Last year, on July 14th, I took the day off work to get a tattoo of my dad's initials on my wrist. Today, on July 14th, I will make breakfast, go to the gym, try to get some work done and have dinner with my family. But the significance of the day won't be lost on me. It was 2 years ago today that I watched my dad take his final breath, losing his short battle with cancer. It's an awful thing to see -- watching someone wheezing, struggling to get air, then finally giving up -- and I had nightmares about that for so long, nightmares in which I was the one struggling to breathe. The last time I saw my dad alive, we were fighting -- he, trying to take off his oxygen mask because it was pinching his nose; I, forcing it back on, forcing him to breathe, for my sake more than his own. And when it was over, I thought my life was over. I was certain I would never laugh again.

I took grief counselling after my loss, and the counsellor told me that days like this would be hard -- these anniversaries of tragedy. And they are but on this particular day, I don't like to dwell. I'd rather celebrate the anniversary of his birth than the mourn the day of his death. But the memories are more fresh than usual.

If there's one thing I want to get across here, it's this: Fathers, mothers, husbands, wives -- take care of your health. You owe it to those who love you . Visit your doctor. Insist on taking the tests. Buy yourself that extra time with your family. Do it for them, the ones who will be left behind.