Will Love Give Us the Courage to Let Our Dad Go?

I believe the cruelest thing a human can experience is burying their child. While the only thing guaranteed in life, from the moment we take our first breath to our last, is death, for a parent to bury a child is not the natural progression of life.

For more than six years, I have watched my Dad go through rounds of chemotherapy, years of dialysis, emergency room visits, and hospitalizations where doctors advised against further medical treatment—until my brother vehemently fought for it. If you ever need a medical advocate, you should hire him. Perhaps it is the lawyer in him that convinces doctors to shift their medical opinions.

My Dad asked, and my brother passionately advocated for him for days so he could receive his first round of chemotherapy more than six years ago, which the doctor at first refused to administer since it was an unusual treatment for his autoimmune disease. He would have passed away within a matter of months without it. He did squats after his first chemotherapy. Now, he is in a diaper, on a hospital bed, and has asked that he be cremated.

Another doctor, who shall remain nameless, wanted to transfer my Dad, who was unconscious and in critical condition, to hospice when he was admitted earlier this week. That doctor’s name is like Voldemort in our family, never to be said out loud, especially in front of my brother. When I asked what his name was, I was told to look at the board. The doctor saw no hope. My brother, who is our Dad’s medical proxy, spent days at the hospital beside our dying father, advocating for treatment even if there was less than a 1% chance.

With fought-for treatment, a miracle happened. With the aid of a physical therapist, he got out of bed and took about 20 steps with the support of the therapist and a walker less than an hour ago. And as I sit by him, seeing the man who has shrunk to half his size, I wonder if the recent heroic efforts and sacrifices my Mom and brother have made are in the best interest of my Dad. It isn’t a criticism. I don’t think either of them is ready for a world without him. I think they fear grief, perhaps their regret over the life that could have been with him. My brother may be experiencing a form of PTSD from when his oldest child survived advanced leukemia. I am not questioning their love, but I see love and death very differently from them. Perhaps differently from most of the world.

My Dad has been married to my Mom for more than fifty years, and he has two adult children in their fifties and three grandsons in their twenties. I wouldn’t dare to score his life; that solely belongs to him. Even giving him ice water at this point requires a check-in with a nurse.

I am a believer that death ends all. I am not scared of death. I am afraid of dying, the process that drags out rather than arriving in an instant. I wouldn’t regret death as long as I don’t have to endure prolonged immobility and pain. After all, the only thing guaranteed in life is death, so fighting to keep living without hope of recovery, or even a better quality of life as death is postponed, isn’t something I would opt for myself. Just because modern medicine can keep me breathing, it doesn’t mean I am living. Living should be defined by quality and not by quantity.

I don’t know what my Dad wishes for. It isn’t like I can ask him if he wishes to die, an unusual discomfort for me as someone who is generally comfortable asking direct questions and sitting with difficult answers. I do know that he passed on a kidney transplant a couple of months ago, which would have prolonged his life if successful, and agreed to hospice care while drifting in and out of consciousness a few days ago.

I admit that our relationship is complex. I love him, but I have bouts of resentment that are rooted in a traumatic childhood. I know he has loved and still loves me, and that he will love me until his last breath. I’ve learned through my parents that people show up with love differently, and it isn’t our role to judge how they love, but to see it enough from their perspective to acknowledge it. I have carefully examined my feelings as his health slowly deteriorated. If my feelings were leading with resentment rather than love, I wouldn’t care about his suffering.

I went to most of his chemotherapies before the Covid pandemic prevented it. I cheered him on, but I saw regret reflected in my Dad’s expression on the other side of the glass sliding door while we spent one Christmas during the pandemic in my parents’ front yard, along with other family members, as he watched.

And since then, that quiet regret has remained on his face and spread to his voice. Once a loud man, I now have to strain to hear what he says and ask him to repeat himself.

I don’t believe holding on is the only form of love. Sometimes, letting go takes as much love. It isn’t that I wish my Dad would pass away. The thought itself makes me emotional, but I don’t want him to suffer anymore. I don’t want him to just breathe. That isn’t living. If there is nothing left for him in breathing except pain and immobility after over eighty years of life, then isn’t it kinder, perhaps, to let him go rather than intervene with every medical treatment available? Perhaps our love for him should give us enough courage to lose him while ensuring he is as comfortable as possible, until his life naturally proceeds to the moment he leaves us in peace rather than agony.

_____

More essays:
Gwyneth Paltrow is Aloof, So What Are You?

Are We Really Living Our Best Life?

Confessions of a Former Poll Worker

All Is Not Fair in Marriage, But Should You At Least Get Some Justice?

ChatGPT, Where Is Your Ethics?

ESSAYS | RECIPES | STYLES | IG

Comments

Culpability in Mr. Jordan Neely's Death

It had been a hellish two months. I am not quite ready to share that story, but I can say with some serenity that it is now behind me. On my way home from one of my solo dinners — a book in hand, celebrating the quiet return of civility to my life — the Lyft paused in traffic in front of 1313 W. 8th Street. The building houses the ACLU, one of the NGOs I once supported. The past tense there is a longer story for another time. Photo by Matt Collamer on Unsplash Above the entrance is painted a list of demands: housing, healthcare, green space — all reasonable things a society should strive to provide. At the very bottom of the list, just above the ACLU sign, the words “More Police” have been crossed out. The sight of it brought to mind the death of Mr. Jordan Neely and the man who restrained him on a New York City subway train, Mr. Daniel Penny. You may not have heard of Mr. Jordan Neely. He died before reaching thirty-one years of age. At the time of his death, he was on New York City’...

Not the Mayak Eggs, But Ganjang Gyeran-Jang

Although this delicious soy sauce-based brine can certainly be used to make the once-viral Mayak Eggs, I prefer the eggs for this particular banchan fully cooked rather than jammy. Partly out of familiarity from childhood and partly for food safety, fully cooked eggs keep longer in the refrigerator. Typically, jammy-yolk eggs are good for two to three days, while fully cooked eggs are safe for four to five days. INGREDIENTS six eggs three celery sticks, cut in thirds [for the soy sauce-based brine] five Thai chilies, sliced four garlic cloves, peeled and roughly chopped two green onions, finely chopped a half cup of soy sauce one and a half tablespoons of sugar a tablespoon of sesame oil three-quarters of a teaspoon of honey For perfectly boiled eggs, place the eggs in a pot with plenty of room at the bottom. Do not stack the eggs. Add enough room-temperature water to submerge the eggs and a handful of salt to clog leakage in case shells crack. All ceramic bowls were wheel-thrown and g...

Curated: Summer Dresses

In my late thirties, I wore a mini knitted dress as a mini knitted dress, which felt perfectly reasonable until my fifties arrived and I found myself styling it differently. Now, the same dress has been reassigned as a long top because a very short hemline eventually starts to feel less like a fashion choice and more like a risk-management exercise, with increasing odds of revealing far more than was ever intended. This is the peculiar elegance of getting older: the skirt may lengthen, the styling may sharpen, and the reveal becomes less about inches and more about instinct. Brunch at Coastal Kitchen Monterey I kept that in mind as my curation for summer dresses began. Mini dresses were not exiled from the curation, but I shifted the focus toward those of us who have reached expert-level proficiency in risk assessment, even as our sense of style has only sharpened. UTCOCO Lapel Shirt Dress JavaScript is currently disabled in this browser. Reactivate it to view this content. ROMANTICTOU...

The Egg Salad Sandwich

Cheap, filling, and easy to make. Those qualities are likely what made the egg salad sandwich a staple, though the origins of egg salad itself remain somewhat humble and blurred by time. While chopped or dressed boiled eggs appeared in European cooking long before the modern egg salad sandwich, it did not officially emerge until mayonnaise entered French cuisine in the early nineteenth century. Curiously, the invention of the egg salad sandwich is not credited to the French but rather to the British or Americans, depending on which culinary historian you ask. I've always preferred a little punch and a less-is-more philosophy when it comes to ingredients, so my version of the egg salad sandwich leans heavily on flavor rather than excess. In fact, it is even better after a few hours in the refrigerator, when the ingredients have had time to mingle and deepen one another. INGREDIENTS three eggs, boiled, diced, and chopped a celery stalk, finely diced a quarter of a shallot, finely d...

Gwyneth Paltrow is Aloof, So What Are You?

There are days when I feel utterly disconnected from the world. It took an IG feed from Diet Prada for me to learn that Gwyneth Paltrow had starred in an ad for 51 Park, a luxury residential development in Herzliya, Israel. Herzliya is an affluent coastal city north of Tel Aviv, and the project is being marketed as a luxury residential development there. To be clear, 51 Park is not in Gaza. It is in Israel. But precision does not make the geography innocent: parts of present-day Herzliya overlap with or sit near the land of al-Haram, also known as Sidna Ali, a Palestinian Arab village depopulated in 1948. Lisbon, Portugal There is misinformation about where the 51 Park residential development is located, and the distinction matters. If our beating of Gwyneth Paltrow is going to be effective, it should at least be accurate. I have never liked her. I have never hated her. Even before the 51 Park ad controversy broke, I felt she was irrelevant. Her acting skills are not impressive. Would ...

Are We Really Living Our Best Life?

I don't drive, something I gave up while incorporating minimalism into my lifestyle. I have a fixed utility bill, not including the internet, because I live in a building that is over 100 years old. I am a party of one, without even a fur baby, so the grocery bills are minimal, especially since I am on a diet. It may not feel like it if you follow me on IG Stories, but I've lost fifteen pounds as I type this. So far, I haven't felt the sticker shock of the brinkmanship war in the Strait of Hormuz. Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, California I know I live in a bubble. I am sure I am impacted, but I haven't felt the punch yet because a rapid rate of consumption is not part of my life, though I have defaulted to it whenever my life has been invaded by the obliviously prejudiced, triggering traumatic stress. While the mindless and ignorant are unavoidable, I eventually retreat to my bubble to heal and reset, making the damaging party persona non grata. As a former therapist...

Surf & Turf Fried Rice

Growing up, fried rice was a staple in our home. My mother served it with yellow radish pickles and kimchi, sometimes crowned with a fried egg. On certain days it appeared a little fancier—tucked neatly inside an omelet, or my personal favorite, stuffed into inari age, those seasoned fried tofu pouches that soak up every grain. Ceramic bowl was wheel-thrown and glazed by me Fried rice exists in many forms across Asia—China, Japan, Korea, Thailand, and Vietnam, to name only a few—each with its own techniques, flavors, and traditions. I cannot say that my version belongs squarely to any one of them. It began with the flavors and instincts of Korean-style fried rice, but over time it evolved, influenced by my Chinese-Hungarian-American ex-husband and the ingredients commonly found in American kitchens: leftover ham, jalapeño, and calabacita. This version leans into a playful idea of surf and turf—shrimp representing the sea and ham representing the land—folded together into a wok of rice ...

Balsamic Caramelized Brussels Sprouts

Brussels sprouts are one of those polarizing vegetables. They are either embraced or avoided with conviction. I once avoided them entirely, until I tasted them finished with balsamic glaze . The bitterness softened. The edges crisped. What had felt harsh became unexpectedly compelling. Roasted Brussels sprouts with caramelized edges, glossed in balsamic reduction and finished with brown sugar, change the equation. The exterior turns crisp and almost candied, while the centers remain tender. Sweet and acidic. Charred and balanced. While these Balsamic Caramelized Brussels Sprouts are dependable as a side dish, they hold their own as a meal in a bowl. INGREDIENTS [serves 4 as a side] one pound of Brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved balsamic glaze made from a half cup of balsamic vinegar two teaspoons of brown sugar salt and pepper to season olive oil to drizzle Preheat the oven to 400°F. Arrange the Brussels sprouts cut side down on a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil. Lightl...

Homemade Balsamic Glaze

There are ingredients that demand complexity, and then there are ingredients that reward quiet. Balsamic glaze belongs firmly in the latter category. At its core, it is nothing more than vinegar reduced with a touch of sugar. No emulsions. No elaborate technique. Just heat transforming sharpness into depth. As the vinegar simmers, it thickens into something darker, glossier, and quietly dramatic. A proper balsamic reduction carries contrast. It is sweet, but not cloying. Acidic, but softened. It pools against burrata, streaks across roasted vegetables, finishes a steak, and cuts through the richness of duck with precision. It does not overwhelm. It punctuates. And unlike many bottled versions, which can taste flat or syrupy, a homemade glaze retains the complexity of the vinegar itself. The flavor concentrates. The texture becomes silkier. The control is yours. INGREDIENTS a half cup of balsamic vinegar one and a half teaspoons of sugar In a small saucepan, combine the balsamic...

Exhaling Life

Search This Blog