I almost lost my father twice. It taught me to live in the moment.

Nothing warned me of the news that awaited at home as I climbed the hill from my bus stop on a Tuesday in the final months of my senior year of high school.

Two cars in the driveway were the first sign that the sunny skies above were simply teasing me.

Entering the doorway, my father met me.

His words turned the bright day dark. “I have cancer,” he said. “But I’m going to be OK.” His certainty that a rocky period of treatment would lead to smoother, healthier days was reassuring.

But fear settled deep within me, and it never fully dissipated.

Stage 4 tongue cancer had silently spread to the lymph nodes in his neck.

The next few months were filled with appointments for radiation treatments, chemotherapy, and finally, a neck dissection to surgically remove his lymph nodes.

In the thick of treatment, swallowing became challenging, and fatigue replaced his spark.

He continued working, taking naps in the afternoons as needed.

For the first time, I saw the strongest person in my life vulnerable and delicate.

Moving cautiously into my final months of childhood, a cloud hovered over me through final exams, a senior class trip to Disney, and finally prom.

He survived, but the fear of losing him continued following me like a shadow, every now and then reminding me that life can collapse on a sunny Tuesday.

The treatment saved him and gave us years of memories.

From high school graduation to college and graduate school commencements, I never forgot how I almost lost him.

Walking down the aisle on my wedding day, my parents by my side, I remembered again that I was indebted to the universe for giving me what it knew I could never live without.

And watching him be a grandfather to my boys for the last 14 years, I couldn’t imagine who they would be without his calm reactions, repetitive humor, and exemplary advice.

They’ll be better men for having known him.

Over the last few years, the damage caused by radiation has worsened.

From untreatable labile blood pressure from damage to his carotid artery, to an inability to swallow, to a hoarsened voice making communication effortful, to nerve damage limiting his arm use, there’s not much that the radiation didn’t touch.

Often, I criticize the treatment for taking so much from him, but then I recall the memories — the times we went apple picking, when he helped us build a climbing dome in our yard, summers at the beach and winters in the mountains, our father-daughter dance at my son’s bar mitzvah, the cruise we enjoyed last summer — and I quickly realize it was the treatment that gave us this time.

It came with collateral damage, but it gave me him, and for that I am thankful.

In April, he had a feeding tube placed because swallowing food and large quantities of liquid is no longer safe.

A couple of days later, he became weakened as blood filled the tube.

That morning, too unstable to stand, an ambulance took him to the emergency room, where he was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit for internal bleeding.

Six units of blood stabilized him before they could begin to determine the cause.

With the doctors unable to administer nutrition safely without yet knowing the cause of the bleeding, I watched my already slim father supported only with fluid.

The fear that had settled deep within me two decades ago erupted once again.

When he was treated for cancer, seeing him daily was the reassurance I needed.

Now, with children at home, I couldn’t be as present.

I knew my mother was there, but I wanted to see him with my own eyes.

After so many years of the fear of losing him fading gradually, suddenly it was as if I were 17 again, hearing the news that once shattered me into a million pieces.

I am 25 years older now, but it’s not any easier.

Three days later, they transferred him to a hospital better prepared to perform an endoscopy in his fragile airway, nutrition still unable to be given safely.

I wasn’t sure if this was it; if now was the time I’d have to learn to say goodbye. “I want you to know that I’ll always love you,” he said to my 14-year-old as we sat at his bedside awaiting his transfer. “And I’ll always love you,” I reminded him, my words trembling through tears.

Throughout his cancer treatment, my mother and I cried frequently.

He caught us each time we fell down the cataclysmic rabbit hole, imagining the loss of the one person who held us together.

We quickly reverted to our old dispositions.

After a week without nutrition as they searched for the cause of his bleeding, it was determined that the feeding tube placement had induced a small gastric ulcer.

It seemed implausible that a tiny sore almost took his life, but the blood loss was immense.

Slowly, as feeding resumed, he perked back up into the dad I’d always known. “I’m back,” he joked on FaceTime the morning he learned he’d be discharged.

Once more, my dad has dodged mortality.

Surviving despite everything he’s been through, he is still the strongest man I know.

As he reacclimates to life outside the hospital, again, the fear of losing him is slowly sinking back into place, a shadow on the outskirts of life.

But living in fear won’t protect me from the future moment I dread the most.

It simply dampens the time we have now.

I need to let it go to relish the present.

I know I can’t have my father forever, but I also know the blessing of resiliency after trauma, and I’m going to focus on that.

Finally, I’m letting go of the fear so I can bask in the memories we’re still making for as long as I can.