Chapter 1: The Shifting Sky

On a bright day, sunlight streamed through fluffy clouds, casting playful shadows on the ground. The strong oaks, elms, and maples swayed gently in the breeze, while robins and bluebirds filled the air with their songs. A group of wild turkeys foraged through the lush Kentucky bluegrass below. As I sipped my coffee, my father enjoyed a glass of wine, and together we soaked in the beauty around us.

In recent weeks, I had noticed a transformation in my father's spirit. Perhaps it was the toll of chemotherapy and radiation that had drained his energy. Or maybe it was his inability to take leisurely walks in the woods, ride his bike, or engage in carpentry, a cherished pastime. Likely, it was a combination of these frustrations and more.

He confided in me that he felt as though life was slipping away from him. "There's still so much I want to give," he expressed, his frustration palpable. Over the years, I had witnessed my father experience a myriad of emotions. Yet now, as he contemplated his life and the uncertain end approaching, he appeared more irate than I had ever seen him.

"You know, bud," he shared, "sometimes it just feels so unfair. You search for a reason behind all this — wondering what you did to deserve it."

He shook his head in disbelief.

I understood. Since his diagnosis, I too had been haunted by that question. Why did someone as kind-hearted and selfless as my father have to face such a cruel fate? Like an unresolved Zen koan, the question defied logic. As Paul Kalanithi wrote in When Breath Becomes Air, "Humans are organisms, subject to physical laws... Diseases are merely molecules misbehaving." Cancer, at its core, is simply a genetic accident, a mutation in DNA leading to death.

"As I lose everything," my father continued, "I find myself reevaluating what matters. My hand, my arm, my ability to walk... My mind remains sharp, but..." Tears welled in his eyes. "The only thing that keeps me going is you kids."

As weeks passed, clarity faded from my father's mind. The once witty and knowledgeable man began to lose his grasp on simple concepts, like fog dissipating in the morning sun. His hand, trembling, struggled to underline meaningful passages in the books he cherished, including When Breath Becomes Air. As the end approached, most of his days were spent asleep, which was bittersweet. I cherished every moment but found solace in his peaceful slumber, a respite from his suffering.

In the evenings, I would push him in his wheelchair as we strolled through our suburban neighborhood. I often wondered what thoughts filled his mind as we moved along the paved paths, with hills revealing expansive views of lush pastures and forests under a vast sky. The sounds of birds and cicadas surrounded us, while my father's face remained calm, almost monk-like in its serenity. He would gaze at the sky, occasionally smiling at the sight of birds soaring above.

One Sunday, after a weekend filled with family in Rochester, Minnesota, my sister Megan and I helped our father into his favorite rocking chair. He breathed heavily, his energy waning. We settled on the couch, across from him, the rustic coffee table he had crafted separating us. Each glance exchanged between us revealed his struggle to mask his pain.

"What’s on your mind, Dad?" Megan asked gently.

He shrugged, unable to articulate his thoughts. After some small talk, he suddenly seemed to awaken from a daze.

"Do you two have any questions for me?" he inquired, a simple yet profound question. Death, the ultimate unknown, loomed large, and we had so many inquiries.

"Anything," he added.

We sought clarity on what he valued in his remaining time and how we could honor his legacy. These were discussions we had pondered for months. But as my father had said, with every loss, he reassessed his values, and we too were navigating our grief.

That late summer evening, however, confusion clouded his understanding. It felt as if we were speaking through soundproof glass, unable to connect. My sister and I exchanged looks, silently acknowledging the heart-wrenching reality that his mind was slipping away.

In a strange way, the progressive nature of my father's illness, while devastating, offered us a unique opportunity. It allowed us time to prepare for his departure; to voice our feelings, seek meaning within the suffering, and live with intention while we still could. Yet, as his health declined, it became challenging to witness the gradual changes. It felt as if eighteen years of aging were compressed into just eighteen months, and only in hindsight did the severity of his illness become painfully clear.

"Think how a tract of the sky," Ovid's Metamorphoses reflects, "when the sun breaks suddenly through at the end of a rain shower, is steeped in the long, great curve of a rainbow..." My father's illness mirrored this spectrum, revealing its true nature most vividly at the edges — from a state of robust health to the brink of death.

"Is there anything you want us to do after you're gone?" I asked. "What can we do that would make you proud?"

He paused, considering.

"I want to be cremated," he replied.

Note: This narrative is adapted from my book, The Trail to Nowhere: Life and Death Along the Colorado Trail. If you're interested, feel free to check it out. Thank you for reading.

Chapter 2: Embracing the Unknown

In the quest for understanding life and death, we often turn to stories that resonate deeply within us. One such narrative is captured in the documentary, Amongst White Clouds, which explores themes of Zen and the human experience.

This documentary offers a profound look into the complexities of life through the lens of Zen philosophy.

In a similar vein, the official trailer for Amongst White Clouds captures the essence of this journey, inviting viewers to reflect on their own paths.