The dean announced, "Jeanette Blanc, graduate with honors, Doctor of Philosophy."

My heart pounded as my black gown flowed in tempo to my graduation march. I had done it! I felt as if I were floating as I crossed the stage, my hand extended to grasp my hard-won diploma. As my faculty advisor draped the white and gold hood about my shoulders, it was as if the moment slowed in time. I was keenly aware of the proud faces of my husband, our two-year-old son, and my mother. I blinked. Was that a tear glistening in my father's eye?

Dad was a tough, fifty-four-year old Vietnam vet who hid his emotions, but I could see his pride. His reaction confirmed that this was the most important accomplishment of my life. What I did not realize was that this would be one of the last memories I would ever have of my father's face.

Five days later, after all the hugs, celebrations, and congratulations, I rose to meet the dawn. Wrapped in my warm housecoat, I sat down at the table to share a cup of coffee with my father, before he and Mom left for their long drive home in separate directions. As we sat in the early quietness, my father leaned forward and placed his hand on mine.

"Jeanette, I was not a good father to you," he said. "I made so many mistakes. If I could do it all again, I would. But when I watched you walk across that stage, I saw you do something I never did. You embraced life. I'm so proud of you." He sighed and looked down at his wrinkled hand over mine. "It's too late for me. Even though I've been sober for three years and I've guit smoking, there's no time left to start over."

That's not true, I wanted to say. Yet the words wouldn't come. I could see the tired lines etched in his pale face beneath the fringes of his white hair. When had he gotten so old? I wondered.

My eyes followed him as he stood and walked across the room. When he turned back to look at me, his eyes seemed filled with regret. For a moment, we seemed to be frozen in time. Then as if to prove his final words, his body slowly began to fall, crashing to the floor.

"Dad!" I screamed.

Desperately, I dialed 9-1-1. I gave him CPR for the fifteen minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive. The EMTs applied their defibrillator, jolting his body again and again, but it was no use.

"We're sorry. He's gone," they finally told me

Grief overwhelmed me as I covered my face with my hands and wept. I was angry with myself for not being able to save Dad, to give him a second chance. But, most of all, my anger was directed at him. "Why did you wait so long to live?" I muttered as they covered his face with a sheet. But the time for words was over. Our time together was gone.

I grappled with my anger and despair for some time. But as the weeks melted into months, I chose to forgive both myself and my father, to let go of my bitterness. Now I cling to the lesson Dad taught me in his final moment. His legacy was to remind me how short life truly is. I now know I can't waste the time I have been given here on earth. I must set goals and be and do all I can to make a difference in the world.

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