The doctor was telling me my dad didn’t survive surgery. I remember wanting to hold his hand one last time and asking if I could. I grew up holding my dad’s hand; it was warm and strong and reassuring.
Weeks before that, I remember watching my dad sleeping in his chair in front of the TV. He was in his 70s. I held my breath, waiting to see his chest rise and fall. I felt a flood of relief when I saw him breathe. It was the late 1990s. I often watched him sleep, checking his breath.