Bruce H. Holmberg

My dad was a man of contradictions. He was emotional, but rarely showed it. He was a hopeless romantic, but couldn't make his marriages work. He told jokes to anyone within earshot, but couldn't read a room. He was obsessed with the military, but dodged the draft. He gave me my love of horror movies, but couldn't watch them alone. He loved Star Trek and sci-fi, but had no patience for philosophy or metaphor. He listened to country music, but lived in the city his whole life. He was a family man who romanticized big family holidays, but year after year his circle grew smaller. Some people loathed his contradictions, some found them endearing. Some people hated his incessant and, usually, inappropriate sense of humor and found him to be unserious and immature; some found him to be light-hearted and hilarious.

When I was a teenager, my friends loved my dad. They'd come over to hang out with me, but half the time they'd end up sitting around talking and joking with him. He treated them like they were his own kids. Being a dad just came naturally to him. They loved him because he accepted them, fed them, told them dirty jokes, and taught them things like how to look up movie times so they could sneak into another after the first one ended. He loved them simply because they loved me. But to me, he was just my dad—the only person who had my back since childhood.

He lived so many lives in his time. He was a hospital orderly, a mailman, a janitor, owned multiple businesses, started his own comic book publisher and turned down Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (his big regret), somehow knew John Wayne Gacy, self-published two novels, the list is endless. As a kid, it seemed to me like there was almost nothing he couldn't do.

But he also lived a hard life. His parents were unloving and uninvolved. Two divorces, never remarried.Tragic childhood deaths. I was the last and hardest line of defense, or at least that's what I tried to be for him. Our relationship was unusual. I think he often saw me as more of a friend than a son. He told me jokes and shared his struggles with me, even when I was too young to understand or take on those burdens. We bonded through shared trauma. But for good or bad, it hardened me, made me smarter and forced me to grow up.

When I was a kid, he spent most of a year under house arrest. As a condition of his parole he was only allowed one night per week to stay out past curfew, which was meant to be used for running errands or grocery shopping. Instead, he secretly ran his errands during the day when he was supposed to be at work, and used those late nights to take me out to see a movie. He made countless sacrifices like that for me and, as an adult, I've tried to do the same for him.

I was once a scared little kid whose entire world collapsed around me, but he was my rock through thick and thin. I spent the last decade taking him to and from doctor appointments, sometimes every day, sitting in ERs until after midnight, missing work to take care of emergencies. Now it’s all over. The last two months of his life were brutal, and I made it a point to visit him in hospice every single day, rain or shine, regardless of how burnt out and exhausted I was. Still, somehow, it doesn't feel like enough. In his last days, he said he was proud of me. And really all I've ever wanted was to make him proud and make sure he was never alone. I wish I could have done more, made him even more proud, showed him what I was really capable of. But I sacrificed dreams and opportunities to make sure he was taken care of and never alone. I assumed there would be time afterward to show him what else I could do. Now there isn't.

I love you, Dad. And I miss you already. You've been the only one who stuck by my side my whole life, and your absence leaves behind a deep loneliness I will always carry with me.

Goodbye.

- Jeremy

Bruce Herbert Holmberg passed away on August 21, 2026, at the age of 77. He leaves behind four children, six grandchildren, one great-grandchild, and three dogs.

"When our time has come, it's time to go.

Stop when it's most beautiful, the clocks stand still.

The moment is so perfect, but time keeps ticking.

A moment, please stay, I'm not ready yet."