The antiseptic smell of the hospital corridor hit me as I rushed towards my father's room, my heart pounding in my chest.

It’s September 9, 2009, and just moments ago, I had been sitting quietly in the back row of my school chapel during a weekly assembly.

I’m 12, an idealistic kid with a keen grasp of life’s possibilities. A never-ending sense of time. And a playful demeanor with a curiosity for life’s playground.

But, for the last 6 months, my Dad has been in a stoic battle with cancer. And it’s finally getting the better of him. It’s spread to his liver. And it’s terminal.

We don’t know how long he has, but it’s not long.

We’re halfway through the chapel service when I hear a whisper. It’s the school psychologist asking me to come with him, but he has my brother next to him. I wonder why.

I’m young, but old enough to quickly figure out what’s going on. I don’t want to believe it.

15 minutes pass, and we’re walking into the hospital. Half of my family and family friends are already here. My siblings and I are hurrying upstairs towards his room.

The Doctor gathers us before letting us in. He tells us Dad is still alive, but can’t speak. He can only hear, and is unlikely to survive the night.

He suggests we think of our favorite memories with Dad, what we’re grateful for about him, and what we’ll miss.

The three of us walk into the room, each about to take our turn to share with Dad. As the youngest, I’m first, and boy am I nervous. The last ten minutes I’ll ever speak to him loom before me like an insurmountable mountain.

Standing by his bedside, I look at my Dad. His once-strong frame seemed small and fragile against the white hospital sheets. I take a deep breath and begin to speak, my voice trembling.

"Dad," I start, "remember Coral Bay last year?" I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "When we caught that massive Wahoo? And we all shouted..." I pause, then with all the energy I can muster, "Wahooooooooo!"

Dad can’t speak, but I swear I hear a chuckle.

In that moment, the hospital room faded away, and we were back on that boat.

My Dad is an avid fisherman; has been all his life. There was no greater joy than being on the ocean with a boat full of fish.

The rest of my words tumbled out - memories, gratitude, love - but that shared moment of joy stood out like a beacon.

A few hours later, at 10:05 PM, he’s gone.

Can you imagine having 10 minutes to say anything to the person you love most before never seeing them again?

Imagine never getting the chance to say it.

How much worse would it feel knowing you have unsaid things you’ll never share with them?

Guess what? Some don’t.

Life is short and fleeting.

You might not be as lucky as I was to tell someone you love deeply that you do love them, appreciate them, are grateful for your favorite memory, would miss them, or are sorry for something.

This week, you have that chance. I implore you to take it.

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Remembering you on your 15th anniversary, Old Boy. Thanks for giving me the world.