I just watched my father die.

Unfortunately it was over video chat while I sat at Gatwick airport. Fortunately, my siblings and mother were with him, and we all got to say goodbye, and tell him that we love him, and watch his last gasps for breath slow… slow… and stop.

And I want to write. Why? I’m not a writer, but that’s my first instinct. To put something down about the tragedy of this moment. Because my father is a nobody, and he is flawed and broken, but he is also everything that is good in this world; watching him die is like taking one more step to the edge of the abyss, away from the things that are good, and wholesome, and right.

One of the EMTs who is in the room takes a moment to give condolences to each one of us. She leans down in front of the tablet and says to me: “I’m sorry for your loss. It’s never easy.” She has said this a thousand times before, I am sure; yet there is a softness in her eyes that tells me that she always means it. I respond, eyes red and face blotchy, with an honest smile for her kindness. It doesn’t make me feel better; it barely registers against the tide of grief that looms over all of us, threatening to crash down and send us tumbling.

I want to write about this too. This brief moment, where I am forced to respond. It is important. It has something to do with my father. With me. With the good.

It has been 36 minutes since the EMTs took his pulse and let us know it was over. My mind won’t stop racing, even as tears rush up, then down, at regular intervals and seemingly without reason.

If this happened to someone else, my father would have told us to smile. He would have made us go and say “I’m sorry for your loss.” Forcing your kids to be polite; it’s the kind of thing that seems too outdated, too inauthentic, too old-world. It’s the same thing that made me get up and leave my seat open on the train this morning when it became full. It’s kind, meaningless actions that we are supposed to do… just because. The world has moved on, the gunslinger would say. And it has. Traditional Western values are demonized as archaic. We are expected to tiptoe around each other in fear of offence. Chivalry is oppression. The majority will not hold open a door, or allow someone to cut in, or smile at a stranger on the street.

The EMT’s kind words were small, and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. And yet her brief moment of effort, of kindness, forced me to see a spark in a world of black. It forced me to respond. It forced me to smile back, to return kindness for kindness, to wake up to a small piece of beauty in the midst of desolation.

Then it clicks. My father is – was, I have to get use to that – a good, decent man. He forced those things on us, because those small things MAKE good men and women. He forced us to hold open doors, to smile, to shake hands. He forced us to clean up after ourselves, to do chores, to chew with our mouths closed. He forced us to clean, then pointed out the spots we missed, then clean it all again until it was actually clean. He forced us to resent him by making things difficult for us. He forced me to re-write a story in 3rd grade. 3 times. Because my writing wasn’t neat enough. To rake the leaves in the back alley when I was 17, for no rational reason. I used to think this forcing was cruel.

And he was present, and he smiled and laughed. And he held doors open. And he chewed with his mouth closed. And he worked his ass off. And enjoyed food, and company, and his family. And he drove us to every soccer game, camping trip, dance class, scout meeting, and parent-teacher interview. He worked at crap jobs and earned his way up, carrying his family on his shoulders. He never complained, and made sure we didn’t either.

What I am seeing is that he forced us to all those things because he knew, on one level or another, that being a good man or woman is something that must be earned. Over and over, a hundred times a day, by picking the good, the right, the difficult. By worrying about others and putting them first; holding doors, and covering your mouth, and showing patience are all small, insignificant choices to this end. He forced us to do these things because working hard is a practice, and one that makes us better. Struggling through crap and pain and unfairness is the right way to wade through life – because the only alternative is to give in and hope someone carries you. He forced us to build these habits so that our natural, instinctive response would be to choose the good. Like he did, over and over, day after day.

He chose family. He chose working hard. He chose laughter. He chose sacrifice. He chose wisdom. He chose balance. These are all things that are not easy. It’s easier to choose self over family. To be the victim instead of just putting in elbow grease. To whine about equity instead of finding joy in the moment. To demand from others instead of giving away what’s mine. To rush in with judgement instead of showing patience or understanding. To trade our future for a bit more pleasure today.

It’s easier to pretend to be good and decent, without actually making any of the hard choices needed. My father took some of that out of our hands, by forcing us to make the hard choices, so we could sit back and reap the rewards.

And we do reap. All of us know the sense of Pride in achievement, in a job well done. The stability of a family surrounding you. The friendships and validation that come from being respectful and caring. He forced us down that path, and I will ever be grateful.

My father is – was – a nobody. But he made the world better. I can say that with surety. His time here was, by and large, used to create, to grow, to build, to lift up. The world was actively made better through his efforts – not just his presence, but through his conscious and repeated working out the good in his world. And now his children are doing the same, and hopefully their children after them. Drops in the bucket, maybe. Small sparks in a universe of dark. A few meaningless words to a stranger in the midst of their pain. But those sparks can force others to see beauty, to respond in kind, and to bring out more good in the world. If we are willing to put in the effort, do the work, over and over again.

It’s been 75 minutes since he took his last breaths. Guess it’s time to get back to work.