I asked my dad to write my wedding speech after he was given 6 months to live. I'm holding on to it for my special day.
My dad told me doctors had found a tumor, and he only had six months to live.
I was 22 and still hadn't lost any family members, so it was a shock.
He wrote my wedding speech, and I only found it after he died.
I remember the moment my dad told me he had six months to live like it was yesterday. I was sprawled out on the cushiony sofa bed he'd furnished in the corner of his log cabin at the bottom of the garden. On a warm, quiet Sunday morning in mid-March, I was taking respite to the sound of olive-green goldcrests tweeting away in the nearby tree.
I glanced outside to see my dad, two cups of tea in hand. He made his way into the cabin, our dog, Monty, plodding along behind him. We often spent mornings like this: sipping tea and chatting away to escape the burden of everyday life. But this time, there was a heaviness to him.
He smiled nervously as he came over and handed me a mug. "Lar, we need to have a chat," he said, hovering beside the edge of the bed. "I've received some news. It's not good."
He was given 6 months to live
He sat next to me; my heart was pounding. I remember how sick I felt.
"I've got a tumor that is spreading from my bowel. Although we can try chemo, it is terminal. The doctors have given me a six-month prognosis," he said.
Whatever came next was a foggy, disorientating blur of hysterical crying, shortness of breath, and sheer panic.
This is one of those moments in life that nothing can prepare you for. At 22, I still had all four grandparents, who seemed blessed with health and longevity. The closest thing to me I'd lost was my tortoise, Luigi, when I was 10 years old. I had no prior resilience to lean on to process this catastrophic news.
What felt like hours later, I began to run out of tears. My throat was hurt from the wailing. Wrapped in the comforting arms of my dad, I blurted, "Dad, you're not going to walk me down the aisle one day."
My dad had similar experiences with my three other siblings — who all reacted to the news differently. Over the next week or so, my way of processing was to write in a journal to release the bursts of the pain I was experiencing. With foresight, I forced myself to think about what I needed from my dad before he died. After all, time was not on our side.
I kept thinking of my hypothetical wedding day
Every time I sat down to write, I returned to the vivid and hypothetical image of my wedding day. It's like the universe wanted me to come to terms with the gut-wrenching idea of my dad not giving me away. This was something I'd romanticized since such a young age: a vision I believed no doubt would come true.
During one sleepless night, it hit me. I wanted to create a keepsake where my dad and I could write letters, share memories, and process our feelings together. I found a tattered old notebook and wrote my first letter to him. I sobbed as the sunrise slowly peeped through my bedroom curtain. The very first thing I asked him at the end of the letter, ink smudged with tears, was if he could write his wedding speech for me. I left the letter in the cabin the next day.
Dad responded lovingly — but not to the part about the speech. Months went by, and Dad's health deteriorated. As expected, his body rejected the chemo. There was no sign of a speech, and I accepted that perhaps this was too much to ask. It got to the point where he started to lose control of his limbs and couldn't talk, so our letters to each other became more and more sparse.
"That's OK," I thought to myself. "It was brave of me to ask."
I found the speech he wrote for me after he died
It was a hot summer's morning, the day my dad died in the care of our local hospice. He'd been there for three weeks, in a lot of pain, stabilized by a lot of morphine, and surrounded by his family. He clung on, quite literally, for dear life before peacefully surrendering beside those he loved most.
Later that day, as we navigated the flurry of peace lilies, "sorry for your loss" messages, and a stack of homemade lasagnas we didn't have the appetite to eat, we came across his will in a pile of his things. As a family, we opened it together around the kitchen table. Among pages of financial practicalities and funeral wishes was a folder of white envelopes addressed to each of us: his wife and four children. The front of mine read, "Lar..." On the back: "Your wedding speech."
To this day, the envelope remains sealed, tucked away at the bottom of my "Dad box" — along with the notebook we shared, photo albums of memories, and a collection of swimming medals he wanted me to show his grandkids one day.
Having this treasured sentiment to be shared on what I deem to be the most special day of my life is invaluable for my grieving process — even if it doesn't make up for the fact he won't be physically by my side on my wedding day.
I often sit alone in his cabin, soaking in the rays of sunshine glistening through the trees. Mug of tea in hand, I feel comforted by the intuitive, knowing that he'll always be with me in some capacity.
Over four years later, I feel glimpses of the peaceful moments we shared in his garden before our lives turned upside down. For those moments, I am unfathomably grateful.
Lara Rodwell is the author of the guided grief journal "From Prognosis to Peace: Navigating Grief through Gratitude, Discovery and Healing," inspired by the notebook she shared with her dad, which is available on Amazon and other book retailers.
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