I asked my father to write my wedding speech before he died

• My father told me that the doctors found a tumor and that he only had six months to live.
• I was 22 and hadn’t lost a family member yet, so it was a shock.
• He wrote my wedding speech and I only found it after he died.

I remember the moment my father told me that he he had six months to live as if it was yesterday. I was lying on the cushioned sofa bed he had furnished in the corner of the log cabin at the back of the garden. On a warm, still Sunday morning in mid-March, I rested to the sound of olive-green goldcrests twittering in a nearby tree.

I glanced outside to see my father with two cups of tea in hand. He headed for the cabin, our dog, Monty, walking behind him. I often spent mornings like this – sipping tea and talking to escape the burden of everyday life. This time, however, there was a weight in him.

He smiled nervously as he came over and handed me a mug. “Lar, we need to talk,” he said, hovering over the edge of the bed. “I got some news. It’s not good.”

He was given 6 months to live

He sat down next to me; my heart was pounding. I remember how bad I felt.

“I have a tumor, I mean spreading from my gut. Although we can try chemo, it is terminal. The doctors gave me a prognosis of 6 months,” he said.

Whatever followed was a hazy, disorienting blur crying hystericallyshortness of breath and total panic.

This is one of those moments in life that nothing can prepare you for. At 22, I still had all four grandparents, with whom they seemed blessed health and longevity. The closest thing I’d ever lost to myself was my turtle, Luigi, when I was 10 years old. I had no previous resilience to lean on to process this catastrophic news.

What seemed like hours later, I started to run out of tears. My throat hurt from crying. Wrapped in my father’s comforting arms, I hurried to him, “Dad, you’re he’s not going to walk me down the aisle one day.”

My father had similar experiences with my other three siblings – who reacted differently to the news. For the next week, my way of processing was to write in a journal to release outbursts of pain I experienced. With foresight, I forced myself to think about what I needed from my father before he died. After all, it was time not on our side.

I kept thinking about my hypothetical wedding day

Every time I sat down to write, I returned to the vivid, hypothetical image of my wedding day. It’s as if the universe wanted me to come to terms with the heartbreaking idea that my father doesn’t reveal me. It’s something I romanticized from such a young age. A vision that I believed would undoubtedly come true.

During a 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 sturdy old notebook and wrote my first letter to it. I sobbed as the sunrise slowly peeked through my bedroom curtain. The first thing I asked at the end of the letter, with tear-stained ink, was if he could write his wedding speech for me. I left the letter in the cabin the next day.

Dad answered with love, but not the part about the speech. Months passed and the father’s health deteriorated. As expected, his body rejected the chemotherapy. There was no sign of speech and I accepted that maybe that was too much to ask. It got to the point where he started losing control of his limbs and couldn’t speak, so our letters to each other became less and less frequent.

“It’s okay,” I told myself. “It was brave of me to ask.”

I found the speech he wrote for me after he died

It was a hot summer morning, the day my father died in the care of our local hospice. He had been there for three weeks – in a lot of pain, stabilized by a lot of morphine – surrounded by his family. He literally hung on for dear life before peacefully surrendering alongside those he loved most.

Later that day, as we navigated through the wave of peace lilies, “sorry for your loss” messages, and a stack of homemade lasagna we didn’t feel like eating, we came across his will in a pile of things. As a family, we opened it together around the kitchen table. Among the pages of financial practicalities and funeral wishes was a folder with white envelopes addressed to each of us – his wife and four children. On my face it reads “Lar…”. On the back: “Your Wedding Speech.”

To this day, the envelope remains sealed, hidden at the bottom of “my dad’s box” — along with the notebook we shared, photo albums of memories, and a collection of swimming medals he wanted me to show off to his grandchildren one day.

Having this precious feeling to share on what I consider to be the most special day of my life is invaluable to my grieving process – even if it doesn’t make up for the fact that he won’t be there physically. by my side on my wedding day.

I often sit alone in his cabin, soaking in the sunlight shining through the trees. Mug of tea in hand, I feel comforted by the intuition knowing that he will always be with me in some capacity.

More than four years later, I feel memories of those quiet moments we shared in that garden. Before our lives turn upside down. For those moments, I am incredibly grateful.

Lara Rodwell is the author of Guided Grief Journal “From Prognosis to Peace: Navigating Grief Through Gratitude, Discovery, and Healing”inspired by the notebook she shared with her father. Available on Amazon and other booksellers.