On the day my father died I was 1,200 miles away.
I had gone to the hospital the morning before in San Diego to visit him. In his room I held his hand, said a prayer, kissed his forehead, and told him I loved him.
I then left to catch a flight to Denver, where Simon Hoggart, the well-known British journalist (now a columnist with The Guardian), was to speak the next day to the public forum I run. Just before the luncheon event with Hoggart, I received a call that my dad had passed away that morning.
Simon had spoken for me several times in San Diego and Denver and we had become friends. I told him of my father's death, and he suggested we cancel the event. But that didn't seem right. I was quite sure my dad, whose name I bear, would have wanted the show to go on