The Last Lecture

The Last Lecture
59
Dreams for My Children
T HERE ARE so many things I want to tell my children, and right
now, they’re too young to understand. Dylan just turned six. Logan is
three. Chloe is eighteen months old. I want the kids to know who I
am, what I’ve always believed in, and all the ways in which I’ve come to
love them. Given their ages, so much of this would be over their heads.
I wish the kids could understand how desperately I don’t want to
leave them.
Jai and I haven’t even told them yet that I’m dying. We’ve been
advised that we should wait until I’m more symptomatic. Right now,
though I’ve been given just months to live, I still look pretty healthy.
And so my kids remain unaware that in my every encounter with them
I’m saying goodbye.
It pains me to think that when they’re older, they won’t have a
father. When I cry in the shower, I’m not usually thinking, “I won’t get
to see them do this” or “I won’t get to see them do that.” I’m thinking
about the kids not having a father. I’m focused more on what they’re
going to lose than on what I’m going to lose. Yes, a percentage of my
sadness is, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t…” But a bigger part of me grieves for
them. I keep thinking, “They won’t…they won’t…they won’t.” That’s
what chews me up inside, when I let it.
I know their memories of me may be fuzzy. That’s why I’m trying
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