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

Articles sélectionnés

I earn commission on qualified purchases.

Comments

Scallops with Cucumber Salad

Summer without cucumbers is like summer without shorts. Unthinkable. Crisp and cooling, cucumbers are indispensable when the heat sets in. While I love them tucked into an icy bowl of naengmyeon, they’re equally persuasive in a quick salad that refreshes without effort. Paired with scallops, they make a meal that feels considered without demanding much time at the stove. This is the kind of dish that understands restraint: clean flavors, minimal heat, and just enough acidity to keep everything awake. INGREDIENTS [serves 2 as a main course] six large scallops half of an English cucumber, thinly sliced one-quarter of red onion, thinly sliced four basil leaves zest and juice from one lemon one twig of French thyme one garlic clove, chopped one-third of a cup of white wine vinegar two tablespoons brown sugar a light pinch of sea salt a sliver of unsalted butter In a bowl, mix the white wine vinegar and brown sugar until the sugar dissolves. Add the cucumber, red onion, basil leaves, an...

The Art of Calabrian Chicken

I spent yesterday afternoon at the Lucas Museum of Narrative Art. Newly opened last month after years of anticipation, it was a visit I approached with some hesitation. My disappointment with LACMA's David Geffen Galleries earlier this year had yet to settle. I felt as though I had wandered into a fabulous space where art and artifacts had been arranged without much intention, without stories to tell, rather like an art fair with booths. I carried that impression with me as I prepared to visit the Lucas Museum. After the Prom by Norman Rockwell I knew I would be mesmerized by its architecture. What surprised me was the storytelling within. I hadn't expected Norman Rockwell's gallery to captivate me quite as much as it did. There was something profoundly beautiful about the smallness of life he portrayed, the ordinary moments of family, childhood, and everyday rituals elevated into something worthy of our attention. Rockwell's America was often idealized, certainly, bu...

Are We Ready for the Truth? I’m Fat.

I am fat. That is neither a confession nor a plea for reassurance. It is not coded self-loathing nor an invitation for affirmation. It is a description of my body. Yet the moment I say it aloud, people rush to correct me, as though I have misidentified myself. “You’re not fat,” they insist, with the urgency of someone extinguishing a small fire. The discomfort is not mine. It is theirs. Las Alcobas Hotel Staircase, Mexico City, Mexico Fat is not an identity. It is not a character assessment or a moral condition. It is a descriptor of a body. The body is a vessel that carries who we are; it is not the entirety of who we are. When I describe my body as fat, I am not reducing myself. I am describing the state of the vessel. We have constructed a culture in which self-acceptance is treated as a moral virtue—but only when it follows approved language. Love your body, we are told, but do not describe it in ways that unsettle others. Do not call yourself fat unless you meet some publicly agre...

Samgyetang, aka Korean Ginseng Chicken Soup

Healthy. That is the best word to describe Samgyetang, Korean Ginseng Chicken Soup, made with ginseng, daechu (Korean jujubes), leeks, and asatsuki (Japanese chives). While I didn’t appreciate this Korean chicken soup as a child, my appreciation for its soulful flavor and power-boosting health benefits has grown over the years. Before I start talking about its health benefits, let’s talk about the chicken—because it matters. I used a four-pound chicken purchased directly from a ranch at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market. It was a bit on the expensive side, but it was organic and pasture-raised without machine handling. It was handled and butchered by hand. This chicken soup is medicinal, so the quality of the chicken matters. Now that we’ve gotten the topic of chicken out of the way, let’s talk about the other ingredients that give Samgyetang its restorative depth. “Sam” of Samgyetang comes from ginseng in Korean. It brings a distinct earthiness to the broth—slightly bitter, grounding,...

French Green Bean Casserole

No entrée stands alone. Even the most confident main course benefits from a supporting act that knows how to hold its own without clamoring for attention. The green bean casserole, in its most American form, is often nostalgic, sometimes heavy, rarely subtle. This version leans elsewhere. French green beans retain their snap. Gruyère and crème fraîche lend quiet luxury. Pancetta and shiitake deepen the room. It is familiar, yes — but composed, deliberate, and just decadent enough to feel dressed for the occasion. Served with turkey roast INGREDIENTS [serves 4 as a side dish] eight ounces of French green beans, trimmed one shallot, diced two celery stalks, sliced three ounces of shiitake mushrooms, sliced a quarter pound of Gruyère, grated two ounces of pancetta, small cubes two tablespoons of butter, melted one cup of panko a quarter cup of heavy whipping cream six ounces of crème fraîche Preheat the oven to 375°F. Bring a pot of water, enough to cover the beans, to a boil. Boil the ...

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

Marriage is complicated. It requires more than love to sustain it. Divorce is a lot more complicated. It is rare for a single reason alone to cause a divorce, at least for most of us. I used to get offended when people inquired about why I divorced. That offense itself was layered with a need for privacy, the rawness of processing emotional injuries, and the reality that I did not know why he left. The only certainty was that I couldn't trust him anymore. It took more than a decade for me to openly talk about it. I am amused by Heather Ammel v. Kyrsten Sinema . It has all the elements of a good Lifetime movie: a cheating husband, a former U.S. senator, and an allegedly devastated wife. It extends beyond emotion, with legal questions unfolding as former Senator Kyrsten Sinema seeks dismissal on the grounds that while the affair happened, it did not happen in North Carolina, and therefore the state law forming the basis of the lawsuit is out of its jurisdiction. In North Carolin...

Inspired by Bar Santos: Piri Piri Sauce

It is one of those rare places in Los Angeles where I can feel authenticity and genuine warmth. When I first stepped into Bar Santos in Cypress Park, I was still recovering from my Portugal trip. If you recall from my IG Stories , a canceled flight, another delayed flight, lost luggage, falsely confiscated jamón ibérico, and the mystery of how airlines cannot distinguish between hotels and motels were traumatic enough to leave a mental scar. However, Bar Santos healed whatever wound remained. Piri Piri Chicken at Bar Santos The second time was to sip their Porto Tonico. I rarely talk about prices when it comes to bars and restaurants, but $9 for a drink, and a refreshingly delicious drink at that, is unheard of, especially in Los Angeles. While Porto Tonico got me back to Bar Santos, it was their Piri Piri Chicken that made me fall hard for them. It is very rare for me to try to duplicate a dish. Partly because I don't like to intelligently dissect what I am eating because it takes...

Haemul Pajeon, Korean Seafood Green Onion Pancake

Whoever coined the phrase “bigger is better” clearly never consulted a five-foot-three-inch woman. I have long maintained that fabulousity often comes in small packages. There are exceptions, of course, and Haemul Pajeon, the Korean Seafood Green Onion Pancake, makes a rather delicious case for abandoning my principles. When it comes to this Korean favorite, thickness is everything. Packed with shrimp, squid, green onions, zucchini, and yellow onions, these savory pancakes are a glorious celebration of excess, at least where ingredients are concerned. While many recipes favor thinner pancakes or arrange the ingredients neatly on top, there is a reason the thicker, generously stuffed versions served at Korean restaurants have gone viral. With their crisp, deeply browned exteriors giving way to tender, seafood-packed interiors, they deliver a combination of flavor and texture that thinner versions simply cannot match. Sometimes, bigger really is better. Or, in this case, thicker. INGREDI...

Mongolian Beef

Mongolian Beef is my all-time favorite Chinese dish—savory, slightly sweet, garlicky, and finished with that irresistible glossy sauce that clings to every slice of beef. Despite its name, the dish isn’t from Mongolia at all; it’s a Chinese-American creation inspired by flavors and cooking techniques from northern China, popularized in Chinese restaurants in the United States. The combination of tender sliced beef, aromatics like ginger and garlic, and a rich soy-based sauce makes it both comforting and bold, the kind of dish that feels special yet familiar every time it’s served. Ceramic bowl was wheel-thrown and glazed by me. INGREDIENTS [serves 3 to 4 as a main course] one pound of boneless ribeye steak, sliced one and a half tablespoons of cornstarch two tablespoons of Tamari soy sauce two tablespoons of vegetable oil one tablespoon of cooking Michiu two teaspoons of oyster sauce two teaspoons of Sriracha sauce one tablespoon of roughly chopped ginger two garlic cloves, sli...

Fiercely Chic in Leather

Long before leather became synonymous with rebellion and sex appeal, it was a marker of wealth and social standing. In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Europe, finely crafted leather gloves were indispensable accessories for women of privilege, signaling refinement and the luxury of hands unaccustomed to manual labor. How amusing that a material once associated with proper etiquette would eventually become one of fashion's most provocative expressions of independence. Leather, it seems, has always understood the importance of making an impression, even as its definition of good manners has changed rather dramatically. Paris, France By the twentieth century, leather had shed much of its polite disposition. Yves Saint Laurent brought motorcycle-inspired rebellion into the hallowed world of Christian Dior in 1960, while Vivienne Westwood later embraced leather's more subversive possibilities through punk and fetish-inspired fashion. Azzedine Alaïa sculpted it around the femal...

Exhaling Life

Search This Blog