the last photograph I took with my father

My life was just beginning.

My dad’s was ending.

I just didn’t know it yet.

When my dad was diagnosed with leukemia I was 22 years old, six months from my wedding, getting ready to graduate college.

He was 49 years old, one to three years to live, sitting in his blue recliner. I crawled my adult body into his lap and cried.

He said he had no regrets. He wasn't afraid.

Over the next few months I had a simple prayer. I wanted my dad in my wedding pictures. I wanted something to hold, something to remember. Honestly, I wanted way more than that, but I allowed myself the glimmer of Polaroid hope.

All I could do was pray.

When cancer sits on your doorstep you are always waiting for the doorbell to ring.

I spent time in the hospital with my dad, sharing hot ham and cheese sandwiches, blow drying his hair, listening to dad jokes. All the normal things felt like last things. Time was on blue light special.

Dad was too sick to attend my college graduation - but he sent me a letter and a gold bracelet. He didn't usually write a lot. But this time he did. Bic blue pen on notebook paper. All capital letters.

One week until the wedding. He probably wouldn't make it, but I was still praying. I didn't want to be selfish. But I wanted him there.

The day of my wedding the hospital administration decided to foot the bill and transport my father to the wedding by ambulance so he could walk me down the aisle. The hospital was two hours away from the church. They made it happen anyway.

I had no idea he was coming.

We were taking photos when he walked in the back door. We. were. taking. photos. The entire wedding party looked at me. Then him. Then me. Then cried.

The suit was too big, his skin was too yellow. He limped a little when he walked.

But his smile. I remember running - veil, dress, mascara, a fluffy hot mess. All I wanted was to fling myself into his arms and get my real, live Polaroid moment, frozen in time forever.

He was here. Alive.

We took hundreds of family photos, but he walked me down the aisle with supernatural strength. He held my arm for the last time as the number one man in my life. Then, he gave me away.

Shortly after the ceremony, I hugged my father one last time and the ambulance whisked him back to the hospital. He hugged necks. Shook hands. Laughed. Cried. Then, we said good-bye.

We honeymooned on Mackinac Island, riding bicycles and inhaling chocolate fudge. We ordered pizza to our hotel room. I accidentally paid the delivery guy $100 instead of $10. I ordered Alaskan crab and dipped it in butter. My new husband held my hand.

We felt like royalty. Free. Happy.

On the very last day of our honeymoon, I was in the shower shaving when cancer finally rang our doorbell for the last time. We shoved our things in the little black Honda and headed home.

We had 24 hours with my father, singing old church hymns. His body was failing. We whispered that it was okay. He could go now.

His breath rattled. His eyes closed. It was peaceful.

I kissed him goodbye. I cut a small piece of his hair and put it in a zip lock bag with the graduation letter he wrote me just a week earlier. That zip lock bag is in a locked fireproof safe next to the wedding picture negatives.

A prayer answered.

The miracle of my wedding feels like a Hallmark movie. Only it's real. And the ending isn't the one I would have picked. But I will forever keep the last photograph I took with my father.

And remember.