My Dad died of cancer when I was 19. Poor bastard had a miserable shit life. When HE was 12 he lost most of his family in about the course of 2 hrs. They had a small farm, HIS dad had a heart attack and fell backwards into the hog pen. By the time his mother had come outside the hogs had done a number of my grandfathers face. She immediately checked out of the Hotel reality right then and there only to be followed by his sister moments later when SHE stumbled onto that scene. They would spend the rest of their lives in an asylum in Worcester. In the space of a day it was just him and his older brother with one choice. Go to work or go to the orphanage. They chose work. As a result, my dad never got an education and after his Air Force hitch married my mother and drove a forklift at a roofing shingle plant for the rest of his life. He worked rotating shifts, days, swings and overnights. he was always tired and always depressed. He loved his Sunday visits from his brother and The Red Sox. He never asked for much and was happy with the smallest kindness that life had to give. He loved it when he could afford steak and ate it any chance he got. He drove junk cars with no floors, taped his snorkel jacket back together to save money and never failed to put food on the table. I haven't had him around for almost 40 years now. He missed being able to visit my homes, know my wife or see what I've managed to get in my life. He suffered IN life and he suffered at the end of it. I'd give a lot just to be able to talk to him once more. He took all the shit life had to give and he never complained or dumped it on anyone else. He didn't have an enemy in the world. he was a good man and I miss him.