Dad’s Last Climb
October 25, 1961 - June 24, 2023
Ervin Buba, Olivia’s dad and my father-in-law, passed away this Saturday morning after a two-month battle against pancreatic cancer.
Though this was a tragic and painful event, I believe in the universe that for every negative force there is an equally positive counterpart. Today, I want to share the beautiful moments I witnessed during Ervin’s final days.
He was a walking miracle. Despite doctors being amazed that he could still walk given how far the cancer had spread throughout his body based on his scans, Ervin flew across the world from his and Janette’s house in France to Houston to be with his daughters and family.
When I arrived in Houston and walked through the front door, Ervin was there making breakfast in the kitchen as if this horrific ordeal wasn’t our reality.
And over the next 6 weeks we made beautiful memories: attending Olivia's aunt's wedding in Dallas, celebrating Ervin and Janette's 40th wedding anniversary, enjoying an intimate outdoor pop-up concert, spending Memorial Day at the beach town Galvaston, and honoring him on Father's Day.
At each of these events, Ervin showed up as he always is: blunt, cheerful and cracking jokes.
Our reverie lasted until his health declined to the point where we had to call in hospice for end-of-life planning. We didn’t know it at the time, but it would be only 6 days from that initial meeting to his final breath.
During the nurse interview, Ervin voiced his wish to hold off on morphine and painkillers for as long as possible because they made him groggy and out of it. With tears in his eyes, he gestured to Rob and said that he just wanted to be aware enough to share meals with him. His fear wasn’t of death, but of the pain his passing would inflict on all of us.
This was when everything clicked for me.
Here was a man who didn't even take painkillers while getting his teeth drilled by the dentist. That’s how much he valued alertness and presence. It wasn’t that he was a walking miracle, but that the prize of gifting his family just a few more weeks of normalcy was worth the hell he was putting himself through.
Every time that he expressed “discomfort”, and every time I noticed him clenching the sofa arm rest was actually him grappling with immense pain. Despite losing his ability to digest and knowing that eating solid foods would further tax his weakening body, he smiled as he took bites out of the dinners that Olivia and Gabriella made for him.
He should have been bedridden since arriving in Houston, but he clung on with enormous will power, selflessly living for those he loved.
Only two days after standing and speaking coherently, Ervin fell into hospice care. Four days later, he was gone. He had been fighting harder and far longer than anyone realized – making precious memories even when it seemed impossible.
In his final moment, Ervin mustered the strength to smile one last time.
I had witnessed this same content expression when we trekked 100 miles together around the Alps. I knew then that he had just summited the highest mountain of his life and was waving to us from the peak.
You will always be remembered this way, Ervin. I’m proud to call you dad.
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