IN 2005, just before the Christmas holidays, my dad lay in a hospital bed, breathing laboriously through a tube. Beside him, a priest performed the sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick.

Overcome with pity, I sidled up to my father and whispered to his ear: “Daddy, I’m very proud of you. Thank you for everything.”

His eyes welled with tears.

I had to leave to withdraw cash to help pay the hospital bills. A few hours later my sister texted to say that Daddy had been holding on, and his condition seemed to be improving.

I whispered a short prayer of thanks.

We brought him home in time for Christmas and New Year, and it looked like he really was on the way to recovery, though his damaged kidneys required regular dialysis.

One night, mom told us that dad had been talking of seeing his own late mother appearing to him—just like the stories of people on the brink of passing, during which the souls of loved ones who had gone ahead show up, “para sunduin papunta sa langit.”

A few days later, around 2 a.m., my sister roused everyone from sleep because dad seemed to be gazing at her in a disturbingly lost and empty way. I took his blood pressure; it was so low and his heart wasn’t beating.

In the morgue I took a long, hard look at my father—with whom I had always been at odds for one reason or another, mostly because I detested his temper—and said goodbye for good.

Looking back, I felt God extended his life for a few months after his hospital confinement so the family could be with him a bit longer to show our love.

I believe that he’s in heaven, not just because Pope Francis said that there really is no hell, but rather due to the good things that happened to me not long after his death in February 2006.

In April that year I was hired by an international shipping company and sent to Norway for a month. It was my first time to travel abroad, on business class, with a side trip to Sweden for a few days.

Two months later I got married—a milestone I never thought would happen, since I loved the rock ‘n’ roll life too much.

And then, two years later, my wife gave birth to a boy—still another milestone so wonderful to cherish because I had thought I was sterile.

I haven’t visited dad’s niche for a long time; I must make an effort to do it today—if only to tell him that his death gave me reason to live a more meaningful life.