My father died today.

Well, no, that’s not accurate. My father died two days ago.

I am a writer. I write about my feelings. I write about my ideas. I write when I can’t think. I write when I can’t feel. I write to process.

And so…

The stark truth. My father shouldn’t have died.

I’m not saying the hospital did something wrong. On the contrary, they were heroic. At one point, my dad coded and a nurse leapt up onto his bed to deliver chest compressions. He lived more than a day after that.

No, the truth is, my dad shouldn’t have died because this is the 21st century and pneumonia shouldn’t be killing people.

My dad…my dad was more than my hero. He was my literal experience of God’s love for me.

I first met my dad when he came to pick my mom up for a date in 1998. I was thirteen when they met. I was thirteen when they got married. They hadn’t known each other for four whole months.

Last night, my mom, with tears in her eyes and pain in her voice, the perfect margarita in her hand (my dad’s recipe), toasted the love of her life, her soulmate.

Last night, I laughed so hard my ribs hurt, I cried so much my eyes hurt, and I spent more hours than I care to admit to staring at the dark trying to escape into sleep.

Because last night I said goodbye to my dad.