Standing over my father’s body, my palm encompassing his sternum, I tell him, “You sneaky fuck, you knew exactly what you were doing.” He had predicted his own death, knew it was on the way, and had been telling me every chance he had. What I didn’t grasp was that we were always alone, and now, after his death, I realized he was only telling me.

Whether he meant to protect my mother from the agony of losing him before he died, or of his need to have control over his own death, it was his best-kept secret I didn’t know I held. My father was always the man who wanted to be left alone. The idea of living past his human need was senseless to him, and he would go on about a heart attack being the best way to exit; he didn’t want to survive one.

Reading over his medical records from last year, it became clear to me that he knew he was worsening and wanted nothing to do with fixing it. The information of his departure against medical advice, omitting his follow-up appointment results, and telling everyone he was okay has become his final statement to his loved ones.

I hear you, Dad.

How do you tell the ones who love you that you’ve accepted your end? How do you tell someone who refuses to see reality that she will soon have to face it? Death is not something to fear; we both knew this. It’s why he asked me not to intervene had I been in the house, a fact I thought everyone else knew.

As I looked down at him, wearing the hospital gown, lines still in his arm, he was clearly smirking. He had achieved what he set out to do, and I smiled and said, “Smart Man.”