It's Hard Being a Human

I cannot find one word to describe him. Too many fill my head in such a torrential fashion.

Roughly five years ago, Henry started his journey on both Parkinson’s and Kidney Disease.

In the beginning, Henry was a dad who stepped up. By the end, Henry had been the dad who stepped in.

From day one, Henry loved me as his own. Just as he did everyone who came into his life. I spoke at his funeral and made mention of how he was such a surrogate dad, papa, and uncle to so many.

But somewhere along the way, I was one of his own. Though he never spoke ill of my own father, he cited many times that he was crazy and had no idea how a man could walk away from his own child, adult or not. Henry held me many times as I cried grown tears from a phone call, message, or lack thereof from my own dad.

Henry was a simple man. He believed in God, his country, his family, and hardwork. Give him some wood, nails, a hammer, and a saw and you would have no idea what you may come back to. He once built an entire wooden bench around his patio while my mom was at work “because he got bored.” That was years ago, and that bench still stand. Weathered and worn, but standing strong. Much like Henry, when he transitioned from this world.

Henry never met a stranger or made an enemy. His patience ran deep. Always there to answer the phone or a text. The first one there to help. Ready, willing, able, and having whatever tool or device you needed to fix whatever situation you had. Even if that tool was a hope and a prayer.

Henry was funny. Always playful with my mom. Quite literally, up until the end. Coining phrases we will forever throw around, like “You Damn It!” and “You better don’t!” when in the midst of play. On days when he could barely move from dialysis, he would “run” around the house with my child and laugh and play and rough house. He was a prankster. Always willing to fall victim to my pranks as well with no hard feelings.

Henry was a provider. He owned two businesses in his lifetime. Once retired, he drove for a local dealership and quickly took charge and led a team of drivers. My mother wanted for nothing. He was always looking for ways to put a smile on her face or a squeal in her voice. And often, so often, he did. He gave her everything that she had been deprived of in the past. Especially emotionally and mentally speaking.

Henry passed on 10/25/25 at approximately 4:20. My mother was holding his hand. He was surrounded by the people who needed to be there, the people he chose.

Henry was a good man. Losing him is an indescribable pain. One of the last deep conversations we had, days leading up to his death, he called me over and said: “Thank you for everything. It was an honor and a pleasure being your dad. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there to raise you the way you deserved to be raised. I’ll miss you and I promise, if I’m allowed, I’ll come back and visit you every chance I get.”

And he has..