and I started to notice that the one thing people kept coming back to was, “how is your dad so comfortable with death?” or remarks about “how strong his faith must be.”

Well, my dad isn’t exactly what we would refer to as a man of faith, and if you’re lucky enough to be a friend of his, try not to spit out your food laughing at the very idea.

Yes; we went to church growing up, but only because my parents believed firmly in the moral foundation churches were thought to offer. By the time I became a young adult, it was clear that none of us were fans of organized religion. In fact, I recall my mom mumbling something about the Vatican getting struck by lightning when my dad and I proceeded inside for a tour; I digress.

My entire life, it was made very clear that my dad never wanted to suffer, never wanted to stay past his time here, and didn’t want to be a burden to anyone. So now, with death standing at our front door, his pragmatic approach, and dare I say, “peace with it,” doesn't surprise me at all.

You see, I believe my father’s peace with his impending death isn’t actually about the end at all, but it is the result of how he lived his entire life. Paul Hacker did every thing he could, for every one he could, every time he could. And that, my friends, is the true meaning of fulfillment. Over the years, my father has supported countless members of his family, of my mother’s family, of his extended family, of our friends, of community members, and even strangers. He worked his ass off for all that he made, and then he spent his life spreading kindness, advice, financial assistance, and physical help around to anyone with an extended hand. He recognized that the way he lives his life, allows him to surrender to the reality of his death. He feels complete; he is fulfilled. He need not fight any longer to survive another day, or month, or even year to “finish living.” My dad never pretended it wasn’t going to end, and this allowed him to give his entire self to his life.

Since the news, he has been slowly piecing together what needs to get done in preparation for dying. Even typing the word "dying" feels wrong or forbidden in some way. But that's what is happening. My father is dying. It tastes funny in my mouth to say aloud.

And even in dying, he is still giving it all. He recently made arrangements to donate his body to science after he passes. He leaves nothing behind to be worried about or wondered about, and he ask only that we embrace his outlook on death and honor his decisions. My father has taken control of the one thing in life that none of us feel we have control over. And for me, this conscious step forward towards an absolute ending has allowed me to acquiesce in the path of his own calm and confident surrender. Embracing the reality of his death, will be one of the greatest gifts my father gives to me, to my brother, and to our mom. So, I guess what I really want to say to him is, "thank you," and "I will miss you every day of my life."

I asked him recently where his happy place is. His response gives me hope.

“I need to go with the first thing that comes to mind, and that is to be on my motorcycle. You see, when we first came to California we lived in Los Angeles. And when I came of age, I would go out with friends or a girl at night, and after dinner or whatever I would drive them home in my car. And then, no matter how late it was I would hop on my motorcycle in the dead of night and ride Sunset strip all the way to the ocean. I remember the wind in my hair because we didn’t wear helmets back then, and the chill of night air on my skin. That memory has always stayed with me.”

I pray that’s what death is like for him. I hope it’s a long, beautiful ride, with wind in his hair, and only the ocean waiting up for him on the other side.

To learn more about Paul Hacker, visit our stories page.