Dear Dad
Written by Tiffany Luke, who lost her father to ALS
May 21, 2026
Dear Dad,
You died on a Sunday. It was cold and windy, but the sun was beaming brightly against your beloved banana trees, gently swaying in the backyard.
You’ve always been a punctual man by nature. You died at 5 o’clock, almost to the minute. Hours before, I helped you get ready for the last time. Your morning rituals, unchanged. Teeth brushed, hair combed, face cream applied, cologne sprayed.
We put on your favorite orange shirt.
The months leading up to your passing were incredibly difficult. I felt like we were thrown into a storm that just wouldn’t pass. Oftentimes, I felt like you were drowning and I was desperately trying to rescue you to safety. What’s interesting about that is, for all my life, you were the one always protecting me; rescuing me.
When I was little, you never got mad when you’d have to come pick me up in the middle of the night when I’d have sleepovers at Anu’s house.
When I was a new nurse working long shifts at the hospital, you’d always have a delicious dinner ready for me as soon as I came home, knowing I probably did not take a lunch break.
When I was a stressed-out new Mom, I couldn’t get Sophia to stop crying in the backseat on the way to a doctor’s appointment, so you met me in the parking lot to help me because, at that point, I, too, was crying.
So, I find myself wondering…why did life have to be so cruel and give you this awful disease?
Intuitively, our family jumped into overdrive and began our journey with you, navigating this disease. As much as you felt like a burden, and you often told us, please know, it was my absolute honor to take care of you.
To be able to give back all those years of protection and love to the very person who taught me how to do it in the first place.
I watched you take on unimaginable changes to your body and mind. All the while keeping your love for those around you at the forefront as our beacon of light in this incredibly dark time.
If I had to guess, I’d say a huge driving force of motivation for you was your grandchildren. Your love for Sophia and Isaac was so uniquely beautiful. A new dress for Sophia, sweets for Isaac. My heart breaks knowing my children were robbed of their time with you.
Dad, I am angry. I am sad. I am figuring out how to live in a world where you aren’t physically here. But I promise you this: I will carry you forward. I will live honestly. I will love deeply. And I will let this grief teach me, not harden me.
I hope you know how hard you fought. I hope you know we saw it. We felt it. We will carry it with us. I promise to tell your story honestly—without softening the truth, without making ALS seem smaller than it is.
Thank you for being my dad. Thank you for your strength, your love, and your presence in my life. I miss you more than words can say—and I will love you for the rest of my life.
You didn’t lose this battle. You finished it.
Days before passing, you said you would come back to us as a grasshopper or a butterfly. So, now, every time a butterfly passes by, or a grasshopper shows up out of nowhere, I’ll smile and think…he’s still fighting. Just differently.
Dad, you fought bravely. You loved deeply. And you will never be remembered for how you died… but for how fiercely you lived.
Love, Tiffany
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