Death would probably be easy, dying was the hard part.

It took a toll on our own health, especially my mother, his primary caregiver. The challenge of care and commitment was overwhelming, yet sadly expected. I often thought of the thousands of other caregivers, laboring in silence, suffering in their own ways, still wanting to believe caring for a loved one was a privilege.

Dad knew he had become a burden. He struggled with his own sense of worth. Part of his dignity was lost, although we sometimes found meaning in the little things that had become the hardest to endure.

Dad loved getting a bath and he looked like a kid, scrubbing himself with his good left hand, smiling as a stream of warm water danced off his head. Yet going to the bathroom was a daily struggle to maintain that sense of worth.

Some of the most basic aspects of life were hard. When we ignore their significance, we devalue their importance and we foster a culture of denial.

It's time caregivers tell their personal stories. By sharing intimate stories publicly, they acquire new meaning -- a type of legitimacy, a validation of their labor of love.

Caregivers, you are not alone. Growing old is not a secret and dying should not be hidden in whispers. It's easy to lose dignity when life is lost in seclusion.

I stayed up with my father the last night of his life. We had called hospice and they helped tremendously with pain management during his last weeks. Dad was suffering but still had some self-respect.

Some claim that at the very end of life, there's a burst of energy, a final surge of activity. Life's finale. That final night, Dad sat up and wanted to stand.

I helped him and on shaky legs he rose for a few minutes. Then he could no longer hold himself up and sat, leaning on the side of the bed. I was next to him and told him it was OK. Exhausted, he leaned on me.

Silently we sat in the dark. I could hear and feel his rapid breaths. He sighed. I patted him on the back. I asked if he wanted to lay down again and he nodded.

He lay peacefully as I watched him sleep. It was a role reversal: As a father, he had once watched over his sleeping son. Now it was my turn.

The next morning our daughter flew in from graduate school to see her grandfather. Her intention is to take over the farm one day.

One of Dad's final acts of life was to see his granddaughter, reach and grab to hold her hand. He gave a soft laugh, patted her hand and rolled over. Perhaps somehow he understood and was passing the farm onto the next generation, the next farmer who was planning to work these fields of gold.

I had made a promise to keep my father on the farm as long as I could. Over a decade ago, while recovering from this first stroke, we made a pact: I'd bring him back to the farm and he would never leave.

We were very fortunate that circumstances allowed us this opportunity. In the end, with family gathered around his bed, he died in his farm house. Promises made, and gratefully, promises kept. He could leave in peace.

Death was not a passive act -- we were all witness to his life at that moment. It will take years to process it all, but I sensed both a loss and an opportunity.

I no longer have a living father, yet will always remember him. With the gradual loss of warmth in his body, it was OK to miss him.