September 27, 2026
My brother Pat FaceTimed me at 6 AM on the morning of Monday, September 21. I didn’t expect the call, but I knew what it was about. I should have been ready. “Mike?” He asked, in a hushed tone. “Dad is resting peacefully, but he’s going to die soon. It could be an hour. It could be more. The doctor says that Dad can hear you. Would you like to say something to Dad before he passes?”
I was back in Arkansas visiting him just two weeks before. He had fallen and been in the hospital for almost a week. He came home much weaker and needing more support. I had worked with him to arrange ongoing in-home support, and we had a plan in place. I walked with him while he did some laps around his house, trying to get stronger. Like Dad has always done, he raised his fist like a champion when he finished his workout. We both thought he was on the road to recovery.
When I returned home on September 4, I felt hopeful. My sister and my brother were coming to support my Dad and his wife, and the plan was working. As I was landing in LA, my phone started blowing up and I learned that Dad was heading back to the hospital. As his hospital stay grew longer, it became apparent that his body was not going to let him win this fight. Maybe, through sheer will, he could extend his brief time on this earth by a few months, but it did not look good at all. Two surgeries later, it looked more dire.
I thought I would have more time with Dad. We all thought Mom would pass first as dementia continues to do the devastating things that it does. I have been prepared for my Mom’s death for a while. (Well, I say that. Intellectually, I am prepared. Emotionally, I will be a wreck when that finally happens, even though I know it will be a blessing.) I thought I had more phone calls. I thought I had more trips to see him in Arkansas. He was planning to be at my nephew’s wedding in Long Beach in November. He would have loved it. I thought I had more Dad critiques of my blog posts. Though he was most often effusive in his praise, when he didn’t like it, he would let me hear it. But life didn’t care what I thought. The time had come for my Dad.
I took a breath, said yes to Pat, and he turned the phone where I could see Dad. His eyes were closed, so he could not see me. I don’t remember exactly what I said. Why didn’t I write it out ahead of time so that I could say exactly what I wanted? I told him I loved him. I thanked him for being the greatest father and the best friend imaginable. I reassured him that his life was remarkably successful, and that his wife and his children love him to the moon and back. I thanked him for his constant love, his inspiration, and his never-ending support. There were no jokes. Maybe there should have been something. It’s hard to joke when you’re crying your eyes out. He was unable to respond verbally, but as I was talking, he nodded his head up and down, doing his best to acknowledge my words and to try to send something back to me. I felt it all.
It was 6:30 in the morning, and I put down the phone and cried. Hard. I was not ready for the moment. It hurt to the core, yet I was so grateful for those final moments with him.
Dad passed away that afternoon.
I thought I had more time, but I didn’t need more time to tell him how much I loved him. I feel blessed that I did not leave anything unsaid with Dad. Everyone in my family ends every single conversation with “I love you.” My parents, my siblings, my wife, and my children all say it and mean it when we say goodbye on the phone or in person. Dad and I were members of the mutual admiration society, and we never kept our membership a secret. We shared our mutual love and respect often and out loud. My gratitude for that makes the pain a little bit less unbearable.
Post #148 on www.drmdmatthews.com
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NOTES
It’s been almost a week since he passed. I have immersed myself in working on details of the services, writing the obituary and coordinating our upcoming trip to Little Rock. I’m feeling the pain, but being busy helps. While I’m not the biggest social media guy, the comments I received when I shared the news on Facebook have been healing. He was loved and appreciated far beyond the deep love of his wife and his children.
I believe that his obituary captures much of who he was. But it’s never enough. It was challenging to get some of his life details, and I probably should have done that before. One super fun task I have committed to once things calm down is writing my own obituary. My Dad should never have trusted me to get all his life details correct, and, lesson learned, who better to brag about my own life than . . . me!
Those of you who have read my blog posts have a pretty good idea of who my Dad was. You definitely understand my reverence and love for him. Thank you for knowing him. This blog post is not intended to honor his achievements. That post will come. I am simply trying to share my emotions as Dad’s life came to an end.
I have talked with many friends who have lost parents and loved ones, and they understand my frequent thoughts wondering when I will be talking with Dad next. And they understand the answer. Many of my friends lost their parents at very young ages. I am so sorry for that all-too-early-loss, and I feel beyond blessed to have had 65 years with my Dad. I am left with many beautiful, powerful, and hilarious memories. It’s not enough right now, but I know time will help.
My next post will be more about celebrating his rich and full life.
The picture on top was taken in April of this year. We all that sensed that Dad was having a resurgence at that time. He looked great and he was stronger than he’d been the previous year. In the collage, the left picture is from a swim meet that Dad and I competed in – it was at UALR in Little Rock back in 2022. He did great! Jill and I had lunch with Dad at a Mexican restaurant in 2024. And the picture on the right was in front of Dad’s Hot Springs house in 2023.
Mike Matthews 
Maggie 
Ali Rabiei 
Dermot Stoker 
Marcia 
Bill Sampson 
Mitch Ozawa
I am so glad you have wonderful memories & pictures with your Dad. I was 32 when my Dad passed away. I often wonder how different my life would be had he lived until I was in my 60’s.