Have you ever seen someone die in person? Before June 25th, I never had. Witnessing it changed everything for me. Emotionally. Philosophically. Spiritually. 

Before diving into those changes, let’s focus on death itself. Specifically, my dad’s death. 

I never dwelled on death before   

Now I do. In my early thirties, I knew death was inevitable, but it seemed far off. Not visible beyond the horizon. There was an infinite feeling to life. 

Then my dad died this year at age 65. When he was diagnosed with stage 4 terminal cancer about two years ago, the prospect of death hit me like a sucker punch. It was the first time someone very close to me stared death directly in the face. 

It was also a stark realization that I – at age 35 – may already be past the halfway point of life. I guess I had always assumed I might be like my grandpa and live into my nineties. But few of us are so fortunate. 

How would I feel if I was about to die? What would I do if I had two years (or less) of life left? These were questions I had never asked myself before my dad’s diagnosis. 

What happens after death? Will I have done everything I wanted by the time I die? These were questions I asked when my dad passed away.

It’s different when you know death is coming

My dad had time to prepare. Not everyone does. He was able to choose how he spent his final years. 

Granted, most of the past two years were consumed by chemotherapy, doctor’s visits, and pain. Lots of pain, especially towards the end. 

It’s devastating to watch someone you love only able to eat pain medication. He couldn’t digest food or drink water as the cancer had spread into his stomach. By the end, his poor body was a bloated sack of bones.

Dying this way is arguably more brutal than dying quickly. If there’s one thing modern medicine can do, it’s keep people alive long beyond their time. The quality of that life though is questionable. 

One thing I will always admire about my dad, however, is that he constantly fought for life. Even when doctors asked for his consent to implement a “DNR” or “Do Not Resuscitate”, my dad initially refused. He wanted life. He wanted to maximize his time. 

But while doctors can help you run from father time, he will inevitably catch you. 

The medical industry will disappoint you 

Throughout my dad’s two years of treatment – some 40 rounds of chemotherapy – he saw a lot of doctors. He was trying to see even more through clinical trials until the bitter end. Most of the experiences were disappointing and incredibly frustrating, especially for my mom who was my dad’s main caretaker.

My dad’s oncologist, for example, always kept my dad waiting. For hours. His administrative staff made simple mistakes that compromised my dad’s health like failing to order certain pills in a timely manner. 

When multiple doctors got involved, they all seemed to point their fingers at each other. It never seemed like anyone was looking at my dad holistically. One treated cancer, while the others handled their own specific areas, like when my dad had gastrointestinal issues. 

Don’t even get me started on the nutrition at the hospital. And while there are nutritionists on staff, they give ideas, not detailed meal plans that might help treat the disease or at least mitigate symptoms. The most basic principle that “you are what you eat” seems to have been wholly neglected by Western medicine.  

Although I didn’t witness my dad’s daily struggle as my mom did, I saw enough to conclude that many of the doctors and medical professionals were simply going through the motions. Keep the patient alive, but not too long where they become a burden to hospital staff. Then hand the patient off to the family – with no training – to bring them to their final resting place. 

That’s right, they sent my dad home so he could spend his final days there. Which in reality, were his final hours. All ridden with more administrative mishaps like overweight paramedics who couldn’t carry my dad inside his house and next to no training for us on how to run and adequately supply an in-home hospice. 

Here I thought the birthing process was fairly barbaric when our son was born, but death truly shocked me. Hospital staff openly discussed it in front of my dad. Reminding him time and again that he was dying. With no regard for how that affected him mentally.

Then when death finally arrived and the dust settled after the funeral, the next challenge arrived: grief.   

Everyone handles grief differently

Your relationship with the deceased matters. My mom, for example, has a much different experience grieving my dad after 37 years of marriage than I do after 35 years of being his son. Regardless, it still hurts. 

One of the most revealing discussions I recently heard about grief was towards the end of this podcast.

Professor Scott Galloway interviewed Mo Gawdat, a former Google executive who had lost a son. What Gawdat said was very revealing. 

Basically, the first real step you can take is accepting the fact that the person is not coming back. They will never walk through the door again. They are gone. Forever. 

That is excruciatingly difficult to accept. Especially when my dad died so young, with grandchildren who are probably still too young to remember him. 

It’s devastating, but the physical realization that the person is gone is something I know I must accept in order to move forward. 

I’m still too early in the grieving process to know how everything else will transpire for me, but one thing that has always helped is talking and of course, writing. 

I wrote this article to help me grieve. Out of the pain I feel losing my dad and for all he went through over the past two years. Out of the hope that death could become a less painful experience for everyone.

Cherish every day 

Until that day comes, please do yourself a favor and cherish life. You never know when you might get sick, encounter tragedy, or face your final hours. 

For all of the darkness and tragedy of death, there’s greater beauty and joy in life. You have to work for it, but it’s there. Make a conscious effort to do one thing that brings you joy each day, no matter how small. Do another thing that makes you better, whatever it may be. 

For anyone else grieving, remember: the person you’re grieving for would probably not want you to suffer and stop living your life to the fullest. On the contrary, they would want you to celebrate them in living your best life possible. 

Dad, I hope I can do that for you.