here is never an easy time for losing a parent; whether you're 5 or 50 years old, when a parent dies, innocence dies with them. My father had been sick for many years, but was too stubborn to give in fully to the pain that was wracking his body. He refused to be tended to, saying that he didn't want to "burden" his family. He had also tired of the experimental drugs his doctors kept trying to force on him that never worked as intended and always threw him to one extreme or the other. He was diabetic, allergic to insulin, with several heart and other physical maladies that doctors could neither diagnose nor treat. So, he fought 15-plus years for his health, his independence, and his pride, self medicating where he could, and simply "dealing with" the rest. He suffered a heart attack the day before Thanksgiving in 2003, staying conscious barely long enough to place an emergency phone call to the police. An ambulance arrived and took him to the hospital, where he recovered well enough to be sent home after about a week. He told me then that he was dying - he knew it and wasn't scared, so I shouldn't be either. Our family gathered at that time, to check up, to tell him he was loved, and to say goodbye. He wasn't gone from us yet - that was our miracle. The weeks passed and his health improved, and we all started to speculate - he'd pulled through some crazy things before, maybe he'd pull through this, too. He was with us about a month before his health started to decline again, this time drastically. He was bed-bound, unable to walk, unable to eat, barely able to hold a coherent conversation most times. I remember trying to talk to him and being very angry - not at him, or God, or my mother, or really anyone in particular - just angry. Where was the man who used to chase me around the yard, scoop me up, and shower kisses on my forehead? Where was the man who always knew the answers and had a witty comeback to every smart-alecked dig? He was supposed to be strong and infallible; at least, stronger than me. He was my father, and that made him invincible - didn't it? February 17, 2004, my mother told me he was exactly the way he'd always been. She'd gotten up, started getting dressed for work, and he had called her back to bed. He told her he just wanted to lay and hold her for a while. They laid there for quite a while, silent, together. He died with her in his arms. It's been almost five years since we lost him, and it isn't much easier now than it was then. Life goes on, but there's always an empty place, a sorrow even on the happiest occasions, that he isn't here to share it with us. I miss him every day, but I am thankful that there is no more pain for him, and I cherish the good memories we made while he was here. Above all else, I thank God for granting us the time to say goodbye, and for giving my mother and father those last moments together. I watched Timmy sleeping peacefully for the first time in a week after he was admitted to the ICU ward at the hospital. His pale skin was bruised by the numerous punctures from I.V. needles. His face seemed to express a heavenly serenity despite the many painful trials he'd been through. The respirator that became his lifeline to our world, continued to pump the air into his lungs which is a vital link to maintaining his life. I wanted to reach out to him and let him know that I, his mommy, loved him and was here for him. Timmy didn't really understand what was wrong with him, although I did try to explain it. It's hard to tell your son that he is dying. Timmy was only five when he was first diagnosed with leukemia. I was told by doctors that his prognosis wasn't good because the leukemia was already so advanced. A bone marrow transplant would not be helpful at this stage according to his doctor. I sought out every available avenue to obtaining the best medical care I could get for him. The health insurance that I had, proved to be insufficient and the bills were mounting. I kept trying, mailing letters and consulting with attorneys, but to no avail. I didn't have much income being a single parent and almost every treatment that Timmy's doctors recommended was dubbed as experimental by the insurance company. I was exhausted and so was my son. The emotional toll of dealing with the impending death of my son was being extracted from my health. The stress was wearing me down. Through out the whole ordeal, I kept wishing, hoping and praying that one day Timmy would find a painless, peaceful place on the other side. I wanted to go there with him. I knew in my heart that where there was love, there's a way. Timmy took a turn for the worst an hour later. He was not going to be resuscitated as the doctors had given him a DNR order. I waited with all the worry, pain and grief a mother could be burdened with when her only son was dying. Timmy's vital signs indicated that he was on the homeward journey to God and I longed to go with him. I walked over to his bed where he lay semi-conscious from the sedatives and painkillers they injected him with to make his passing from this world to the next easier. I held his hand and whispered in his ear," Mommy's here Timmy." I was both surprised and shocked when he opened his eyes briefly and looked at me in the most loving way. His eyes seemed to say, it's alright mommy, love will find a way. Timmy began his inevitable journey to the other side. He convulsed and began bleeding out from his organs. The sight was heartbreaking and horrific. I continued to hold his hand as his breathing became labored and blood poured out of his eye sockets. "I continued to hold his hand and say,"I love you Timmy." Timmy continued to struggle to breathe and as he took his last breath I felt a sense of peace come over me. His horrible ordeal was over and he was with Jesus now. Minutes later, after he was given a time of death by the doctor on duty, I felt a powerful presence place a hand on my shoulder. I was swept over by a strong emotional charge of love which electrified my entire body. I heard Timmy's voice in my ear say,"Where there's love mommy. there's always a way. Ever since that day I have felt Timmy's presence nearby, as if he were waiting for me to come and join him in heaven with Jesus. The old man's gaze dragged along in front of his shoes. He walked slowly; partly from the physical pain; partly from the emotional. He'd tied the shoe's laces, but it was not done well. The knots were weak and in between moving from house to car and car to street they had become untied. He hadn't tied his laces himself for ten years. Ten years ago his wife would tie them every day. Then six years ago his daughter would tie them. Today he'd done it. He wore black shoes that went with his suit. They were incredibly reflective, like rounded, black mirrors. Yesterday he'd brought out his shoe polish and a rag to rub against them. Back and forth, back and forth,he'd gone. He'd shined them mechanically, not really looking at them. He had rubbed the cloth against the leather desperately, staring at the knob on his cabinet, trying not to think. Now the sun reflected off of them. His suit was all black, with a white shirt and a black tie. He had a black handkerchief, that blended in to the point of invisibility; only just slightly darker than the rest of his chest. It was an old suit; at least fifty years old he had thought as he had put it on. He had cleaned it well, despite his difficulties. The knees were dirty now though, from falling to the ground. He'd broken down, on the way to the car. He gathered himself quickly but still the others had given him pitying looks. Those looks followed him; watching him stare out the window. He watched - not seeing - the people in business suits walking and driving home to their families. He stared at the tall buildings there windows made opaque by the bright sun. Then he watched the trees, and the odd rusty mailbox, pass by his window with the morning light shining in his horn rimmed spectacles. But all that was done with. Now he was walking across the grass with his dark suit, his dark kerchief, his polished shoes, and his dirty knees. The grass rubbed against his shoes and left imperceptible green streaks on the sides. The wind pushed through his thin, gelled back hair. His tears rolled down the mountains of his deep wrinkles and tasted salty in his mouth. The tails of his suit blew high in the wind, the bottom button of the suit forgetfully left undone. When he stopped walking the wind felt less harsh, the sun shone less brightly and the priest started talking. The man raised his eyes, his tears cascading from his face and landing, discoloured, on his polished shoes. He looked at the end of the dark, wooden coffin. He pushed his eyes higher and stared in into the eyes of the girl in the picture. The photo was surrounded by a wreath and a few flowers. She was his daughter.