r/CancerFamilySupport

I hate the fact that I'm making this post; the reality of my family's situation is hitting a lot harder than I expected it to, and I need some support. I'm 23, and I live with my mom (50) and my little brother (14). My dad is only 57.

My dad was diagnosed with stage 4 liver cancer that metastasized from his GI tract last June. He was put on a steady regimen of immunotherapy and chemotherapy, up until June of this year, when his oncologist determined that it wasn't working. We were told that they were going to switch him to a chemo pill in tandem with radiotherapy, but because we live in the USA and our healthcare system is complete trash, his insurance provider wouldn't approve the treatment. He went an entire month without treatment, and the cancer grew exponentially.

Last week, when it was supposed to be for a routine oncology check-up, his doctors urged him to go to the ER; his liver enzyme numbers and lactate were way too high. He went in with an infection that caused ascites, so the doctors drained him of the fluid and treated him with some antibiotics. He was discharged a couple days later when his numbers were stable. Yesterday, though, he went to the ER again for pain, and instead of it just being something less serious, we learned that his prognosis gives him between 2-3 days to live.

Him and I never had the closest relationship and we bickered a ton during my teenage years, but he's the dad that stepped up when my biological one wasn't around. He helped my mom raise me. He helped her figure things out that she didn't know how to do. He was the cool dad that I would talk to my friends about when I was younger. He introduced me to a lot of great music that I never would have heard otherwise if it wasn't for his copious mixtapes. I never really pictured a future without him in it, so this revelation hurts more than I ever could've imagined.

I don't know how to navigate this at all, and neither does my mom. We're both seriously struggling; I'm trying my best to be strong for the both of us like I usually am, but I'm in pieces about this. Idk where I'm going with this. I guess I just need some kind words and other people's perspectives.

My best friend has recently been having bad chest pains, and after weeks of tests and scans, they told him that he has adenoid carcinoma. From what he said, there is a slim chance that he will survive, and it will eventually kill him. He’s 20 years old. 3 days younger than me. He’s been making some jokes about it, but I want to be able to support him. I’ve never known anybody with cancer, this is the first time, and I just don’t know what to say. I don’t know how he’s feeling and I don’t understand any of it, are there things that I can say or do for him or just any advice on how to be there for him?

My mom has uterine cancer, and even with pain meds, she’s still in a lot of pain. Some days, I swear not even five minutes go by without hearing her moaning, crying, complaining, or sometimes even screaming because of the pain

She was diagnosed at an advanced stage, so everything has happened really fast. In just a few months, I went from dealing with my own depression to basically having to pull myself together and take control of the situation so I can help her through this

But hearing her and seeing her like this all day is eating me alive. I don’t know how to deal with it anymore. It hurts, it frustrates me, and I feel constantly on edge. I’ve noticed I’m getting irritated with other people too, just because I’m so stressed and overwhelmed

I feel awful even saying this because obviously she’s the one actually going through the pain. I just don’t know how to cope with hearing someone I love suffer like this every single day.

I have spent quite some time silently visiting this subreddit and so many of you have made me feel less alone. I really just need to vent. My dad is 77 years old. Diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer in 2019. At first he was doing chemotherapy. He would be down for a couple days but then right back to his normal self. He loved to cook and he loved being outside and working with his hands and working in the yard. He was always building something. Always working on the house. He would still be active in so many ways. He would always talk about so many different subjects, he is so smart and he would recite poems for me all the time. He would teach me new words every time I saw him. Then the chemo started affecting him. he was losing his hair. Becoming weak. Feeling sick all the time. As of two years ago he decided to stop all treatment. He said he’d rather enjoy what time he has left not being sick. He was doing good for a while. His hair came back. His energy came back. My mom would constantly say “hes doing better!” (My mom was still in denial at this point.) he did do better for a while. Until he started having problems walking. He became scared to drive. It was concerning to leave him by himself. Eventually we got him to go to the hospital (my dad is very anti doctor/hospital and thinks they just want to keep him sick). Turns out the cancer spread to his brain. They preformed surgery and got the tumor out. Then they started talking about chemo or radiation again. My dad gets agitated when they bring it up because he’s repeatedly declined treatment. He was in the hospital for about a month. While in there I spent every day with him. He told me a lot of things about his life, his memories and what I will have to do when he’s gone to help my mom (she’s 66). When we were in the hospital he told me he lived out his dream. He came to America when he was 18 and created the life and family he always dreamed of. He said he was ready to go and either way he was old and this is bound to happen. This was in March. Fast forward to today. My dad is in so much pain he can barely speak sometimes. He’s constantly agitated by pain and taking it out on my mom. She takes it personally but she is still there for him taking care of him every day. She had to go back to work full time after he was released from the hospital. If I’m working there’s some days he is alone all day. It terrifies me. We all know he’s close to the end. He barely eats anymore he takes about 1 or 2 bites. He told me he can’t sleep because the pain is so unbearable sometimes he sleeps on the cold basement floor because he claims it helps. But now that he’s home alone most days, I think he’s getting scared. He’s started denying he ever had cancer. He’s saying the hospital made him worse. I feel like I prolonged his suffering by convincing him to go to the hospital when he didn’t want to. He said he will never go to a dr or hospital ever again. It feels like my family is just hopelessly watching him die. I wish I could take away his pain. Yesterday he said he wanted to commit suicide. I feel like I’ve been grieving for years. I start therapy this week. I feel horrible saying I want this to be over but what I really mean is I don’t want my dad to suffer anymore.

I know he is not ready to go and it hurts me to see him in so much pain and I can’t do anything.

The only thing I did is starting to cry in front of him multiple times.

I try to hide my tears because I know he doesn’t want to leave his 4 daughters and wife behind like that. He doesn’t want to see us in pain.

💔

I lost my Dad on Aug 6, he was always healthy with lot of energy traveling, he will complain of back pain or knee pain, doctor will prescribe him medicine for pain. We went to Alaka for fathers day, we where 7 days, he had his usual back pain and gelt bloated. He drink some pain killers and bloating medicine and felt well, but he had no abdominal pain or other issues. When we arrive we were going to a urgent care but suddenly he felt better and wanted to go back home to his primary doctor. I told ask the doctor for a ct scan. The doctor gave him more pain medicine, medicine for acid reflux. Then almost after a week result came showing 3 masses ill talking about lymph nodes spreaded. That day i call him and told him go to emergency , there he went they repeated the scan and showed the same, he was with a referral to a liver speaciliast and oncologist. He went after 5 days to the liver specialist, he gave him more pain medicine and told him to go for a biopsy. The biopsy too a week to be performed. But 3 days after before biopsy he felt lot of pain, confused and he was admitted again. They made a ct scan of brain and saw some lesions, that night he lost the strength of his legs. Finally after 2 days admitted they did the biopsy but took 5 days for results. He declined each day more. I got to talk to him but barely speak, he was with 2 strong medicine to avoid inflammation in the brain. I told him i loved him, hug him, kiss him , say sorry if i something wrong but i was nervous of loosing him. Then on Aug 6 the oncologist came, he told is he has bile duct cancer metastized and there was nothing to do, just send him hospice. But that same day in the afternoon, he pass away. I saw him pass away, called nurse but there was no more pulse. I lost my dad in front of my eyes along with my brother. But in the morning he danced, we took a picture and hold hangs and was given God blessings. I miss him greatly and i still cant believe what we taught was a stomach reflux issue was a cancer eating him. This is a silent cancer, very aggressive and sad. My dad was strong, maybe he did feel more pain but not to worry us just kept silent/ . I feel bad i did not force him to go to the urgent care when we came from the cruise. I dont now one month in advance will had make a difference. He was already in July 17 with those two big tumors, lesions in his brains on july 29 and metastasized to lymph nodes, he was string to support all that. It is hard to cope and i have no energy to work again. Miss him deeply.

My dad (63M) was diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic Cholangiocarcinoma at the beginning of May; he opted for aggressive treatment and did radiation, immunotherapy and multiple rounds of chemotherapy. In mid-July, he collapsed after a shower and was hospitalized. They found blood clots in his lungs and ascites in his lungs and kidneys. The doctors estimated he had days left, so he made the decision to stop all treatment and enter hospice.

He has now been in hospice for 31 days and I feel like I’m living in hell.

I have two young children and I live an hour away from my parents, so I have been living out of a suitcase at their home since he entered hospice. My husband visits on weekends because he still has to work, so I have very little help with the kids while I’m here. My mom is destroyed over what’s happening and cannot emotionally regulate in any way whatsoever; she has to take a sedative x2 daily so she can no longer drive. So I drive the 40 minutes there and 40 minutes back to and from hospice every single day.

I’m mentally and physically exhausted beyond belief.

When my dad was first moved to hospice, he was very accepting of his fate and reflected on his life with love and kindness. That version of him is long gone. Every day he’s still here and lucid, he gets a little more angry, bitter and demanding. At first I didn’t mind running around and bringing him things to give him comfort (food, alcohol, etc), but it quickly became a thankless task and he’s even become quite cruel towards us.

Every time someone says how lucky we are to still have this time with him, I want to scream.

His dignity has been completely stripped away. He can’t walk because of the blood clots and edema in his legs. He has little to no appetite and when he can eat, everything tastes bad because chemo killed his taste buds. He’s using a catheter and diapers - although, most days he’s too constipated to have a bowel movement. My dad is someone who lived his entire life in paranoia of getting sick like this; it’s truly his worst nightmare realized. And I’m supposed to feel “lucky”?

I hate that there is no timeline for how long this will last. It’s a horrifying thought that this could go on for weeks, or god forbid, months. I don’t want him to suffer anymore, and selfishly, I don’t want to live my life in limbo anymore. I miss my husband, my home and what my life was like before he got sick. I feel like a selfish monster for praying for this to end, but I just don’t know how much more of this I can take.

My mom got diagnosed with stage 3 cancer.Im emotionally,physically,financially drain right now.A week before na mag cchemo na sana sya na stroke naman sya.Ngayun imbes na yung cancer nalang nya ang pproblemahin namin,yung stroke naman ang tinututukan nmin ng pansin.8 days sya sa icu at more than a week nmn sa recovery room.Nakalabas na sya at nagrerehab nlng sa bahay.Left side ng body nya yung affected pero hindi pa sua makabangon mag isa,naka diaper at sa diaper na sya nag popoop.Ngaun namamanas na ung isa nyang leg caus eof cancer daw un sabi ng oncology nya.Her oncologist advice us na ipa chemo na pero paano eh alam nman ntin na may side effects ang chemo,and at her stage now na masakit buong katawan dahil sa stroke eh talagang mahihirapan sya.I need you insights naguguluhan na ako.Mag isa lng akong anak wala among mahingian ng advice.Pls!!

One of my close friends just passed at 24 after being diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer just last January.

He hid details from all of his friends and family when it took a turn for a worse, to the point that in July, we were still making plans to go skydiving this month. I was in town visiting with other friends, and he had gone into the hospital for a "small procedure" on his stomach, and even though he said he didn't need visitors because he'd be out soon, I went anyways because I was supposed to be leaving a few days later. When I walked into his hospital room, I couldn't stop crying for a full 30 minutes.

He was already in organ failure and couldn't even hold himself up or walk anymore. I asked the doctor if he'd still be here if I came back a week later, and she just sort of shrugged and said she didn't know. The "procedure" was to put a stent in to open his stomach, but the cancer was in pretty much all of his major organs which is what caused it to collapse to begin with. I had been on vacation because I don't live in town anymore, and I felt guilty for not going sooner. My last week in town was spent caring for him, helping him look and feel like himself, notifying friends and family, and getting his will in order since he had some assets that he didn't want to leave to his biological parents. Our other best friend arrived, and I ended up having a mental breakdown because our friend with cancer had a genuine look of despair and couldn't even bear to look at me anymore since I gave him the reality check that he needed to get things in order and that he was out of time.

He told me he'd finish handling everything and that I shouldn't come back because his condition would only get worse, and he was right. 2 days after I left town, he died. Me and our other best friend are the last people to have seen him. By the time his family and other friends got there, he was already gone.

It's been about 3 weeks since I briefly took over the caregiver role, and I've lost about 5 kilo over the past month. I eat a balanced diet because I'm also an athlete, but since then, I've had no appetite and often forget to eat. Sleeping has gotten more difficult, and so has concentrating, and my own doctor's initial assumption is that I should undergo psychiatric evaluation for depression and PTSD. The thing is that I don't FEEL extremely sad or depressed since the initial breakdown that I had.

Does anyone have experience with trauma after spending time caring for loved ones who were in their final days? Is it normal?

I think I'm mostly shouting into the ether about this.

He is dying of stage 4 colon cancer. He's had it for years and was strong enough to mostly take care of himself in the beginning, but now it's a losing battle. He needs to be on oxygen 24/7, but for some reason, he just takes it off for the stupidest things like picking his nose. I have to constantly remind him to put it back on. He barely eats even when badgered and reminded. The food could sit there for hours if left to himself. He doesn't even take his meds on time even when i'm there with him reminding him.

Should i just let him be?

He can't control his bodily functions anymore, and I'm constantly cleaning up one chuck/bed liner and replacing it, only for him to soil it again. I'm sleeping 4 hours or less at a time because I'm afraid if I go to bed and sleep too deeply, I'll miss him calling out, and it'll be my fault.

I cried in front of hr at my job asking for options of fmla or wfh. I kinda regret asking because work was my only escape, but sometimes I didn't even want to be there. The hospice care team kept telling me to take it off and told my dad, "You took care of your kids, and now its time they take care of you." But what about me? I guess that doesn't matter right now.

I think I'm disappearing behind my father's illness. Any time someone checks in, it's always about him. I don't feel like his kid anymore. I feel guilty for being tired of taking care of him or getting mad at him. I know he's dying, but sometimes I can't stand him. There must be something wrong with me to feel this way.

I feel like my life hasn't even started yet. He's been sick since I graduated high school, and I stayed because I felt like it was my duty to stick by him. But I haven't grown. I don't think I got the chance. And when he's gone, I'll be alone. I don't know if people will check in on me after he's gone, other than right after. I don't really tell people how I'm doing because I'm scared of how they'll look at me. Like I'm worthless or flawed. I suppose I'll be okay. I have to be.

If you read this, thanks

My sister wrote this but just makes it easier for any advice or suggestions that it’s already written in one place. Also, my dad has KRAS 12v strain and in May found he is stage four lung cancer that metastasized to his brain —- he began chemotherapy and immunotherapy at the end of June and has now completed two cycles of treatment. Despite everything his body has been through, he was able to get through those first two rounds, and we recently received some news: his latest brain MRI showed that the tumors in his brain are stable, with some actually decreasing in size. After whole-brain radiation and two rounds of treatment and hearing that some tumors have gotten smaller, our family was given an incredible amount of hope.

On August 3, Dad had an episode that appeared to be a seizure. My sister and Mom were able to get him safely to the ground and Dad was quickly transported to the hospital where he remained until last week.

Once at the hospital, doctors discovered another serious complication: large blood clots in both of his lungs. The pulmonary embolisms extended throughout both lungs and were putting significant strain on the right side of his heart. Dad was immediately started on IV blood thinners and was eventually transitioned to Eliquis, which he will continue taking to prevent additional clots while his body works to break down the existing ones.

Additionally, he also re-started on other medicine to help prevent additional seizures, as well as other medications.

It was an incredibly scary stretch, but after more than a week in the hospital, Dad stabilized enough to be discharged on August 12 to a one of the best assisted in-patient rehabilitation facilities close by.

That is where we are today: focused on recovery and getting Dad stronger.

Dad is still extremely weak and gets tired very easily. He is receiving physical therapy and IV hydration throughout the week, and he continues to push himself to do a little more each day.

Most importantly, Dad is still fighting and still wants to continue treatment.

His oncology team is encouraged by the stability of his cancer and plan to resume chemotherapy and immunotherapy once he has had a little more time to recover and regain strength. Right now, the hope is that treatment can restart within the next couple of weeks.

Guys… I’m exhausted. When I first posted months ago I was hopeful. Now I feel empty. I am so incredibly close to my dad and seeing him like this is making my heart implode. How do we get through this? I’m just so sad.

Hello. I'm seeking some advice. My grandfather, (My Mom's father)has been diagnosed with lung and bone cancer at 80 years old. He has chosen not to do chemo but may try radiation. I call him once a week or so to check in. We live 4 hours away from each other. He asked for me to bring my teen and tween to visit before he gets too sick. I tell him maybe, when I can. He wants me to go on a Saturday and come back home on a Sunday.

Backstory: I witnessed my father's sudden shocking death from cancer 4 years ago and its given me severe PTSD and a fear of hospitals. I have nightmares because of it as well. My children witnessed him falling own in the process of dying. And they have been in therapy due to it.

One year later, I was with his father, my Dad's father's, death from cancer. He was at home surrounded by loved ones. I stayed at his home for a few days to help care for him until he died. It didn't affect me until a few months later and had to have my medication adjusted.

One year later, last year, my Mother's mother passed from cancer. I wasn't present and didn't go to her funeral. It doesn't affect me as much.

My therapist has told me not to go visit, it will be so bad for my mental health. But I have this horrendous guilt.

My Grandfather doesn't understand this PTSD and that if my teen and tween visit, it will bring up memories of them witnessing my Dads first process of his death.

A part of me wants to say "Fuck it. Take the mental health bullet and go visit him one day by myself. Even though my therapist recommends not to."

Or "Just dance around and avoid visiting him and make up stupid excuses for why I can't visit."

Thanks for any advice.

She had a pancreatic tumour removed in Feb - all margins cleared. Successfully completed 6 rounds of preventative chemo about a month ago.

She had pre-existing pulmonary fibrosis, went into hospital with a non-specific chest infection and we had to say goodbye today.

I’m so scared to have to live now in a world that doesn’t have her in it. I love her so much, I had 47 years with her but I’m just not ready

My husband’s very good friend, a man he’s known for over 40 years is dying of cancer across the country. My husband will be visiting him next month most likely to say goodbye. He is a very rare form of cancer that there is no known chemo or radiation that will definitely address it, but he may get a combo of chemo and stem cell transplant.

So far his friend is tolerating the chemo pretty well but has had a host of other difficulties. Three different infections, the port clogging up at one point, he now has a back injury for which he may need further treatment.

I say all this to ask those who are caregivers for those, especially with advanced cancer whether a three day visit is too long, too short or just enough. He’ll get there on a Tuesday, but not see his friend until Wednesday afternoon, and then can spend Thursday, Friday and Saturday morning, or any parts of those with him. Of course, he will follow his friends lead, but I’m wondering if this is too long a visit or too short? His friend does have a partner who is very very, very helpful with all the appointments and everything else so hopefully my husband can give her a little bit of respite or even go shopping or take care of some of those tasks for her.

The friend and his wife say any length or visit is fine – I know prior visitors have stayed just a few days for which one of those was spent most entirely visiting in the hospital. Obviously, if that happens, my husband will enroll with it, but we’re anticipating, he would be able to see his friend at their home.

I’m just upset. I’m looking for advice and I want to do the right thing. Any thoughts would be helpful.

Hello! My (36F) beautiful husband (36M) has been battling epithelioid sarcoma for about 4.5 years. It was deemed stage 4 fairly early on so we knew it was terminal and we were focused on prolonging life.

He has done so much to control the disease: surgeries, chemos, radiation, ablations, non-chemo medications, interventional radiology procedures etc. So many scans, so many visits, so many side effects, so many MyChart messages- just, so much.

He has had widespread but managed mets for some time but in the last 6 months a large liver tumor has caused issues. He got a biliary stent and two biliary drains in hopes of controlling his bilirubin to be able to get a radiation ablation procedure called a Y90. After an entire procedure to map and plan, and his bilirubin just eaching the acceptable level, we got a call from the IR doc who basically said I am willing to do the procedure but based on the anatomy I can only target part of the tumor and it may cause more bad than good for you (fevers, readmissions, etc.). He has also been having fevers with his drains that bring him back to the hospital.

Taking this all into consideration he has opted not to do any last ditch chemo, med or the y90 procedure and to transition to palliative care (in case of any last palliative radiation treatments and feeling we are not in a place that we need the full support of nurse visits or other resources yet as I am a nurse as well) and then hospice through the same company. He's still fully independent but fatigued, lower appetite, and clear decline over the last months. We met with the liaison today and she was so helpful. His goals are to maximize his quality of life and comfort for the remaining 3-6 estimated months he has.

He is so brave, reasonable and he has handled everything with so much grace. It never ceases to amaze me.

Despite knowing this is the right thing, and fully supporting him in his choices I can't turn off the fear. The fear that we are doing the wrong thing. Like maybe that procedure or med could buy us more time together. Like he's not sick enough yet. I know it's silly and born from love and wanting the whole life we planned together and having to face what we've been preparing for for years.

I guess I'm looking for people's experiences with people who transitioned when there were still options (not curative but could technically help) but they weren't worth the negatives. Also for people who are younger as I have trouble finding stories. Or general reassurance that the fear is normal but the decision is correct.

I'm so scared and he's truly just the best- my everything. I want to support him in any way I can.

Thank you!

My wife has stage 4 breast cancer going on three years. A few months ago, I posted here about numbness in my wife’s face. We went through a terrifying experience where they tried to determine whether or not it was leptomenengrial disease. We were finally able to determine that it was some form of trigeminal neuralgia. (Surprisingly, the things that seems to have help that the most is acupuncture.)

On top of that, she had a PET scan last week and Friday the doctor gave us the results. All of the spots that they were worried about, have disappeared thanks to the immunotherapy. We know that it won’t last, but she’s got a few good years and they will consider taking her off of chemo once we get three more clean PET scans.

Hi everyone,

I was very curious about the life expectancy for someone with stage 4 liver cancer.

My father 4 years ago went to the ER with pain. Ended up being a cancer tumor in his colon. Many surgeries later and 3 months in the hospital, they removed it, along with most of his colon.

After getting out he was diagnosed with stage 4 metastasize liver cancer from the original colon cancer.

My father went through almost 5 years of chemo. Unfortunately a few months ago another cancer tumor was found in his leg bone which required emergency surgery. His body could not really tolerate the surgery and especially the recovery. He passed a few months after that surgery.

From the very beginning with the colon and then the liver cancer, doctors really never told us , "he has x amount of time to live". Or told us how bad the cancer was. He went almost 5 years of chemo for every result to say the cancer did not get any bigger.

I have been so distraught from his passing. Then I think how he went through 4 years of the liver chemo and I know it was painful for him but he never complained. It's hard to find any sort of info on how long people normally live with it.

I. Fear

7/10/26

Spent the morning at the hospital.

The doctor brought us into a break room to talk about the next steps. The kind of meeting you pray you never have. They told us we’re probably looking at days now with how quickly he’s declining. He’s getting confused. He’s struggling to find his words.

Right before we walked out of my dad’s room to head into that meeting, I walked over to him, kissed him on the cheek, looked him in the eyes, and told him I loved him.

All he could get out was “Everything’s burning”

That broke me.

Later I found out he told my mom he doesn’t want to die.

I know he’s scared.

I am haunted by this.

I could go on and on about what it’s feels like to watch your dad wilt before your eyes with no warning. The closest thing I can compare it to is being handed a stick of dynamite only to realize the fuse is already burning. Before you’ve even had time to process what’s happening, you’re standing eye to eye with inevitability, knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

People always ask “What’s your biggest fear?”

Mine changed as I got older. As a kid it was the monster from Scooby Doo. Then cooties. Then the jockeys from Left 4 Dead 2. At one point it was ending up on an episode of My 600lb Life. Eventually I grew into the answer worth most giving…. losing those I love.

I found out there’s something much worse

It’s taking my last breath while the people I love stand around me, forced to watch me suffer. It’s seeing the fear in their eyes while I carry my own. It’s knowing the last thing I leave them with isn’t a memory of who I was, but of my pain.

There is nothing gentle about that.

Watching my dad endure this has changed something in me. The physical pain is awful, but seeing someone you love know what’s happening, fight against it, whisper that they don’t want to die… that’s a different kind of suffering. One that reaches everyone in the room.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same after this, it’s just a matter of learning to live with the pieces of me that will remain empty.

My dad has every reason to be angry, terrified, or defeated. Instead he keeps finding ways to think about us. He keeps fighting through impossible pain. That kind of courage is hard to describe until you’ve witnessed it.

My dad is so much braver than I ever understood. I should’ve told him more often that I loved him. I love him. I always did, and I know he loves me. I’m really proud of him.

II. Loss

7/19/26

My dad passed in the middle of the night.

I went to the hospital so I could sit with him one last time. I wanted to say goodbye, but when I looked at him I couldn’t find whatever part of me was supposed to know how to do that.

I reached for his hand.

I had held that same hand as a little boy without ever thinking about it. It was the hand that taught me, protected me, steadied me through life, and picked me back up whenever I fell down.

This time it was so cold.

No matter how tightly I held it, I couldn’t bring any warmth back to it.

I think that’s the moment it finally became real.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t fall apart.

I didn’t feel much of anything.

Through it all, I was stricken by the greatest strain I’d ever come to know, and what followed was nothing but a hollow emptiness.

People talk about grief like it comes in waves.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes it’s the tide pulling everything away until you’re left standing in silence, wondering where your life went.

The room was still.

The machines that had filled it with noise were quiet.

The fight was over.

For weeks I had watched cancer take pieces of my dad from us. His strength. His voice. His appetite. His certainty. It was like watching someone erase a masterpiece one brushstroke at a time while you stood there with no way to stop it.

And then there was nothing left to take.

The hardest part wasn’t that my dad died.

It was realizing the man who had been there my entire life was suddenly somewhere I could no longer reach.

No phone call.

No hug.

No I love you.

Just memories that now carry a weight they never had before.

I keep replaying moments that seemed ordinary when they happened.

Conversations I thought we’d have again.

Days I assumed there would always be more of.

You never know you’re living one of the last chapters until someone closes the book. If this has taught me anything, it’s that love has a terrible habit of revealing its full weight only after loss.

I wish I had one more morning.

One more conversation.

One more chance to tell him how proud I am to be his son.

Not because he didn’t know.

Because I needed him to hear it again.

Cancer took my father’s life.

It did not take the example he left behind.

His resilience.

His kindness.

His willingness to think about everyone else while enduring pain that most people cannot imagine.

Those things remain.

They live in the people who loved him.

Including me.

I don’t know what healing looks like from here.

Right now, I don’t even know if I want to use that word.

Some losses don’t heal.

They become part of you.

You don’t move on from them.

You move forward with them.

I don’t know how long that will take.

I only know that I miss my dad.

I always will.

III. Everything After

8/15/26

We’re approaching almost a month

I keep writing that sentence as if repetition might make it behave…. less foreign, less grounded in reality, yet it refuses to soften.

It remains exact.

Unforgiving in its grammar.

I understand it.

That’s the worst part.

I was there when it became true.

There is a version of my family’s life that ends that day , and then there is everything that continues in spite of that ending.

Im not quite sure what to call the second part yet.

‘After’ feels too clean.

Too willing to move on.

You’d think the hardest moment would be the moment itself.

But it wasn’t.

The hardest part is the persistence of everything that refuses to change.

Morning still arrives without hesitation.

People still go to work.

Somewhere, someone is on the phone with corporate going ballistic about how their DoorDash driver forgot their side of ranch.

And he’s still gone.

There is a particular violence in that contrast.. the way the world continues to behave as if nothing has been removed from it.

You expect interruption.

A fracture in the sky.

A pause in the machinery of ordinary things.

Some visible acknowledgment that a life has been taken out of circulation.

Instead time just… clears its throat and moves forward.

Tuesday becomes Wednesday without asking permission.

Wednesday becomes Thursday without noticing what its stepping over.

Eventually, even the questions stop coming.

Not because people stop caring.

Because language runs out of ways to hold something it was never designed to hold.

I am fine.

I am not fine.

Both statements sit inside me without contradiction.

Grief is not an emotion anymore.

It is a condition.

Something ambient.

Something that does not announce itself until it does.

Most days it is quiet enough to mistake for absence.

Then something small interrupts the illusion.

A sound.

A smell.

A sentence that lands at the wrong angle.

Slinging off some of my saucy quips or knee slapping one timers that would make him wince out of second hand embarrassment.

And for a fraction of a second, my mind still reaches for him with the confidence of habit.

There is no pain in that moment.

Only the correction that follows it.

That is where it lives now…. in loss.

Not in a single event, but in the constant undoing of reflex.

There is a cruelty to that repetition.

Not dramatic.

Not cinematic.

Precise. Mechanical.

Absence wills itself onto you by refusing to stop happening.

The first loss is the death.

After that, it becomes smaller and more frequent.

You lose him in the middle of good news.

You lose him in the middle of silence

You lose him in places he should have been, and in places he never knew existed.

You lose him in the distance between what you are becoming and what he last saw.

Time used to feel directional.

Like it was carrying me toward something.

Now it feels like something else entirely.

Not forward.

Not backward.

Just away.

That day is already beginning to lose its edges.

It is becoming ‘a month ago’

Soon it will become ‘last year’

Eventually it will become ‘10 years ago’ and a sentence lll say without feeling the full weight of it like I once did.

That is what I cannot accept, even though I know it will happen anyway.

There will be movie nights where the 3 of us fall asleep a few minutes after hitting play and he won’t be there to make fun of us.

There will be versions of us that will never be introduced to him.

Little versions of my brother and myself that he’ll never get to hold and help mold in their upbringing.

There will be moments when I instinctively turn toward him in my mind, only to find nothing there that can answer.

And one day, I will be older than he ever was in my memory of him.

That thought does not land like sadness.

It lands like distortion.

Like something in the architecture of time refusing to align correctly.

When you are a child, your parents are not people in the same way you are.

They are structure.

They are certainty.

They are the reason the world does not collapse when you do not understand it.

They know how to fix things.
They know how to get you home.
They know which problems are real and which ones are not.

You mistake that for permanence.
Then slowly, you learn the truth that was always there…

They were never permanent.

Only earlier in the story.

I wish I had understood that without needing to lose him to see it clearly.

I would have asked different questions. I would have listened without assuming repetition. I would have paid attention to the ordinary things I thought would always be available to me later in life.

Grief is not interested in revisions.

It only offers hindsight with perfect clarity and no ability to use it.

So I am left with the ‘what ifs’ that do not resolve into anything useful unless I force them to change shape.

I am trying to do that.

Not erase them.

Reassign them.

‘I would have’ becomes ‘I will’

I will say what matters while it can still be received.

I will stop treating time as something that owes me another chance.

I will try to become someone my father would recognize without explanation.

And I will speak about him.

Because I am beginning to understand that memory is not passive.

It is not something that happens to you.

It is something you continue to do.

To remember him is more than comfort.

It is refusal.

A refusal to let death have the final word on what his life meant.

Death took what it could take.

But it did not take everything.

It cannot reach backward into meaning.

My father still exists in the residue of what he left behind.

In the way I phrase things without realizing it.

In the instincts I mistake for my own.

In the way I respond to people and sometimes realize the response belonged to him before it belonged to me.

In the parts of me that feel inherited rather than chosen.

Sometimes I notice one of those moments and it stops me.

Not because it is surprising.

Because it is familiar in a way I can no longer place.

Maybe that’s the only version of moving forward that is not a lie.

It isn’t departure, just continuation with weight.

I still return to that hospital room.

I think about the fear he must’ve felt knowing he’d soon part ways with the lake, the dogs, and the family he was responsible for creating.

I am trying to understand something I could not understand then…

Those final weeks were not the sum of him.

They were the end of his life, not the definition of it

Before the beginning of the end, there was a man who lived a full life and in the fast lane (and somehow never got a speeding ticket)

He laughed in ways I can still hear (and wince at if it’s that one infamous cackle and honk I’m thinking about) if I try.

He loved in ways I am still learning how to recognize.

He got angry.
He forgave.
He failed.
He tried again.

He showed up in ways I did not always know how to appreciate while I had the chance.

He was not the ending, but the entire rest of it.

If I am honest, I would choose this pain again over a life in which I never knew him at all.

That is the part that does not make sense until it does.

Love does not negotiate for safety.

It only guarantees consequence.

Eventually, someone is left holding the absence of the other.

This time, it’s me, its my mom, its my brother

I hate it.

But I also understand it.

I am grateful for the fact that he never had to learn what it feels like to remain here without me, my mom, or my brother in this world.

We will carry that imbalance for him.

We miss you.

We are still here.

We are still trying.

And if there is any way for what you gave me to continue beyond my own life, I will spend the rest of it trying to make sure it does.