The day before Dad died, he asked me for a favor. He was sitting up in his bed at the assisted living facility in Aubervilliers, a northern suburb of Paris. His olive green eyes looked gently in my direction. His skin had paled and his once round cheeks now showed the sharpness of his cheekbones. The website shows people in skintight leotards inside a kind of tube. A blast of air comes out of the ground and pushes them upward.
The people in the video smile as they float, parallel to the ground, arms and legs spread wide just a few feet in the air. I dialed the number on his phone, turned on the speakerphone and held it up to his mouth.
The man on the other side of the phone answered, and Dad, his voice frail from fatigue, asked if he could set up an appointment to go indoor skydiving. He argued that the surgery was a long time ago. Then, he tried one more gamble. While covering the Civil War in Lebanon, he joined the American Marines as they jumped out of helicopters over Beirut. The man asked if that was recently. Dad hesitated then answered. The employee was unmoved, so Dad admitted defeat, thanked him and hung up.
A little bit later, I gave him a hug, kissed his forehead, and said goodbye. It has been a few months now since Dad has passed away. I sat next to him on his last day. Unconscious, I held his hand as he took his last breaths in the hospital.
I was alone until my partner arrived in the late afternoon. Less than a half hour after she arrived, Dad took his last breath. Before Dad passed, I used to wake up, pack my bag and jet out the door. Throughout his illness, Dad was indefatigable. Even as his walking power waned — he went from a cane to a walker to a wheelchair — his enthusiasm and drive never diminished.
