I remember the exact day when I found out he had cancer. I was home on fall break, in the car with my mom when her phone rang.

It was my dad.

I watched as her face fell and she started spouting off medical questions and words of comfort.

Hanging up, she turned to me and told me that our close family friend, Fr. Thom had brain cancer. It was aggressive and made the outcome of death not really an if, but a when.

Fr. Thom had been my dad's childhood priest and Catholic school principal growing up. In the little town of Huntington, IN, he was well-known for being a kind man, giving up everything for someone else without hesitation.

Like the time he let my seventeen- year-old Uncle Steve drive his brand new Berlinetta Camaro.

After my dad left the boonies aka Huntington, they lost touch.

This all changed my seventh grade year when Fr. Thom had some legal allegations thrust upon him. He called my dad, a lawyer, who immediately took up the case.

And that is what brought him into my family's life.

After the (false) allegations, his close-knit community of friends began to thin.

He lost his parish, the majority of his diocesan paycheck, and unfortunately some of his spirit. No charges were ever filed, but the truth was that it didn't even matter. The damage was done.

My family took him under our wing, inviting him to family dinners, birthday parties, and cookouts.

Those closest to him knew him to be an avid cook, a lover of cocker spaniels, and an intense researcher.

Flash forward to this year.

He was diagnosed with cancer in October and my father accompanied him to every doctor's visit.

As though the attorney, father of four, does not have enough on his plate..

With a multitude of other health issues, he started being admitted, released, and readmitted to the hospital.

I went with my mom and dad to see him Christmas Night. He was asleep from all the drugs in his system, but he still looked the same.

Even with a bald head.

Even lying in a hospital bed.

He was still the man with the toothy grin who brought his three cocker spaniels over for dinner from time to time.

He was still the cook who would, without hesitation, tell my mom her lasagna was not truly Italian cuisine.

He was still the priest who told me that there were some theological historians who believed dogs went to heaven.

--

He died a few days after Christmas.

My dad was with him.

For some reason after his death I thought it would all stop. My dad could take a breath and remember his friend.

Wow--if I knew how wrong I was.

First, we had to plan the viewing and the funeral.

My brother, my mom, and my dad, and I walked his casket down the aisle and sat in the front row where the family would sit.

Next, was the estate. My dad was the executor and handled it all. Thankfully our neighbor Linda helped out. She was a god-send.

All of the estate's earning would be donated to Fr. Thom's choice of charities.

Finally, came the house.

When first walking in to Fr. Thom's mid-century modern home, one might think "Oh, I don't think there's too much work that needs to be done."

Well that person is foolish and ignorant of how real estate works.

Everything had to be cleaned, updated, cleaned again, painted, and probably cleaned again.

The list of things that I did included: cleaning a bathroom walls and ceiling, scouring a shower that had never seen a scrub brush, stripping wallpaper, planting flowers, lining cabinets with liner, and cleaning out the garage.

I probably did the least of my family. Compared to my dad, I did nothing.

He took this project on with the strength of an army.

He only hired people for things that he would be ridiculous to even attempt, i.e. installing countertop.

He picked out paint colors, flooring, appliances, lighting all while working full-time.

To say that this project has been stressful, is an understatement of the century. My mom and our neighbor Linda have been invaluable assets to him, but a man can only take so much. This whole summer it has been the house 24/7 as it constantly weighs on him.

The thing is that he didn't have to do this. Fr. Thom didn't ask him to redo his house. He didn't ask that all the appliances be stainless steel. He wouldn't of cared if the landscaping added curb appeal!

But, my dad did it because he felt obligated too.

It was almost like an unspoken promise to an old friend.

On August 7, the house was officially listed to sell.

Our neighbor Linda did an impeccable job on the write up of the house describing,

"This mid-century modern ranch overlooks scenic Indian Village Boulevard from floor-to-ceiling windows beneath beamed Arts & Crafts cathedral ceilings. The open-concept living and dining space has a centerpiece three-side stone fireplace in distinctive sandstone tones. This post-war, baby-boom 1950s ranch offers mid-mod utility, richly stained wood architecture, built-in bookcases and an updated gourmet kitchen with gleaming black granite countertops."

Hower, I am mostly partial to how much the shower gleams in the moonlight.

My dad put his heart and soul into this house and it looks sensational.

So, if you're looking for a new home or just weirdly obsessed with looking at houses like me, check out the link below!

https://www.zillow.com/homes/for_sale/Indian-Village-Fort-Wayne-IN/73189424_zpid/142540_rid/globalrelevanceex_sort/41.061151,-85.156467,41.037655,-85.187367_rect/14_zm/

Good job, Daddy-O.