Today, when I was in Shirshashana after my workout, the image of my father lying lifeless on the bed on the day he died began flashing in my mind. This is not the first time I’ve lived the moment. But experiencing the exact thing that you want to move on from during your dedicated hour makes all the effort to heal kind of pointless, doesn’t it?
My father was a perfectly healthy man until he got cancer in late 2019 at the age of 78. Bummer. He was a very cooperative patient during the chemo and radiation treatments. He kicked cancer’s ass the first time around. He stood strong when a PEG tube was inserted surgically to help him with nutrition. He was okay with not being able to even drink a drop of water because of oesophageal carcinoma. He waited patiently for the cancer to go away. And it did. 31 days of radiation treatment, 5 chemos, and a surgery to introduce an alternate feeding method later, my father ate his first solid meal in mid-April 2020, after almost six months of tube feeding. Then again in June 2020, he almost choked on lunch on his birthday. We got an endoscopy done fearing that the cancer was back. But there was no cancer, but a lot of fibrosis because of radiation resulting in the narrowing of the tract. We were going to get the oesophageal tract dilated as suggested by the gastroenterologist, but papa’s cataract needed urgent surgery. Between August-October 2020, I got both cataracts removed. But he looked weaker and said he had pain in the abdominal area combined with feeling sleepy and tired. Covid was wreaking havoc, so taking him to the hospital was not suggested by the oncologist. But at the end of October, we rushed him to the hospital because he was writhing in pain, and urgent scans and ultrasounds told us that the cancer was back. This time, metastatic, in the liver, brain, and oesophageal tract. I was standing there, alone in front of his doctor, a very kind human being, not knowing what to do. The doctor said chemo could buy him 2 years but not cure him because the disease was metastatic. I understood. Considering his age, it was a blessing. I told him what the reports said. He asked me what to do. We immediately started brain radiation because there were chances he would be paralysed. He got weaker and disoriented because of the brain mets. We started chemo for the liver mets. Had to admit him frequently because of fever. But just after 2 chemo sessions, his liver mets had drastically shrunk. However, the brain radiation failed. The stupid brain mets didn’t budge even a bit. The doctor suggested supportive care and that he wouldn’t live beyond 6 weeks. My father breathed his last late January 2021, 3 days after telling me that he felt well and that the abdominal pain was gone. He said he felt the treatment is working. Two days before deteriorating, when we made him get up and sit on the bed, he supported his own upper body all by himself, a major step after being affected by brain radiation. He also talked to me and my husband and cracked some jokes. We both knew he was going to die, but I wanted at least those 6 weeks with him. But he died within a week of the doctor’s prognosis.
On the day he died, I was the one who checked his pulse on the oximeter. I was the one who placed my hand on his chest and felt nothing. I was the one who saw him motionless on his bed, perhaps finally at peace, and pain-free. I was the one who walked to the neighbour to ask for a doctor’s visit to declare him dead. I was the one who made arrangements with my husband to get a GP home on a Sunday. I was the one who held my brother and mother tightly as they cried. I was the one who talked to the neighbours about how to do the funeral. I was the one who went back and forth to my place next door to get Papa’s clothes. I was the one who consoled my mother in law when she broke down looking at my dad’s lifeless body. I was the one who sat beside him alone, holding his clammy, lifeless hand, one last time, in the middle of messing the arrangements.
I was the one who was not consoled by my mother on losing a father. I was the one who was not hugged by my brother on losing our Papa. I was the one who hugged my husband tightly when he broke down while picking papa’s final attire from our cupboard. I was the one who was not asked by many of my loved ones about how I was doing.
I was the one who lost my dad, but didn’t get to grieve.
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