Dad was a truly special man. Even in his last days, when he was barely able to type on his phone to communicate with us, he retained his good spirit and sense of humour. It baffled me how someone in so much agony and distress could find anything to laugh about, but that is testament to the man he was: always finding light in the darkness. In his world, every cloud had a silver lining.

I will always remember the day he was laying in the hospital bed and told us that he wanted to be discharged to the hospice. He didn't want to go home. He'd had enough. He felt his time on Earth was coming to an end, and he wanted, more than anything, to be comfortable. And he didn't want to die in hospital, chained to machines. After about ten painstaking minutes of trying to type out a simple sentence onto his phone, he managed to say 'I think I'm ready to go to the departure lounge.' The tears came and refused to stop. How could someone in his position be cracking jokes? He made the nurses laugh and cry, and it reminded me of how he used to say that we are all 'tourists on Earth'; eventually, we would all have to get off at a stop.

We wanted him to be comfortable too, but were also desperate for him to hang on, however long he had. No goodbye ever felt final, no embrace ever felt long enough to let him go. It was tough accepting that he wasn't going to return home, but we all agreed it was necessary to respect his decision. The year before, around the time of my wedding, he had decided he didn't want a feeding tube fitted into his stomach, arguing that if his condition ever deteriorated to a stage where he couldn't eat naturally, he would consider his quality of life too low to be worth prolonging.

The arrangements for the transfer to the hospice were made, and the doctor's assessment was planned for the morning of Saturday 16th June. Unfortunately, Dad never made it to the hospice: he took his last breath at around 10.30pm on Friday 15th June, surrounded by all his family. He never did like being late for a flight.