Years ago I composed a song called "Remember". Although no-one close to me was sick at that time, the song idea just came to me one day and I began writing it down. Over the years, I sang it at a few events here and there: at a Relay For Life event for those affected by cancer, and at a memorial service at Gilda's Club, commemorating some of their members who had died of cancer that year.

And then suddenly, when we least expected it, my own father was diagnosed with terminal cancer at 88 years old. He died just a few months later, in November of 2005.

Fred Farha was a wonderful man who enjoyed life so much. People just loved my dad. In the last few years of his life, he became sweeter, gentler and more caring than I had ever seen him before. We enjoyed a rich relationship, full of laughter and music.

In one of the pictures in this video, you will see he and I singing for some senior citizens - that was on Christmas Day 2004 at a seniors' residence here in the West Island, and we had a blast together. He was already sick with cancer at that point, although nobody knew it. It was our last Christmas together.

He was articulate, informed, and sensitive. He loved making others laugh . . . I guess that's where I get it from. I really do miss him, as do many others, and there's no-one who could ever come close to replacing him.

And so this song "Remember" is dedicated to my dad, and to the many fun years we had together...as father and daughter, fellow singers, fellow comedians, and most importantly, as friends.
 

This is the Eulogy I composed for my dad the night before his burial...

  To My Dad

I thought I saw you the other day. I was in a shopping center, and I saw that dear old familiar bald head, with its white fringe of hair, and a beige jacket, and my heart leapt a little bit . . . but then I remembered: it couldn't be you, because you are not here. It couldn't be you, because you are gone.

It sounds odd even to say that, but it's true. You're gone, too soon. I know you were eighty-eight, and you lived a long life, but it's somehow too soon.

You were always a special man. There was something about you – a sweetness, a kindness, and a gentleness – that drew others to you. Especially the ladies! Half the fun of going to any concert you were in was watching you perform a solo and flirting with the ladies in the audience.

I don't know who enjoyed it more, the ladies or you. You had what it took to be charming and attractive and utterly engaging. No-one else could sing “Unforgettable” like you, Dad.

I will always remember the times you and I went out for lunch together alone – just the two of us - before I was married. People would think we were, you know, a couple. They'd look at us sideways and nudge each other, and wink, and the waiter would come over to our table and pour our water and smirk a little bit, and then I'd say something like, “Are you going to have the chicken, DAD?”, and suddenly the waiter's expression would change and he'd look normal again and the joke would be on him.

Though you and I talked about it, I never did get that T-shirt that said, “He's my DAD, okay?!”

I'll always remember the times, many years ago, when I would sleep over at your place. We'd sit up until past midnight, and tell silly jokes, and laugh hysterically until the tears streamed down our faces. For the life of me, I can't remember any of those jokes, but it doesn't matter.

What I can remember so clearly is your face, contorted with laughter as you took out your handkerchief to wipe your eyes. We'd finally get so tired from laughing that we'd have to call it a night.

Money can't buy those kinds of memories. It's going to seem weird not going over to your apartment to raid your chocolate jar.

Your retirement years have been amazing. The Liason Center has been a wonderful family of Veterans and staff to kid around with, play snooker with, and eat lunches with.

When you weren't at the Day Center, you were line dancing, singing in a choir, doing aerobics, and going for walks, and it's surprising you've even had time to breathe, when I think back on your busy schedule. It's been so good for you.

It's been hard seeing you sick, but we're grateful that you never seemed to be in pain. The nurses and orderlies have treated you with such respect, and you in turn, of course, have flirted with the nurses and staff as much as you could, considering how ill you were.

It has been a privilege to sit with you, and to spend these last months and weeks and days and hours together, knowing we could just be with you, even when it meant not saying anything. I know you appreciated it, and so did we. The friends and volunteers who also came faithfully to visit you have showed you that you were, indeed, a special man.

I received an email about you this past week. It reads: “How well I remember him accompanying you at that concert I attended last March. He was magnificent.” And you were.

In fact, I think that's my new word for you: magnificent. You've been a blessing, you've been an inspiration, and I'm so glad we were close as father and daughter.

And so here we all are today, your family and your friends, and your loved ones, to say goodbye. To remember you in all your sweetness, and to think such fond thoughts of you whenever you come to mind.

Your memory will always be right here in my heart, Dad, and it has been a privilege to know you - as a father, as a mentor, and as my dear friend.

Simply put, you've been magnificent.