I asked my dad to write my wedding speech after he was given 6 months to live. I’m holding on to..See More 👇

I remember the moment my dad told me he had six months to live like it was yesterday. I was sprawled out on the cushiony sofa bed he’d furnished in the corner of his log cabin at the bottom of the garden. On a warm, quiet Sunday morning in mid-March, I was taking respite to the sound of olive-green goldcrests tweeting away in the nearby tree.

My dad told me doctors had found a tumor, and he only had six months to live.
I was 22 and still hadn’t lost any family members, so it was a shock.
He wrote my wedding speech, and I only found it after he died.

I glanced outside to see my Dad, two cups of tea in hand. He made his way into the cabin, our dog Monty plodding along behind him. We often spent mornings like this — sipping tea and chatting away to escape the burden of everyday life. This time though, there was a heaviness to him.

He smiled nervously as he came over and handed me a mug. “Lar, we need to have a chat,” he said, hovering beside the edge of the bed. “I’ve received some news. It’s not good.”

He sat next to me; my heart was pounding. I remember how sick I felt.

“I’ve got a tumor that is spreading from my bowel. Although we can try chemo, it is terminal. The doctors have given me a 6-month prognosis,” he said.

Whatever came next was a foggy, disorientating blur of hysterical crying, shortness of breath, and sheer panic.

This is one of those moments in life that nothing can prepare you for. At 22, I still had all four grandparents, who seemed blessed with health and longevity. The closest thing to me I’d lost was my tortoise, Luigi, when I was 10 years old. I had no prior resilience to lean on to process this catastrophic news.

What felt like hours later, I began to run out of tears. My throat was hurt from the wailing. Wrapped in the comforting arms of my dad, I blurted, “Dad, you’re not going to walk me down the aisle one day.”

My dad had similar experiences with my three other siblings — who all reacted to the news differently. Over the next week or so, my way of processing was to write in a journal to release bursts of the pain I was experiencing. With foresight, I forced myself to think about what I needed from my dad before he died. After all, time was not on our side.

I kept thinking of my hypothetical wedding day
Every time I sat down to write, I returned to the vivid and hypothetical image of my wedding day. It’s like the universe wanted me to come to terms with the gut-wrenching idea of my dad not giving me away. This is something I’ve romanticized since such a young age. A vision I believed no doubt would come true.

During one sleepless night, it hit me. I wanted to create a keepsake where my dad and I could write letters, share memories and process our feelings, together. I found a tatty old notebook and wrote my first letter to him. I sobbed as the sunrise slowly peeped through my bedroom curtain. The very first thing I asked him at the end of the letter, ink smudged with tears, was if he could write his wedding speech for me. I left the letter in the cabin the next day.

Dad responded lovingly, but not the part about the speech. Months went by, and Dad’s health deteriorated. As expected, his body rejected the chemo. There was no sign of a speech, and I accepted that perhaps this was too much to ask. It got to the point where he started to lose control of his limbs, and couldn’t talk, so our letters to each other became more and more sparse.

I found the speech he wrote for me after he died
It was a hot summer’s morning, the day my dad died in the care of our local hospice. He’d been there for three weeks — in a lot of pain, stabilized by a lot of morphine — surrounded by his family. He clung on, quite literally, for dear life, before peacefully surrendering beside those he loved most.

Later that day, as we navigated the flurry of peace lilies, “sorry for your loss” messages and a stack of homemade lasagnas we didn’t have the appetite to eat, we came across his will in a pile of his things. As a family, we opened it together around the kitchen table. Amongst pages of financial practicalities and funeral wishes, there was a folder of white envelopes addressed to each of us – his wife and four children. On the front of mine read “Lar…”. On the back: “Your wedding speech.”

To this day, the envelope remains sealed, tucked away at the bottom of my “dad box” — along with the notebook we shared, photo albums of memories, and a collection of swimming medals he wanted me to show his grandkids one day.