A remarkable man who accepted my lens, and whom I call my father. Now flies close to me as a feisty humming bird. Very fitting.

Some knew him as intelligent, witty, and a provocateur. He often bragged about his high IQ. As for me, as a daughter and care taker to some degree in his later years, I would say stubborn, cantankerous, short fused. Although now that I’ve had four years to reflect, most of his moods make sense to me now.

Imagine being told you have very few years left, of which may not be uncomfortable and to put your affairs in order. As the pain kicked in from his growing cancer so did his short fuse.

The day he realized getting on and off the boat was almost impossible, he opted for a motel room literally a stone throw away from me. I could see wether his light was on or off, wether he was working on a puzzle or watching TV. My favourite times with him was to have a stiff drink and help with the puzzles no matter how simplified they became near his end. He would be in awe on how quickly I could find the right pieces. Every time I heard an ambulance I would run to the window and see if it was his turn. It’s an odd feeling waiting for the axe to fall.

At some point in the motel room he came to terms with wishing to end his suffering and asked to sign the necessary papers for medical assistance in dying. It’s a two step process. He had to be of sound mind to sign the first round of papers with no set date.