Where Love Stays

There are only a few certainties in this life, and death is one of them. It exists whether we want to acknowledge it or not, moving quietly through the background of every life we build. It’s another one of those things we have absolutely no control over. It doesn’t ask if we’re ready. It doesn’t check our calendars or give us time to prepare our hearts. It comes when it comes, sometimes suddenly, sometimes slowly, but always with the same finality. When it arrives it feels like a thief in the night, slipping in without warning, and when it leaves you’re standing there empty-handed trying to understand what the hell just happened while the emotions slowly catch up with you.

Five years ago, I had the incredible opportunity to meet Dave.

He welcomed me into his family with open arms and an open invitation that never once made me question my place in his life. I still remember standing in his house in West Branch the first time, the quiet smell of the woods drifting through the air and the comfortable feeling of a home that had seen decades of life. His big, bright smile stretched across his face as he hugged me hello, warm and genuine in the way that instantly makes you feel like you belong.

After that greeting I sat on his couch while he and James talked. Every so often he’d glance over and toss a question my way. At some point the conversation landed on the fact that I had birthed seven kids and the look on his face when he heard that was priceless. Pure disbelief mixed with curiosity and a little bit of amazement, the same reaction most people have when they hear it. It made all of us laugh.

That first visit James and I rode ATVs across his property. The wind rushed past us as we drove through the trails that cut through the trees and the open land he loved so much. I was showed the hunting stands tucked into the woods and talked about years of seasons spent out there. Inside the pole barn were walls covered with photos from his hunting club, snapshots of friendships and traditions that stretched back decades. You could hear the pride in his voice when he talked about those years. Those pictures weren’t just pictures, they were stories.

We stayed the night.

Dave welcomed my entire family the same way he welcomed me. Every single kid. Every girlfriend or boyfriend who happened to be around at the time. There was never hesitation in it. My children had suddenly gained another grandfather and he treated them exactly like they were his own grandkids.

We camped on his property a few times too. One year the grass and weeds had grown so tall you could practically see the tick infestation waiting for us. During a midnight walk Ana learned about “aliens,” and at one point my need for speed on the ATV nearly took out the side of his pole barn when I came flying around a corner a little too confidently. Actually, I would’ve been the one taken out but I don’t like to admit that, sooo….lol

Those are the moments that become the memories you hold onto later, the small chaotic pieces of life that don’t seem important at the time but end up meaning everything.

Then one day we got the kind of phone call that makes your stomach drop instantly.

They suspected Dave had suffered a stroke and he was being taken to the hospital.

At the time James, the kids, and I were preparing to leave for an overnight Airbnb trip to Cedar Point. Instead, James packed his bags and rushed straight to his dad’s side. And that’s where he stayed for weeks while doctors ran tests and Dave slowly started the long road of recovery.

Life shifted quietly during that time. The rhythm of everything changed. The priority became caring for a sick parent and James and I didn’t see much of each other while he stayed there.

Eventually Dave reached the point where he could be released, and then began the difficult search for the best care facility to meet his needs. After a lot of looking we settled on Gas Light Assisted Living.

Or as Dave’s dementia liked to call it, Gas Light Bar and Grill.

Dave was full of life. Stubborn, sarcastic, funny, and at times a little prickly, but undeniably full of personality. Even though he didn’t always give James much outward grace, there were moments when you could see right through that stubborn exterior and know that he loved his son deeply.

And I know he loved me.

He would call me hun, sweetheart, or little girl, and every time I saw him he reminded me that he loved me and that he didn’t see me enough.

We used to have him over for Thursday night dinners and he loved sitting there while Zach, Sarah, Mariah, and Ana filled the house with noise and laughter. But over time dementia started quietly taking pieces of him. His mobility started slipping. Moving around became harder. Looking back now, the signs had been there for months. James and I had talked about it more than once, the step down we were seeing. The falls where he insisted he wasn’t hurt. The little odd changes that didn’t quite make sense. His appetite fading. The walker he suddenly could no longer manage.

Still, it looked like the gradual decline you see so often.

Last week we got a call that his blood sugar had dropped to 40 and he was panicked and anxious about it. Looking back now, I think that moment was the catalyst that started the final decline.

Sometime around Wednesday James received another call about what hospice was seeing. Of course I had a thousand questions. That night while we were lying in bed we left a message asking for clarification but didn’t hear anything back for two days.

Thursday we skipped visiting him because he had his awards ceremony on Friday, something he looked forward to every year.

It was a big deal to him and to us.

Every year since living there he had won Comedian of the Year, and at one point they had even crowned him the King. Dave loved making people laugh. He loved the attention, the humor, the chance to entertain a room, even if he would deny it. And it wasn’t necessary intentional. It was simply Dave and his personality.

And Friday night he won Comedian of the Year again. Even with everything happening in his body, he was still Dave.

We had been told they believed he had pneumonia and planned to start antibiotics, but the medication didn’t arrive until late Friday night. He received one dose. That dose ended up being both the first and the last, because by Saturday he could no longer swallow pills and eating had stopped entirely.

Saturday around noon we drove over knowing things weren’t looking good but still holding onto hope.

He slept a lot, but when we woke him he would still open his eyes and look at us. Sometimes he even responded. Friday night he had told us we needed to go home and get to bed, classic dad behavior.

That night something happened between him and James that I will never forget. Dave looked at James in a way I had never seen before. There were no words, but everything that had never been spoken between them was there in that moment. James came and sat beside the bed and Dave grabbed onto him and held him there, locking eyes with his son in a way that carried more meaning than any sentence ever could. In that moment you could see the apologies, the pride, the love, the gratitude. It was his way of saying everything he had never said out loud. It was there closure to one another.

Sunday morning everything changed.

We arrived around nine and had already been told several times that he was unresponsive. But when we walked in and leaned over him and loudly said “Hi dad,” he startled awake and looked at us. His words were messy and hard to understand, but he was still communicating.

As the hours passed though, the decline came quickly. The nurses kept adjusting medications to keep him comfortable. His breathing had turned into work. Each breath sounded thick and wet, the gurgling sound filling the room in a way that made it impossible to ignore how hard his body was fighting.

Around 12:30 in the morning we finally left. We were exhausted and James had already said his goodbye and couldn’t bear to watch his father struggle like that anymore. But walking out of that building while Dave was in that condition felt unbearable. Every step toward the door felt wrong. I felt like I was abandoning him. Everything inside of me said I should stay, that I should sit there until the very end no matter how tired I was, because deep down I knew it was only hours away. I hugged him and told him I loved him, but something inside me knew it was the last time. Leaving felt like abandoning him, even though I know that isn’t what we were doing. Grief doesn’t care about logic. It just sits heavy in your chest and asks questions you can’t answer. I pray that when my time comes, nobody leave me in those final hours, because now I know how deeply that moment stays with you.

Dave passed at 4:05 Monday morning.

When the phone rang and woke us up we both looked at each other and said the same words before even answering it. He’s gone. And when we picked up the phone, the crying on the other end confirmed what we already knew.

I have a strange ability to numb emotion at the worst possible times. While we were there caring for him I stayed focused, checking his breathing and heart rate, talking with nurses about medication adjustments and changes I was seeing.

I didn’t do any of that for myself. In these moments, it is undeniable that I am Gods servant to care and advocate. I was there for Dave, the man who welcomed me into his life and loved me like a daughter. I was there to help advocate for him and to make sure he was treated with dignity as he crossed from this life into the next. And I was there for James so that losing his father didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Because that is what love does. We show up. We don’t abandon our people when things get hard or messy or painful. We stay, even when it hurts, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when our hearts are breaking, because loving someone means being willing to stand in the middle of the heartbreak and the ugliness, be uncomfortable, and fight through it.

Just hours after he passed we had a meeting scheduled with the funeral home. In the middle of all that heaviness we even found a moment to laugh, wondering who would make it there first, Dave or us. Of course Dave won.

What we didn’t expect was that we would identify him. I imagined a cold morgue and a quick moment lifting a sheet, but instead they opened a quiet door and invited us into a room where Dave was lying in a beautiful sleigh bed. He looked peaceful. His color was perfect. They had cleaned him and cared for him so gently. For a moment it looked like he was simply resting.

That was when the tears finally came and though we were leaving behind just a body, it still felt like I was abandoning him.

Today at four o’clock we received the call that they were beginning the cremation and my heart cracked open all over again. I was walking into the grocery store when the feeling rose up and the tears threatened to spill out. I wanted to let them come, but instead I swallowed them back down and kept walking. Now, they are silenced and the emotion inside is overwhelmingly strong.

Dave may be gone, but he left behind so much of himself. The stories. The sarcasm. The stubborn personality that filled every room he walked into. The times staff had to search everywhere for his missing remote. The hours he spent in the administration office explaining how things should really be run. His boat club days. The hundreds of times he pushed his call light and then reset it with an ink pen so he could push it again just to make sure someone came to check on him. The late-night phone calls when dementia convinced him he had been abandoned and needed us to come take him home, and we would talk him through it until he remembered that the things around him were his and that he was safe.

The Thursday night dinners I regret skipping.

What I will miss the most is his presence, the way his entire face would light up when I walked into the room, and the way he loved the kids and all of us so completely. Even though his body is gone, the love and the memories he left behind are still here, woven into all of us, into the stories we’ll keep telling, into the laughter that still echoes when we remember him.

Rest in Heaven, Dave. For one day, we shall meet again. 3.2.2026