My Dad Died on May 15 and Joyfully Shared, "It’s A Place Where I Feel ‘ooooo’.”

We Had Different Political Views, He Appreciated My Voice and Seemed to Like This One Feminist

My dad died on May 15, 2025, after a 14-day hospice journey. This journey was brutal, and also beautiful. Although he died at 85 years old, long after he served in the Air Force from 1958 to 1964, I honor him on this Memorial Day. I use the word “journey,” as I might compare my experience to being with someone on an multi-day, 24-hour psilocybin trip complete with life enhancing insights for all involved. It confirmed something I already knew, and provided more evidence, that I was born to be a feminist.

Similar to many men of his generation, my father held some misogynistic beliefs. My dad’s political views, I should also add, differed from mine. As part of my commitment to listening, I do not cut off relationships based on political views. I am even willing to watch Fox News and I have no fear that it will change my future voting.

During his initial hospice days, my father asked for prayer, bible readings, and music. I am not Catholic, yet I read from a Catholic prayer book and a bible and recited the Our Father prayer. He appeared impressed as he popped into awareness and said, “You are good at this.” I said, “I know, dad, that is why I am going to be a priest.” He replied, “You can’t be a priest.” So I said, “Why not?” and my sisters chimed in, “Yeah dad, why can’t she be a priest?” Outnumbered, he entered a moment of reflection, then said, “Actually, I think you would be a good one. Maybe you will be the first.” Laughter erupted in the room. I won.

My dad was a criminal defense attorney and an excellent litigator. As such, he was prepared to be my father and would often say when I challenged him, “You will make an excellent lawyer someday.” I always felt my dad liked me, appreciated who I was, and he would tell me so. He encouraged my voice. He affirmed that during his journey, as he responded to something I said with, “Oh Lisa, you have always been my favorite. I just love you.” One sister with kids of her own erupted in laughter and said, “Did everyone hear that? Dad just declared Lisa as his favorite child.” I am sure we all have a unique standing, especially my only brother.

He lived in San Diego, a place he loved, until a few years ago when he moved to Kentucky to be closer to my brother and youngest sister. He had 6 children, and the four non-Kentucky kids all made the trip to see him in his last days. I have heard that no siblings have the same parents, and with a 15-year age span, that is true for me and my five siblings. We are all different people. My dad had only one son, also named Joe. My brother’s fiancé, and his childhood friend Jason, who was a regular in our childhood home, and now lives in Kentucky, were also with us.

My training as a psychotherapist, along with my meditation practice and somatic nervous system regulation experience, proved beneficial. Yet this may be the hardest thing I have ever done. Just like on a long meditation retreat, day two I was exhausted, day 4 I settled in and on all days I had profound insights and heart opening experiences. Minor squabbles between siblings, suggesting the projected anger of grief, briefly broke out and resolved quickly.

We thought it was going to be sooner. I arrived with one sister, who is an ICU nurse, and he even had her fooled. She expressed she wondered if the others would make it in time. “I want God,” he said in a tired voice. The hospice nurse told us it looked like it would be soon, so we called the priest, and he received his Last Rites. He recited the prayers along with the priest like the good altar boy and Catholic schoolboy he had been. After that, he said, “I am complete now,” “I want to go home,” “I am ready” and “Let’s go.”

But his journey was not complete, and it would be 12 more long days and nights. Perhaps his soul, spirit, and body had some work to do. In those days and nights, as he drifted in between worlds, in a liminal space, he sobbed, he sang, he shared his life regrets, and seemed to deliver more than his share of glimpses into another world. I felt high just being in the room, only leaving to shower and eat in the hospice break rooms. Preceded in death by his brother Noah, he said, “Why is Noah here?” Some statements he repeated many times, including, “Everything is beautiful” and “I am so happy.” In one moment we thought he must be leaving as he almost sat up and said, “yay, yay, yah” A couple times, he said, “I see a door.” If I am being honest, my thought was, “Walk through the fucking door, I am exhausted.”

In all of it, we saw glimpses of the joy of life still present. He wanted to listen to music to which he sang along and declared, “This is going to be a fun death.” He asked if we can have a dance party. My dad was social and had many hobbies and interests. He was an experienced horseman and horse trainer, a runner, and a black belt in karate.

Like all parents, my dad was not perfect. By not perfect, I will say in his defense that he never physically abused any of his kids, or my mother, and mother to all his children. I should specify “known” children, although my 23&Me results did not produce any unknown siblings. Beyond that, I will leave family matters as private.

To feel complete in his life, it was clear he needed to reconnect and heal with his children. He said, “I am sorry.” and we asked, “For what?” and he replied, “For everything.” It brought tears to everyone when he said, “I thought you all hated me.” After this process, and it was a process, he said, “I am glad we had this time. We really needed this.” We repeated over and over to him, “You are surrounded by love,” “Everything is resolved and ok,” and “God is with you.” In one moment where he appeared to be suffering for too long, I said, “Dad, you endured a lot of suffering in your life, haven’t you?” And he cried, “yes.” Not a dry face in the house. He repeated over and over, “I love you all.” With my dad in a liminal space, vulnerability, compassion, healing, and forgiveness happened and gave my dad the ability to end his life in peace. We children left with our own gifts of the heart.

It was heartbreaking to be a witness as he expressed his unresolved life issues. He voiced longings to see important people in his life, including my mother. We were all emotionally gutted and surprised by this. He whispered in his sleep, “I still love her.” His eyes lit up, and he seemed genuinely happy when I described my mom’s excellent assisted living situation and told him she likes it. My dad always could rejoice in the well-being of others. My parents separated when I was 13 years old and he never said a bad word about her.

I volunteered to be the one to sleep on the pull-out bed in his room. He seemed touched and said, “You love me so much you are willing to stay in my room?” In the first several days, he needed more nighttime nurse calls for pain medication and all he was capable of was whispers or moaning in pain. He would not have been able to push the button for himself. For the more critical nights, I arranged pillows across the beds, so I could hold his hand and he could squeeze when he needed something.

Over the nights, there were some profound and vulnerable moments, and the spiritual experience he was having seemed to permeate the energy of the room. “They’re above,” he repeatedly whispered and then just the word, “Infiniti.” “It’s a different place,” and my personal favorite, “It’s a place where I feel ‘ooooo’” singing the “ooooo” in a happy singing tone like he was a member of the Temptations.

One night, he seemed to think he needed to go somewhere and was quizzing me on what he was wearing and if it was appropriate. “What does my shirt look like?” “Do I have pants on?” “Are my shoes good for the rain?” “Am I ready to go?” I replied yes to all. Another moment of honesty experienced in my mind, “Yes dad, you are ready to go, please go as I am completely spent.” Perhaps I should not have lied about him being appropriately dressed as he challenged me. He held up his bare arm and declared that he did not have a shirt on. I told him he had a short-sleeve shirt on and he asked for a long sleeve shirt. Like a good litigator, he would not give up. I pulled two pillowcases over his arms and told him I put on his long-sleeve shirt. Raising his arm to observe the white pillowcase shirt, he said, “Oh, that is nice.”

In the middle of one night, his process appeared focused on my mom. He awoke, looked me in the eye and asked, “Is she warm?” Knowing who he was referring to, my voice broke as I replied, “Yes dad, she is warm.” He continued, “It’s so far, it’s so far. Why is there such a distance?” Then he was awake and asked me a question, “Does she live in a big house?” Then later awakening again, “Is it a big white house? I have heard people with near-death experiences report traveling to see loved ones and with no other way of knowing, report accurately what they saw. So I wondered, was he traveling to see my mom in her assisted living facility in San Diego, a big white house?

In a note my father wrote me upon my graduation with my bachelor’s degree, he said something that on my current life path has special meaning. He knew me better than I knew myself at that age when he said,

“I always thought you a special little spirit that I would never try to change and that somehow God knew that about me and said, ‘therefore she shall be your daughter because you will let that be. There is something special in you that will accompany you to all the happiness you ever desired if you will just believe in it as I do.”

Like many people that have had similar experiences of sharing someone’s final days, it served as a reminder of my spiritual beliefs and what matters. The Dalai Lama’s has said,

“My religion is kindness.”

Kindness is also my chosen religion. It is the core of my spiritual belief and practice. My dad’s support of me was kind. He did “let that be” and today I believe this was important to my retaining my voice and ability to speak out in response to injustice. He may not have shared my political views, or commitment to women’s rights, yet he sure liked how they manifested in me. I want to close by expressing my gratitude for all my dad gave me and for how he supported and encouraged me. Thank you.

To my dad, Joe Edward Tafolla, may you be at peace. You are loved.