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I checked out my dad. Then down at my phone. 10:32 pm. July 21. 2023.

My dad was gone.

On Friday night, I watched my father — my Superman — take his final breath. It was a moment of peace for a person at war for 3 years.

My dad was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer (glioblastoma) in 2020. Some doctors told him he had six months to live, at best. They gave him all of the grim stats, told him how his body would shut down, and plotted a future hell on earth.

At 65 years old, my dad was given a death sentence. But a funny thing happened.

My dad heard all of the negativity, and he selected to not listen. Instead of waiting for death, my dad leaned into optimism and got busy living.

He had brain surgery and did chemo and radiation. After treatments, he would lift weights or walk for miles. He adjusted his eating regimen, and my mom became his personal chef, making every part from scratch. My dad was a person on a mission. And the prize he chased wasn’t just time. It was quality of life and taking advantage of day by day.

Instead of preparing for the tip, he traveled the world, climbed mountains and skied down them, swam in oceans, and even did acro-yoga (if you happen to knew my dad, you’d know THAT man doesn’t do acro-yoga). None of those options were ever discussed within the cancer pamphlets.

For three years, death tapped my dad on the shoulder. But my dad gave the grim reaper the center finger, trained harder, walked farther, and ate healthier.

He did the unattainable by believing it was possible.

When cancer took away his ability to make use of his left arm, he trained his right arm to do more. Watching a 68-year-old man teach his non-dominant arm to make use of chopsticks is an art of pure determination.

When cancer took away vision in a single eye and limited his visual view in his other eye, he re-taught himself how you can read.

And when cancer left him unable to walk or bathe himself, despite the fact that he hated his limitations, he asked for help because that was the bravest and strongest thing he could do.

I watched my dad suffer, and I never heard him complain. Not once.

When my grandfather — his father — died just a few months ago at 95, I believed it’d break him. And when his 4 brothers had to observe him struggle to walk and talk and told him it was unfair, my dad remained steadfast:

He insisted the cancer was not unfair. Saying so would mean that his entire life was unfair, and he loved his life. He just hated the disease and thought it was terrible. And his job wasn’t to curse his life but to take advantage of it.

And for him, that meant an easy selection: either feel bad for yourself or do something to make your life the most effective you most likely can.

My dad got lucky. Sometimes people do every part right, and the disease still takes life far too fast. But with the time he had and the time he created, my dad didn’t think cancer would take him.

Even when he only had every week left, he would lie in his hospital bed and ask me how we’d get him to football games in the autumn. We each had season tickets to our beloved Colorado Buffaloes. They have been terrible for the past 15 years, but we still showed as much as every game and stayed till the tip. My dad was excited concerning the fall. Deion Sanders was bringing Prime Time to Boulder. He desired to be there on September ninth to see the primary victory on the trail to the best turnaround in college football history.

Some people thought he was crazy for talking about attending football games while in hospice. To me, it was just a part of his vision.

Arnold all the time talks about vision, and my dad also believed in it. And his vision didn’t include death. He envisioned himself in that stadium. And while he won’t make it, that vision helped him go farther than any doctor said he would.

None of you knew my dad. But he loved life a lot that he was unwilling to see his sickness as anything apart from one other obstacle he would overcome.

In my last conversation, my dad told me something I’ll always remember.

He talked about ending what I began — as a husband, as a father, as a friend, and in my work. We began Arnold’s Pump Club when his health began to rapidly decline. We didn’t discuss much about my work, but he told me he read every email and that I used to be doing something necessary.

In facing death, my dad believed the world needed more positivity. If there was anything he learned, it’s that optimism is the best way.

He then asked me how many individuals we reach every day. I told him 500,000.

He then asked what number of I wanted to succeed in. I told him 5 million.

And then he dropped the mic.

He said, “Adam, why put a limit on what you’ll be able to do? Where would I be if I did that after I was diagnosed?”

Man. My dad didn’t all the time have many words, however the ones he had were rattling good.

In the tip, my dad made his vision a reality. He stayed optimistic, bet on himself, and appreciated every day as if his life trusted it.

After I watched my dad take his last breath, I told him I used to be pleased with him. I kissed him on the brow, and I said, one last time, it was good to see him.