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Editor’s Note: When a parent is in hospice, there may be wishes to voice things that have been unsaid and for your loved one to somehow return to at least a bit of their old selves, for conversations if nothing else. Dan Caldwell, a 76-year-old retired political science professor who died in January, gave his family that gift during the recent Southern California wildfires. His daughter Beth Caldwell, a Southwestern Law School professor, shared their story with the ABA Journal.

My father, Dan Caldwell, a distinguished professor emeritus at Pepperdine University, was diagnosed with an incurable form of blood cancer several years ago. We were very close. In fact, my husband; our two children, ages 9 and 11; and I lived with my parents in order to support them with their needs and spend as much quality time together as possible. We knew our time was limited given my dad’s cancer diagnosis; in addition, my mother has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. She is still very sharp and aware but cannot drive and needs some support with cooking meals and remembering daily tasks.

In the week leading up to the fire, my father’s body had started shutting down. He entered hospice care at our home in Pacific Palisades, which was where I had grown up and my parents lived for 46 years. By Tuesday, it seemed clear that his hours were numbered. He gathered me, my mom and my brother and sister around him on his bed, had us hold hands and said a poignant goodbye. He told us the word he wanted us to think of when we think about this experience is “aloha,” which means hello, goodbye and I love you all at once. My mother grew up in Hawaii, so this was a particularly meaningful concept for all of us. His eyes were rolling back in his head, and his breathing was labored. It was clear that the end was near.

And then we looked out of his bedroom window and saw flames in the hills. They were moving quickly down the hillside. My dad always told us that if you can see flames, a fire was dangerously close and you had to get out. But at the same time, in all of the 46 years we had lived in the Palisades, a fire had never come down the hill and into the town itself. We lived in a residential neighborhood, not in the hills, and evacuated in an abundance of caution a handful of times in our lives. But we didn’t think a fire could really reach our home.

We didn’t know if we could move my dad, how much pain it would cause him to move or if he would die during a car ride. We didn’t think we could really leave. Then the planes that my dad told us Canada generously lends to fight fires in the United States started flying very low right over our house, picking up water from the ocean, dumping it on the fire and circling back again. My father was aware enough to express his chagrin at the anti-immigrant sentiment so many Americans seem to have, in contrast to the generosity of Canada sending its planes to come to our aid in times of need. He undoubtedly would have felt similarly if he had known about Mexico’s generosity in sending its firefighters to aid a country whose leader has boasted about building a wall to divide us.

Then the kids’ schools called and said they were evacuating. I rushed to pick them up and brought them home. We kept watching the fire, sure that it would be extinguished soon. The wind was blowing toward the ocean, so the fire was moving in the opposite direction. But then the winds changed direction and the fire was headed toward us. We realized we had to leave. We started running around the house frantically grabbing things—some photo albums, a binder of important financial information my dad had prepared to guide us after his death, a few framed photos.

We were still running around grabbing things when my dad somehow appeared downstairs. He had gotten out of bed, gotten dressed, packed his wallet and medication in a bag and walked down the stairs on his own. We didn’t know how—he hadn’t been able to get out of bed without help before. He said, “It’s time to go,” and we left.

We drove about four hours to a family home in San Clemente, California. Somehow, my dad’s awareness kicked in during the ride. He gave my husband directions for shortcuts, informed by nearly 50 years of navigating Los Angeles traffic. He told my kids stories about his childhood and shared information about landmarks we passed. We listened to his favorite songs. He said he couldn’t believe how surreal it was to be close to death, in his bed and then all of a sudden be on a road trip with his grandkids.

Dan Caldwell on a family trip to Costa Rica.

When we made it to our home in San Clemente, he wanted to take “one last view” of the ocean, which you can see from the living room. It was his favorite view in the world. When we were on vacation in Hawaii and Costa Rica, he would often say, “This is great, but I would rather be on the deck in San Clemente.” He said goodnight and goodbye to my children, and I tucked him into the bed where he would die the next day.

He was spared the knowledge that his home had burned down. Spared the worry about what we would do without our home. And I am so grateful for that.

Losing our home with all of our possessions pales in comparison to losing my dad. But the things also matter. So many special mementos he had kept for his entire life to pass down to us—letters, photos, memories from our childhoods. Things from our grandparents, from our mother’s childhood. Scrapbooks from our parents’ youths, which, thankfully, we had looked through in the week before the fire because of our father’s impending death. We had spent a lot of time reminiscing and looking through these gems that are now all gone.

In the aftermath, the losses keep hitting us. Sometimes it’s something practical, like we realize we don’t have any socks. Other times it’s more devastating, like the illustrated children’s Bible my parents had read with us and I had just started reading with my son.

The semester had just started, and I shared what happened with my students in an announcement, in which I asked for some patience and empathy if I was slower to respond to emails than I otherwise would be. The outpouring of support from my students touched me profoundly. My father was a professor for more than 40 years, and every day since his death I have received emails from his former students talking about how much he touched their lives. And I’ve found correspondence he shared with his former students about how much they touched his life in return. I can only hope to have that kind of lasting impact—and relationships—with my students.

Beth Caldwell is a professor of law at the Southwestern Law School in Los Angeles, where she worked as a public defender before becoming a professor. She is the author of Deported Americans: Life After Deportation to Mexico, which was a 2021 finalist for a PEN/John Kenneth Galbraith Award for Nonfiction.

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This column reflects the opinions of the author and not necessarily the views of the ABA Journal—or the American Bar Association.