We found out that my father had a late-stage cancer with several metastasis at the end of October. Plus an aneurysm and an acute gastric ulcer. I was breathless. I had been dreading the moment since the day my mother died, more than 25 years ago. Nobody was able to give me the slightest hope. It was just a matter of time.
It wasn’t exactly the luckiest moment in my life: a breast condition that worries my doctors, some bad choices that impacted our plans and our financial situation, no work (and a string of rejections), my hope of starting from scratch in the food industry.
It felt like there wasn’t anything I could count on in my life. I panicked.
In the meanwhile my dad had to go through two surgeries and the prospect of chemotherapy. He didn’t know about the metastasis.
I managed to spend with him the month of November (something that sucked every residual energy from me), and I came back to the Netherlands in December, hoping to find a job, or something that would make me feel safer. I didn’t find either. And it never felt more unsafe.
I spent Xmas and NYE far from him; he was recovering from the last surgery at the hospital, and I knew he wasn’t alone (his partner and my brother were there). Still, it didn’t feel right to be so far from him. I was planning to be there at the beginning of January, and then decide whether to stay in Rome and assist him. That made me feel slightly less guilty.
But fate never follows plans.
He had checked out of the hospital, but his conditions were getting worse. We fought against time, to get home assistance for palliative treatments. We had a lot of amazing people helping us, especially a nurse/friend who took care of him and eased his pain as much as possible.
But he didn’t make it.
He died four days after.
In his house and in his bed.
I found him, closed his eyes and cried.
I cried for all the things in my life he won’t see. For all the times I hated him and for all the arguments we had. I cried because for the first time I felt I could love him unconditionally, and it was too late. I cried in relief because I wasn’t blaming myself for this. Because I could tell him “I love you” before he got unconscious. And I cried because he wasn’t suffering anymore. And that made me happy for him. And then life took over, and bureaucracy, and an amazing outpour of love and support from our friends, for which I will always be grateful.
What little time and effort it took from me to be with him in his last days was completely repaid by the thought that he died where he wanted to be, at home, with his family around. Sickness didn’t wear him or us out. It went really fast, and it didn’t give him much time to think about his life going away.
My situation is still rocky, but being able to assist him gave me a feeling of hope I haven’t felt in many many months. It’s still scary out there, but I know that a part of my father lives in me, and we hopefully don’t have to argue anymore. So that I can feel strong and confident, just like he used to be.
