Today marks six years since my father is no longer with us, and he died just one day after turning 69 — an age that, in my eyes, never felt like the end, because he still had so much life left in him.
He was a good man, imperfect like all of us, but deeply devoted to his family, the kind of father who would have done anything for his children and the kind of grandfather who would have turned himself upside down if his granddaughters had asked him to. Even now, when I go with my girls to competitions or school events, I often find myself thinking about how happy he would have been to see them, how loudly he would have cheered for them from the sidelines, and how present he would have been in all those small, meaningful moments.
It all started in December 2019, when my father began feeling unwell, complaining about stomach pain after eating canned fish that had passed its expiration date. A few days later, worried, I told him I was taking him to the hospital, even scolding him a little out of fear, like you do when you love someone and don’t want anything bad to happen to them.
He didn’t argue. He simply said he would take a shower and that we would go afterward.
But when I came back to pick him up, he told me he felt better, that the warm shower had eased the pain, and that he was fine. I remember telling him that I had already made arrangements, that we were going anyway, and I can still see the way he looked at me when he calmly said, “You rushed.”
I made the wrong choice in that moment, because I chose to believe him.
Even so, I insisted that he get blood tests, and when the results came back, they were far from reassuring, showing tumor markers elevated dozens, even hundreds of times above normal levels.
On December 30, we went for an abdominal ultrasound, and that was the moment when everything began to change, because we were told that his kidneys were no longer functioning properly and that he had not been urinating. What we had mistaken for a simple stomach issue turned out to be something far more serious, as he had actually been going to the bathroom repeatedly, trying to urinate but unable to.
When I asked him directly, “Dad, is this true? When was the last time you urinated?” he quietly told me it had been several days.
No one at that point told us to go urgently to the hospital, and no one guided us on where we should go, which left me overwhelmed and afraid of making the wrong decision, knowing that if his kidneys were failing, he might need dialysis and that I had to choose a place that could handle that.
We went from one hospital to another, being redirected repeatedly, until we eventually ended up in a public hospital where we waited for hours while his condition remained serious, with kidney function severely impaired and the risk of uremia becoming real.
What stayed with me, more than anything, was the tone in which his age was discussed, because after seeing his results and hearing he was almost 69, there was a pause, a look, and a quiet sense that something had already been decided — that he was old, that he was very sick, and that maybe he was no longer worth the same effort.
They suspected pancreatic cancer, and from that moment on, that became the label that followed him every single day, repeated over and over again, as if everything else no longer mattered.
I stayed in that hospital, waiting, asking questions, trying to advocate for him as much as I knew how, but every question seemed to lead to uncertainty, because no one could clearly explain why he could no longer urinate or how everything had escalated so quickly.
He was admitted, a catheter was placed, and although he was in significant pain, he never complained, which only made it harder to watch. At times, I found myself searching the hospital for someone who could help him with basic things, whether it was pain relief or something as simple as changing a collection bag, and by the time I finally left, it was four in the morning.
A few hours later, I returned, because it was New Year’s Eve, and I didn’t know what was happening to him, and although I didn’t want to disturb anyone, I gathered the courage to knock on the doctors’ door, hearing voices and laughter inside, which I understood, because they are human too, but I still needed to know whether my father would still be there when I came back.
I was told to go home, that I could go home, but all I could think about was the possibility of not finding him alive when I returned, and when I said that, I was told that his doctor was not on duty.
Days passed like that, with no clear answers.
He was eventually discharged, still unwell, still with fever, and then readmitted again, as his condition continued to decline.
One morning, he called me and told me he could not put his dentures back in, and in that instant, I knew something was wrong, because I recognized the signs of a stroke.
When I called the neurologist, she confirmed it and told me it was urgent that he receive an MRI, and for the first time, I felt a sense of hope, because someone had finally used the word “urgent” in relation to my father. But that hope quickly faded when I was told the MRI was scheduled for several days later.
There were moments when I found myself standing between doctors from different specialties who were not communicating with each other, and at one point, a treatment was almost given that would have worsened his condition, simply because one doctor did not have the full picture, and I can’t help but think about what would have happened if I hadn’t been there.
Despite everything, no one could explain why his condition was progressing the way it was, and I was sent from one place to another, carrying his medical records, hoping that someone, somewhere, would finally see something that others had missed.
When the biopsy results finally came back, they showed adenocarcinoma, but there were no immediate treatment options, especially after the stroke, and so everything seemed to stall again.
There were procedures, tubes, dialysis, and decisions that were made and then reconsidered, and at one point, a catheter was left in his leg long enough for it to swell significantly, and when I raised concerns, I was told it was normal, only to later be informed that it had caused blood clots and vascular complications.
He was sent home, then brought back, then sent somewhere else again, in a cycle that never seemed to end.
At one point, I was told that all we could do was wait.
Then the pandemic began, and suddenly we were no longer allowed to visit, and although it was painful, I chose to respect the rules, communicating only through messages, trying not to disturb the doctor too much, afraid that if I did, I might lose even that small connection to information about him.
I was told that no one understood how he was still holding on, and I kept thinking about how, when I was a child, I used to tell him, “Dad, we fight, so you have to fight too.”
I asked if I could visit him on his birthday, but I was told no, that the rules were strict and that no one was allowed, and I accepted that, because I believed it was the right thing to do.
The last message I received said he was the same.
Over the weekend, I didn’t write, thinking I shouldn’t disturb anyone.
Then, on Monday morning, I asked if he reacted at all when they said our names.
That was when the phone rang.
I knew, before answering, that something was wrong.
I was told that his heart had stopped on Friday evening.
He had died days earlier, and I didn’t know.
That same day, I went to the hospital, and when I said at the entrance that my father had died, no one stopped me, no one asked me where I was going, and I walked all the way to the room where he had been, without anyone questioning me.
And just days before that, I had followed every rule.
Even now, I carry the weight of those questions, wondering if I could have done more, if I made the wrong choices, if there was something I missed.
But one thing remains clear to me.
He was never treated as a whole person, only as separate problems, separate symptoms, separate specialties.
And maybe that is the hardest truth to accept.