Dare to Let Go

I kept rereading a text from my friend, Allen, over and over again.

"It is time for me to end the journey now. I am running out of gas. A time to go."

I wanted to text him back, just as I had several times before when he sent similar goodbyes. I typed:

"Not yet. Stay strong. You have so much more to enjoy in life. Be here. Please..."

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and bit my lip. Then, I texted him again. This time, no more pleading—just simply:

"I am here now and always for you. I am so thankful to have you in my life. Love you."

A couple of months ago, I received a call from the ER. My 91-year-old friend, Allen, had been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia and unexpected complications. As his power of attorney, I was asked to make a critical decision.

The doctor said, "It's a 91-year-old body. How aggressive do you want the treatment to be? Or would it be better to let him go peacefully?"

I told the doctor that Allen was not a typical 91-year-old. Just a few weeks ago, we had lunch at a restaurant. He was still living independently, walking every day, and relatively healthy. As I explained this unexpected shift in his condition, I realized something—something I've often heard when someone in their 90s passes.

He lived a good, full life. It is a good death.

But when it’s someone I deeply care about, someone like a father to me—perhaps even more present than my own biological father ever was—there is no such thing as a "good" death. I want him to live forever. Even if Allen were 125, it still wouldn’t feel like enough time.

When he was moved to hospice care, a nurse held my hand and said, "Hospice is about comfort. It’s about living, not just dying. It’s about love and support. Walking with someone through their final miles is a privilege and an honor."

I wasn’t sure I fully understood what she meant. This journey has been unbearably hard. Every time my phone rings, I brace myself for the call that will tell me Allen is gone. But then, on days when he eats a little more or manages to move from his chair to his bed, my heart lifts—only to plummet again when he has no energy to speak. It’s an emotional roller coaster I never signed up for, but I’m on it, powerless against its ups and downs.

I’ve lost him many times in my mind, yet he is still here. I am already grieving him, yet the real loss hasn’t even begun. I don’t want him to suffer, yet I want him to stay—just a few more months, a few more weeks, just one more day.

Last week, he said, "I want to go outside. Give me a ride."

Surprised and thrilled by his request, I arranged for a special vehicle that could accommodate his wheelchair. It was the first time he had been outside in three months since the ER.

When we arrived at the Newport Beach pier in the early morning, the world was bursting with life—surfers catching waves, people walking their dogs, children playing in the sand, runners, and couples enjoying tacos at outdoor tables. Just the simple, ordinary scene of the beach felt shockingly beautiful.

I pushed his wheelchair closer to the shore so he could feel the ocean’s presence. He smiled and said, "Thank you."

It may have lasted only 30 minutes, yet time seemed to slow, as if we were inside a dream, absorbing every detail into our hearts. My eyes welled up the entire time, overwhelmed by the sheer aliveness of the moment—of being there with him.

Caring for someone at the end of their life has opened my eyes in a way I never expected. Now, I think about my own death differently.

What will it look like? Am I living fully? What truly matters?

I know this journey with Allen is far from over, yet I have no idea where it’s leading me. I feel more lost and broken than capable of understanding what’s happening in real time. But I do know one thing—I am not yet ready to say the words I know I must someday:

"You may go, Allen. It’s okay. Everything is fine here. I am fine. You can rest."

Letting him go is the hardest thing. I am not there yet.

And yet, I am grateful—to be here for him at the end of his journey. To serve him in whatever way I can.

My heart aches with the anticipation of losing him, even as I hold his hand. This is the closest I’ve ever come to witnessing the end of a life. A part of me wishes this journey could last another six months, another year. Like Jimmy Carter, who has been in hospice for over two years, maybe Allen could stay a while longer.

Maybe there is nothing wrong with wishing that.

I let out a deep sigh, wiping my tears.

For now, he is still here.

Please share your wisdom with me.