My fathers battle with Cancer

A journal of Dad’s six-week battle with cancer, and how it changed my life.

Monday 26th October 2020

I was doing my regular fortnightly visit to my parents’ house, dropping off some supplies. I made some dinner for Dad, and that was when I noticed something wasn’t quite right...

It was around 6pm when I heated up some congee for him. He sat up from the sofa and took a spoonful, but before I knew it, he vomited it straight back up.

“Dad, are you okay?” I asked.

That was when he looked at me and said, “I haven’t been able to eat for two weeks.”

Confused and concerned, I replied, “What do you mean? Are you not feeling well?”

At first, I thought maybe he had picked up a stomach bug, so I went into the kitchen and poured him a glass of water. Dad took a sip, and within seconds it came straight back up.

“How many days have you not been able to drink water?” I asked.

“Two days,” he replied, looking tired.

Dad was never one to complain about aches and pains, and he was definitely not someone who liked going to the doctor. My mum thought he had caught a bug and just needed some rest, but she hadn’t realised that he actually wasn’t - or couldn’t - eat or drink anything.

My father had always been slim, but at that moment I realised he was looking noticeably thinner.

“That’s it, we’re taking you into A&E,” I said.

As I was helping him put his coat on, he turned to me, wrapped his left hand around his right wrist, and in the saddest voice said, “Khenh… look… Dad’s lost so much weight.”

My heart sank.

“It’s okay, Dad. We’ll get you to the hospital and get you some medicine. Everything will be alright,” I said calmly, trying to reassure him.

We all know our own bodies best, so I think Dad must have known he would probably be admitted for some time. The things he wanted to pack with him were his phone charger and earphones. Looking back, it makes me smile. We were all panicking and trying to get him ready quickly, and all he cared about was making sure I had packed his charger.

As he tried to stand up, he had a dizzy spell and sat back down again. He clearly had no energy. My brother and I slowly walked him to the car, and it suddenly hit me that he was no longer the young man he once was. His hair was grey, his face looked gaunt, and his body seemed so frail.

We arrived at A&E at around 6:30pm. I signed Dad in, but because of the Covid restrictions, I wasn’t allowed to go in with him. I put him in a wheelchair and the nurse took him into the waiting area.

I remember sitting outside the hospital in the freezing cold. I had no money on me, so I couldn’t buy anything to eat or drink. My best friend came to my rescue with some packed lunch, and together we found a spot inside the hospital where we waited for hours for news.

Eventually, the doctor updated me. They had tried to give Dad some water, but he still couldn’t keep it down, so they were going to keep him in for a few days to run more scans and tests. He was also severely malnourished and needed to be fed through a drip.

By then it must have been around 1am. I called Dad and told him that he needed to stay in hospital for a few days while they ran more tests, and that I would come back the next day.

“Oh, you’re still here? … okay, okay… go home first and get some rest. Dad will be okay,” he replied.

25 days in Hospital (4 weeks)

When the nurse asked me if Dad had a phone to contact me on, I replied, “Yes… but he probably has no credit.”I slowly turned my head to look at my friend and instantly regretted saying it out loud. I was so embarrassed. Who doesn’t have a phone contract these days? My friend and I couldn’t stop laughing. Even in such a stressful time, that moment still makes me smile.

Day 1: Tue 27th Oct 2020 The hospital called me at 10:22am to say that Dad’s blood tests were normal, but he was still unable to eat or drink. He was scheduled for a CT scan and would likely be staying in hospital for a number of days.

The hospital had wifi, but I wasn’t sure how good the connection would be, so the first thing I did was go to EE and buy a wifi dongle. I knew all hell would break loose if Dad couldn’t stream videos or call his friends.

I dropped the dongle off outside the ward and had a quick video call with him before I went home. Dad was in good spirits and told me he was feeling better. He said he was being fed through a drip and had been given anti-sickness medication to stop the nausea.

Day 2: Wed 28th Oct 2020 Dad was still in good spirits. He had his own private room and was scheduled for a CT scan that afternoon.

Day 3: Thu 29th Oct 2020 I called the ward and spoke to the doctor. The scan results showed a worrying number of lumps around the bowel, as well as a large lump in Dad’s chest that was blocking his food pipe and stopping him from swallowing. They were arranging a biopsy, and I was told it was likely to be cancer.

I had already prepared myself for that possibility, but I was still trying to stay optimistic.

In the meantime, they continued feeding Dad through a drip directly into his bloodstream, but they explained they would eventually need to feed him through a tube into the stomach, and would have to do it slowly and carefully so his stomach could get used to food again.

They couldn’t say how long Dad would be in hospital. It all depended on the biopsy results.

Dad was crushed after hearing about the lumps and didn’t want to talk to anyone. Mum was really worried because he wasn’t picking up her calls. At that point, we chose not to tell Mum anything yet.

Day 4: Fri 30th Oct 2020 There was nothing new to update, and again Dad wasn’t picking up calls.

Day 5: Sat 31sth Oct 2020 Today Dad was feeling better. They had taken all the needles out of his arms so he could move around more freely, and he was calling friends and family on WeChat again.

When I spoke to him in the afternoon, his spirits were high. He showed me the view from his hospital room window and told me he had got some of his energy back and could run around if he wanted to.

It was nice to hear he was back to his cheery self.

Day 6: Sun 1st Nov 2020 Dad had been moved to a shared room the night before, where he was sharing with three other patients. He no longer had a bed by the window, but he said it felt less lonely being around other people.

He said he was feeling okay, although he had lost 7kg. He was still being fed through a drip, having daily blood tests, and keeping busy on his phone by speaking to friends and family.

The doctor also advised him not to take his usual COPD medication, which I had dropped off for him earlier in the week, because he couldn’t swallow and because they were closely monitoring everything he was taking in.

Day 7: Mon 2nd Nov 2020 I spoke with the doctor, who said they had sent Dad’s results to the Upper GI consultants to discuss the next steps.

Dad had also been given nicotine patches during his hospital stay, and he said he was doing fine and wasn’t craving a cigarette. That was a good thing, as my dad had been a smoker all his life.

Day 8: Tue 3rd Nov 2020 Dad starting to feel tired again

Day 9: Wed 4th Nov 2020 Dad was feeling nauseous again and looked exhausted. They tried fitting an NG tube from his nose down into his stomach so they could feed him, but it was too uncomfortable for him, so they removed it.

Day 10: Thu 5th Nov 2020 The hospital tried again to fit the nasogastric feeding tube.

I think Dad knew how important it was, so even though it was uncomfortable, he stayed brave through it all. That evening, while we were all watching fireworks from our own windows for Bonfire Night, Dad was going through that in hospital.

Day 11: Fri 6th Nov 2020 The doctor called me with an update.

The tissue samples had come back the day before and confirmed that Dad had oesophageal cancer - squamous cell cancer - a type of cancer found in the oesophagus, or food pipe. It is an invasive cancer, which means the cancer cells have broken out from where they first began and have the potential to spread to the lymph nodes and other parts of the body.

At that point, they still did not know what stage the cancer was at. They had sent Dad’s medical file to Guy’s and St Thomas’ for the specialists to review on Monday or Tuesday.

The team there would decide on the best treatment plan, whether that would be chemotherapy or radiotherapy, and when he could start treatment.

The outlook was not good, but Dad was feeling okay that day. He had seen the dietitian and was weighed in at 45.1kg.

Despite the news, Dad still seemed in good spirits. He showed us around his ward on video call and even got one of the other patients to wave hello to us.

Day 12: Sat 7th Nov 2020 Dad started eating solids again through the feeding tube and was feeling good. He even asked me to drop off a few more things for him at the hospital.

Day 13: Sun 8th Nov 2020 I dropped off some items (grooming items) for Dad at the ward reception and spoke to him on the phone. He was still being sick, even though he was on anti-sickness medication.

Day 14: Mon 9th Nov 2020 The hospital called and told me they had planned a colonoscopy, but had cancelled it because Dad was still too unwell.

They still had not confirmed the stage of the cancer, but I was told it was advanced. They were also planning to insert a stent to replace the feeding tube so Dad would be able to eat on his own again.

Day 15: Tue 10th Nov 2020 More tests.

When I spoke to Dad, he was waiting for an X-ray to check whether there was any bowel obstruction that might affect the anti-sickness medication they had put him on.

Day 16: Wed 11th Nov 2020 I got a call from the hospital’s Macmillan cancer support team. Geraldine was really kind and helpful. She had been checking in on Dad every day and updating me.

As I mentioned before, Dad rarely complained about aches and pains, but I kept reminding him to be completely honest with the nurses and doctors. They only wanted to help him feel better, and they needed to know how much pain he was in so they could prescribe the right level of pain relief.

Day 17: Thu 12th Nov 2020 Dad had his NG tube changed because it was leaking.

Day 18: Fri 13th Nov 2020 It had to be Friday the 13th of all days for Dad’s full diagnosis.

Guy’s Hospital had their multidisciplinary meeting the day before and agreed that Dad would start the first stage of chemotherapy within the next two weeks as an outpatient. One adult would be allowed to accompany him to his treatments. Dad’s oesophageal cancer was stage 4. It had already spread, which explained why some of the other tests he had been waiting for would no longer change the outcome.

I called Mum to tell her the bad news, and even though she had been preparing herself, she was absolutely heartbroken.

Dad had his stent put in that day too.

Day 19: Sat 14th Nov 2020 I only spoke to Dad briefly because he was having an ECG. He still wasn’t allowed to eat yet because it had not been 24 hours since the stent had been fitted, but he had been able to drink water and juice.

Day 20: Sun 15th Nov 2020 Dad was so happy to be able to eat again, even though he could only manage soft foods. He laughed and called it “baby food.”

Day 21: Mon 16th Nov 2020 Dad developed a chest infection from the stent, so he was put on painkillers and was also finding it difficult to breathe.

Day 22: Tue 17th Nov 2020 Dad was really desperate to come home by this point, but because he had been prescribed antibiotics, they couldn’t discharge him until he had finished the course.

That day he had chicken soup and said it was really tasty. Little moments like that meant a lot.

Day 23: Wed 18th Nov 2020 Unfortunately, Dad’s chest infection was getting worse, so they needed to keep him in for a few more days to run further tests.

Day 24: Thu 19th Nov 2020 Good news at last - Dad was told he would be discharged the next day. I called him to tell him, and he was so excited to be going home.

Day 25: Fri 20th Nov 2020 It was around 2pm when I arrived at the ward, excited and desperate to see Dad again.

They had set up a small private room where I waited for him. When he came through the door, we were both so happy to see each other. I sat him down, took a quick selfie to send to the family, and wrapped him in my coat because he was only wearing his hospital gown. He looked healthier than when he had first been admitted, but he was still very thin.

We had arranged for a translator because I felt there were things I didn’t know how to explain to Dad in Chinese. This gave him the chance to ask any questions he might have had. Up until then, we weren’t really sure how much he fully understood about what was happening.

After the translator explained that he had advanced cancer and would need chemotherapy, Dad’s face dropped. I think it all started to sink in at that moment - just how serious it was, and how advanced the cancer had become. I still can’t explain, or even begin to imagine, what he must have been feeling.

I just held Dad’s hand and hoped he didn’t feel alone.

After the meeting with the doctors, we went back to his bed and waited a few more hours for his medicines to be made up before he could be discharged. It was during those hours that I realised just how lonely hospital must have felt. It was so quiet. All you could hear was the sound of your own breathing and the machines going beep… beep… beep… Even I couldn’t wait to leave, and I had only been there a few hours.

We met with the physio, who tested whether Dad could climb the stairs independently, which he could. Finally, by 7pm, Dad was discharged.

Week 5

A few days before Dad was discharged, I had already decided to move back in with my parents so I could help care for him. I packed my Nutribullet and stocked up on healthy foods, ready to become Dad’s full-time carer and unofficial nutritionist.

Soft Diet: Dad was on a number of medications that he had to take up to four times a day, and he had also been prescribed fortified milk to help him gain weight. My dad had always been a big foodie, so the sudden switch to a soft diet must have been really hard for him.

There was no knowing how long he would need to stay on soft foods. He had only just had the stent fitted, and we couldn’t risk anything getting stuck. I was giving him medicine at 9am, 12pm, 3pm, 6pm and 9pm. At one point, feeling really frustrated, he asked me, “How long do I have to keep taking all this medicine for?” 

I tried making all sorts of smoothies and soups. Dad especially liked the tomato and herb soup, but he definitely wasn’t a fan of my morning green protein smoothies. He also found the Fortisip too sweet, so I had to get creative and find ways to mix it into his food.

I also had a few carer bells placed around the house so Dad could call us if he needed anything while we were in another room. The first time he used one was actually really funny. Mum came running in, and Dad asked her to get him some water - even though he was perfectly capable of getting it himself. It was like he was enjoying being waited on, and we all laughed. Even while he was ill, he still found ways to make us smile.

Too frail for Chemotherapy: On Wednesday 25th November 2020, my sister took Dad to his appointment, where they had a Cantonese translator. Dad had one question: “So I can’t have surgery?” When they told him no, his heart sank.

He was then told he was also too underweight and frail to have chemotherapy. I can only imagine how devastating that moment must have been for him - realising how serious everything was, and that there was nothing the doctors could do to prolong his life in the way we had all hoped. It was one of the lowest points for all of us.

The oncologist said they would review him again in two weeks by phone rather than make him come back in, as they could see how frail he was. Dad was understandably deflated that day, but he was still determined to try. He wanted to eat more, gain weight, and somehow become strong enough for chemo. He was so brave.

Sleepless nights: My brother and I stayed awake until Dad was ready for bed every night, which was often very late because Dad was usually a night owl. We would watch him go upstairs and get into bed before we went to sleep ourselves. He was so frail by then, and we didn’t want to risk him falling on the stairs. It took a real toll on both of us, caring for him around the clock.

Dad had his good days and bad days. One moment he would be happy, laughing and chatting to friends on the phone, and the next he would be daydreaming and staring out of the window, which wasn’t like him at all. What was he thinking? What was going through his mind? We could only guess.

We didn’t know whether we should talk to him openly about what he was going through. It broke our hearts to watch his health deteriorate, and we felt so helpless.

Determined to get mum a TV: One evening, while I was watching TV with Dad, he asked me to take his wallet and buy Mum a new smart TV. He told me how much money he had and said I could use it. At the time, I didn’t think too much of it, but looking back, I realise that was his way of beginning to hand things over.

Fed up of soup: I knew it was only a matter of time before Dad got fed up with his new diet. He started asking for stews and rice noodle soups. We didn’t want to deprive him of the foods he wanted in the unknown time he had left. Doctors had said six to eight months, but we all know those estimates can vary. We just wanted him to enjoy what he could.

Turn for the worse: On Friday 27th November 2020 at 6:20pm, we were having dinner, laughing and joking while watching old home videos, when Dad suddenly vomited up his food.

We all got really worried, and I think Dad thought it too - that maybe this was it. He kept asking me whether I had bought Mum the TV yet. I hadn’t. He then carried on vomiting every 30 minutes until it turned to bile.

I called the palliative care team, who we hadn’t even met properly yet because their home visit was meant to happen the following week. They advised putting Dad back on the anti-sickness medication, which the oncology department had actually told him to stop two days earlier. But even when I gave it to him, he vomited that back up too. With Dad being sick and Mum in tears, I felt completely helpless.

Eventually, I called 111 and spoke to a doctor who advised me to keep giving Dad small sips of water with electrolytes. I didn’t have any at the house, so instead I gave him small sips of coconut water, which we had plenty of. The doctor said that if he wasn’t better by morning, we should take him to A&E.

I stayed up with Dad that night, cleaning his mouth and giving him water every 30 minutes to keep him hydrated. At one point he said to me, “Khenh… you need to go to sleep.”

My heart sank again. Dad was in pain, but he was still worried about me not getting enough rest. The love he had for us is hard to put into words. I reassured him that everything would be okay and repeated what the doctor had said, that it might just be a stomach bug.

“Oh really?” he said, with a warm smile. “Maybe I ate the wrong thing?”

For a moment, he seemed hopeful again.

By the next morning Saturday 28th November 2020 he was still vomiting. It took some convincing to get him to agree to go back to A&E because he was scared he would be stuck there for another four weeks. My eldest sister managed to persuade him that it was for the best, so we took him in. This time they allowed one person in with him, so she stayed with him. Dad ended up staying in hospital for a couple of days. They suspected it was because he had come off the anti-sickness medication.

Dads last wishes: Monday 30th November 2020 On Monday 30th November 2020, Dad was discharged and we took him home. He looked noticeably more frail, and even though the doctors had said six to eight months, we all knew by then that it could be any day.

When we got home, we took family photos. Dad picked out his favourite hoodie, and if it weren’t for my eldest sister, we probably would never have managed to get him to talk about his wishes.

That day, Dad told us that he wanted us always to be happy, always to be there for one another, to keep loving each other, and to keep working as a team and as a family.

My niece even comforted him by saying, “Everything’s going to be okay, Grandad.”

Week 6

Dad spent that week watching old home videos and looking through family photo albums.

We all spent as much time with him as we could after he came home - helping with his physio, staying up with him, watching videos together, and reminiscing about our childhood. In such a painful time, our family somehow felt closer and closer.

Meeting Palliative care Wed 2nd December 2020. On Wednesday 2nd December 2020, we met Alice from the palliative care team. She explained that palliative care is specialised medical care focused on relieving pain and other symptoms of serious illness, no matter the diagnosis or stage. The aim is to improve quality of life for both the patient and their family.

She had a Cantonese interpreter on the phone and asked Dad what would make him happy, and whether he had any questions. Dad didn’t say much. In a croaky voice, he simply said, “I just want to get better.”

Alice said she would arrange another visit in a few weeks and would bring a colleague who spoke Cantonese, so Dad could ask questions more freely if he wanted to. We thought that might be helpful, in case there were things he wanted to say without us in the room.

Old photo albums: Thu 3rd December 2020 On Thursday 3rd December 2020, I was working from Dad’s room, sitting in the corner, while Mum sat on the armchair watching TV. Dad suddenly asked for all the photo albums.

Feeling nostalgic, he wanted to look through our family albums. We must have had around 20 of them - my parents loved taking family photos. As he looked through the photos from his younger days, he asked me again when the TV was arriving. He wanted to get Mum a TV so that when he was gone one day, she would have something to keep her mind occupied. I told him it would arrive on Monday.

Changing the light bulbs: Fri 4th December 2020 Early on Friday 4th December 2020, as I walked past Dad’s room, I noticed him sitting up and staring out of the window. He called me in and asked me to change his light bulb to a brighter one.

My brother said he would order one the next day, but Dad wanted it done straight away, so we swapped his bedroom bulb with the one in the hallway, which was much brighter. Dad had been sleeping with the lights on since he came home from hospital.

He spent most of that day downstairs in the living room watching TV and was still able to move around by himself. At one point he was searching through the TV cabinets, though I never really knew what he was looking for. Then, as he tried to stand up again, he lost his footing and fell back onto the sofa. He was getting weaker.

Sat 5th December 2020 That morning my nephew and I sat with Dad, watching YouTube. As a family, we really did spend as much time with him as possible. He was rarely left alone in a room. We just didn’t want him to feel lonely.

It was getting harder and harder for us to keep our emotions in as he became weaker. Dad had so many friends, though, and every evening he would still be on the phone, talking and laughing with them.

Calling 999: Sunday 6th December 2020 I had gone back to my own home to pick up a few things when Mum called me at 8:30am to say Dad was short of breath and she had given him his inhaler. But an hour later he still wasn’t any better. I called my brother, who was in a panic and kept saying, “Dad can’t breathe, he said he can’t breathe.

I tried to calm him down and work out exactly what was happening. It turned out that earlier Dad had been struggling to breathe, but now he was also having severe chest pain. I tried to get my brother to give Dad some morphine, but because Dad had never needed it before, he wasn’t sure how to administer it.

My brother and Mum were both panicking, and it would have taken me at least an hour to get there, so my brother called 999 at 9:30am while I called the palliative care team. I also called my younger sister and told her to go straight over. She arrived before the paramedics and helped calm Dad down. When the paramedics arrived at 9:45am, she put me on video call so I could talk them through Dad’s condition.

They gave Dad morphine and said it should help get his breathing under control. They asked me what his prognosis was, and I told them six to eight months. I was shocked when one of them then asked me, “What would you like me to do today?” They kept repeating that there was not much they could do and that it should really be the palliative care team supporting him.

I explained that Dad had only just been diagnosed a month earlier, had been in and out of hospital, and that we had not even had a proper palliative care planning meeting yet, so I honestly didn’t know what we were supposed to be doing. The paramedic was sympathetic and contacted palliative care to update them.

They also explained that if Dad ever didn’t want to go back into A&E, they could refer him to a local hospice to help manage his symptoms. They reassured us that the morphine dose was light and safe to give, even if we felt nervous about using it.

Before leaving, they encouraged Dad to drink a little water to make sure he could keep it down. He was scared he would be sick and end up back in hospital again, but after some convincing he managed to drink and keep it down. They told us that calling them had absolutely been the right thing to do, and that if it happened again we could either give the morphine ourselves or call them to come and do it.

They strongly urged us to make proper arrangements with palliative care as soon as possible. Afterward, I spoke to the palliative team and they said they would arrange another home visit within a few days after realising how quickly Dad’s health was changing.

It must have been terrifying for my family that morning, not knowing what was happening or what to do. I still wonder what was going through Dad’s mind.

Something supernatural that only dad could hear/see: The paramedics left at 10:20am, and I arrived with my youngest sister at 12:35pm.

I went upstairs to check on Dad and asked, “Hi Dad, are you feeling better?” He looked at me with a frightened, confused expression and said, “Khenh, come here… can you hear that?”

As I walked closer, he kept repeating, “Can you hear that sound?” I looked around and listened, then asked, “What sound?” He pointed at his knee and whispered, “There’s a sound coming from there.” 

I felt scared in that moment. Was Dad hearing or seeing something I couldn’t? Then I noticed the TV was on quietly in the background and thought maybe that was what he meant.

“Dad, it’s the TV,” I said.

“Oh, is it?” he replied.

His eyes were open, so for a moment I even wondered whether he had lost his sight or was too disoriented to realise the TV was on. I didn’t want to panic, so I just settled him back into bed and went downstairs. It was likely the effect of the morphine.

Dad gets the chills: At 1pm Dad came downstairs and wanted to sit with the rest of us in the living room, but we noticed he was sweating and his skin felt clammy. We changed his clothes and kept a towel nearby to keep him dry. By 2pm his top was soaked again, so we changed it once more. It seemed like the morphine had made him drowsy and feverish.

I was using a thermometer gun to check his temperature, but I wasn’t convinced it was accurate, so I rushed to Tesco to buy an in-ear thermometer. Thankfully his temperature was normal, and by 5pm he was feeling better and managed some vegetable and chicken soup.

By 7pm he was back to his usual cheery self again. He had some rice pudding and was on the phone laughing with friends. He suddenly seemed full of energy.

Monday 7th December 2020

Waking up that morning, I had no idea it would be the last full day we would spend with Dad.

At 8:30am, I was making Dad his usual breakfast smoothie, but he was looking out of the window and didn’t want to talk. He said he was short of breath again and asked for some morphine. That sinking feeling came back. I remember wondering whether this was it. My brother and Mum came in and sat with him for a while.

Then, almost suddenly, the TVs arrived, and Dad became really eager to set them up. He seemed to get a burst of energy out of nowhere. My brother and I helped unbox them. One was for the room Dad was staying in temporarily, and the other was for my parents’ main bedroom. Dad spent the rest of the afternoon tuning the TV and adjusting the colour settings.

Catching dads invisible tears . That afternoon I was sitting in Dad’s room working on my laptop when I caught him staring at me with a look I had never seen before. It was as if his eyes were saying everything he didn’t want to put into words - that he loved me, and that he didn’t want to leave us. At that moment, I held his hand and prayed.

I prayed:

My father is a good man, a good friend, a good husband, a good dad, a good grandad. He comes from a humble background but did his best to raise this family. He has worked hard all his life and never complained. Even now, as he is dying, he is hiding his pain because he doesn’t want to worry us. He is always the first to help others, and I can only pray that he does not suffer in his final days with us.

Dads last dying wish fulfilled At 6:11pm, Dad got up and went into the main bedroom to set up the TV. Finally, Mum got the TV that Dad had been waiting all this time to give her. Once he was satisfied with the tuning and the colours, he lay down on the bed. I lay down beside him and we watched TV together. We were watching a programme about the best mince pies, and I remember Dad kept wanting to switch over to something else.

That evening, at around 10pm, we had to call 999 again because Dad was struggling with his breathing despite having morphine. When the paramedics arrived, they increased the dose and it helped bring his breathing back under control. My brother and I spoke to one of the paramedics privately, and I asked her, “I just want to know - are these signs of dying?”

She said yes. She talked me through what to look out for and kept reminding me that hearing is the last sense to go.

We ended up talking about her own grandmother, who had brain cancer and had been in pain for two years. She explained that sometimes people leave quickly, and sometimes they stay much longer than anyone expects. Her advice was simply to keep doing what we were already doing. She said she was really struck by our family unity and how much we were all there for one another.

That evening we did a family video call, chatted for a while, even took a group selfie, and one of my sisters came over to spend time with Dad.

We knew it was close. We knew it could be that very night. So we all stayed up.

Goodbye Dad: For Dad’s safety, we had cameras set up around the house so that if we weren’t in the same room, we could still keep an eye on him. At around 1:30am, we checked the camera and saw that Dad had got up to use the bathroom.

When he came back into the bedroom, we noticed that his skin colour had changed. He looked jaundiced. We knew then that it was time. He lay back down, and we all sat around him. He was still conscious and knew what was happening.

Not long after, his skin changed again. His organs must have been shutting down. We woke Mum up and called my other sisters so they could be with us too. I held Dad’s hand and whispered, “Don’t worry about us, Dad. Don’t be scared. You can leave in peace. We love you.”

As Dad was taking his final breaths, I called 999. The operator dispatched paramedics and asked me to begin CPR. From that point on, everything became a blur. Even though we had all been preparing for this day, and even though there was probably no real chance of bringing him back, doing CPR still gave me hope. I kept thinking, Maybe this is Dad’s second chance. The paramedics arrived quickly and took over, but after trying for some time, Dad had already gone.

They pronounced dad dead at 02:20am Tuesday 8th December 2020.

They placed Dad back into bed, and I arranged for an undertaker to collect him a couple of hours later so we could all spend a little more time with him first. The undertakers were very respectful. As they took him away, a tear rolled down my cheek.

Goodbye Dad. I love you.

We didn't know what to do: From Dad’s diagnosis to his death, everything happened so quickly. Even though we knew one day this would come, we still had no idea what to do when it finally happened.

I learned the next day that if someone dies at home, you need to call the GP to come out and issue the medical certificate. If they die in hospital, a doctor signs it there. That certificate is then used to register the death with the council in the area where they passed away.

At the time, all I had was the certificate from the head paramedic, which was not enough, so Dad’s notes were sent to the coroner. The coroner reviewed them and signed everything off, as there was nothing suspicious about the death.

The next step was preparing the funeral which you can read here

Losing a loved one is always difficult, but I don’t think I realised just how much I loved my dad until he became ill. I have so many happy memories with my family, and that is a big part of why I wanted to write about this and share it on my blog. After Dad died, I turned to a vegan diet and started reading more about Buddhism, Taoism and religion in general. Having faith has helped me cope with the loss. It left me with so many questions - where life starts, what comes after, and what any of this really means.

Looking back now, some things make more sense to me. Why Dad wanted brighter lights. Why he kept trying to stay awake at night with the TV on. Why he kept asking about Mum’s TV. It felt like he was holding on until he could give her that final gift.

And when I walked back into my parents’ home afterward, Dad was no longer there. His bed, his belongings, everything was left just as he had last used them.

That was when it truly hit me.

Dad had really gone.

A.S.Do

7th Feb 1955 - 8th Dec 2020