My dad just called to tell me that my uncle, who has an aggressive form of cancer as a result of Agent Orange exposure from serving in Vietnam, is being moved to hospice. As terrible as that is, the worst part to me is that no one can visit him for a final time.

Not his kids, not his wife. Certainly not my dad.

So, knowing that his days are numbered, and that he will soon die alone, my uncle who is still of clear mind, had to call my dad.

He had to say his final goodbyes, of course, but he also had to tell him the nuances of his boat lift. The new snow blower’s warranty. Where some random thing is in the garage.

He wanted to tell him the uniquely quirky things about his home, these things that comprise his life, to be sure someone else knows about them. To make his wife’s life without him easier.

Listening to my dad recount their final conversation, I can’t imagine what was going through either of their minds during that call.

For my dad, the enormous weight of listening to the dying man on the other end of the phone, lending compassion and saying his own final farewell while trying to absorb every single detail about winterizing the boat dock.

For my uncle, sorting through decades of his own life, parsing out the things he felt someone else should know about after he’s gone. Things that were immediately relevant yet seemingly transactional.

I mean this very sincerely- I imagine it’s like that feeling before hosting thanksgiving dinner when your spouse calls you from the grocery store as they’re picking up last-minute items.. “are you sure that’s everything?” “We don’t need anything else?” “Do we have enough butter?”

And you frantically eyeball the fridge and the pantry and the stove and try to walk through every moment of the event to come because this is your chance to catch something you may have missed earlier. That feeling times a million.

So I sit here tonight, reflecting on those things. The things about daily life that are uniquely mine and things I never think to mention to anyone because they seem so minute.

But those things make up our lives. They are ours. They might be what we care about in our final moments.

And someone else should know.