We all have to die, but not everyone gets a good death. If there even is such a thing, it’s all up to interpretation. Some would call dying bravely in battle the best ‘good death,’ or religious martyrdom, or a death that somehow furthers an important cause. Others may prefer dying in their sleep, never feeling pain or even knowing they were sick.

Underlying it all are the unsaid words that will never be heard by the deceased, the amends that will never be made, the love that will never be expressed. Death, at least the kind that hits us mere mortals, is as final as anything that happens on this side of heaven. Far better to hash out any unresolved issues with your loved ones before they die, because when they do, it will be too late. One minute, there are limitless chances, the next, there are none.

Dying in a bed, even a hospital one, surrounded by a loving and adoring family who had enough time to express their love and properly say goodbye is my idea of as good a death as could be had by anyone, and that’s exactly what happened to my incredible father last week.

Dad was a Vietnam vet, retired Air National Guard master sergeant, retired railroad electrician, Baptist church deacon. A Boomer-con Patriot to the core, he cared deeply about the direction of the country and was absolutely elated when Donald Trump was elected again. But more than any of that he was a man who adored his family, his wife of 55 years, my sister and me and our spouses, and his seven grandkids, and would do anything in the world for any of us. He wore the mantle ‘patriarch’ with as much grace and humble dignity as anyone ever has. He spent his retirement years working the 8-acre wooded park-like ‘farm’ he lived on with my mother and creating incredible memories with his grandchildren that will last their lifetimes. He will be sorely missed.