“When it comes down to it, that’s what life is all about: showing up for the people you love over and over again, until you can’t show up anymore.” ~ Rebecca Walker
The first time my dad admitted he was scared, I felt something change inside me.
Not uncomfortable. not worried Scared.
He had recently been diagnosed with stage IV colorectal cancer, and we were standing together when he calmly asked, “Is this what’s taking me out?”
I wish I could tell you I responded with wisdom or grace. Instead, I did what many people do when faced with something they can’t control. I tried to bargain.
“It won’t take you out if you don’t want it,” I told him.
Even as the words left my mouth, I knew they weren’t true.
I was not talking to him. I was talking to Bhagya. I was talking out of fear. I was dealing with the impossible reality that Dad might die.
For most of my life, my father was larger than life. stubborn Funny. independent The type of person who views rules as advice and challenges authority.
He was also the person who made me feel safe. And suddenly, he was looking at me for reassurance.
At that moment I experienced what many grown children eventually face but are rarely prepared for: role reversal.
A person who once carries you begins to depend on you. The person who once got the answer starts asking questions. The person who taught you to navigate the world becomes vulnerable in ways you never imagined.
People often think that grief begins when someone dies. My experience has taught me otherwise. Sometimes grief begins when you realize they will.
As my father’s illness progressed, everyone in my family found different ways to cope.
A sister arranged the appointment and schedule.
Another flew across the country and started adding avocado to her soup because she read about the nutritional benefits.
There were endless conversations about green smoothies, supplements, treatment plans, research articles, and could help.
My mother had a different perspective.
“Let him eat what he wants,” she said. “He’s a dead man.”
Back then it seemed like everyone was speaking different languages. Looking back, I realize we were all doing the same thing. We were trying to create certainty where none existed.
Loss is a way of expressing how uncomfortable we are with uncertainty.
Some people manage. Do some research. Fix something. Some avoid it. Some get angry. Most of us cycle through them all.
I was not immune. I simply expressed it differently. Instead of trying to save her, I became obsessed with making things easier.
Can we get help? Can we reduce his stress? Can we make his life easier?
I looked for something useful to do because usefulness seemed safer than helplessness.
One of the most important lessons I learned during that time was that action and control are not the same thing.
Actions can be helpful. Control is often an illusion.
The more I tried to mentally manage the situation, the more exhausted I became. The more I accepted what was happening, the more present I could be.
That sounds easy. It wasn’t.
Acceptance is often misunderstood as letting go. For me, acceptance looked like accepting reality while continuing to love him fully.
It meant understanding that I couldn’t change the outcome, but I could influence the experience. I was shown how I can choose.
One of my favorite memories happened during a hospital visit.
He was setting up a port for treatment and the campus was strictly non-smoking. My father wanted cigarettes. I told him it was not allowed. Then I left to get the car.
When I pulled up, he was in the passenger seat wearing the biggest smile.
“Meg,” she said. “Look.”
He pointed to the ground. There, by the curb, was a half-smoked cigarette. Someone dropped it. My father apparently rescued it. He was proud of himself.
I remember laughing myself. The moment was hilarious. But it was also perfect.
Because at that moment he was not a cancer patient. He did not have a diagnosis. He didn’t have a problem to solve. He was just my father. stubborn wealthy unapologetically himself.
That memory taught me something I didn’t fully understand at the time.
As people approach the end of life, we are often so focused on preserving them that we stop seeing them.
We see symptoms. appointment. medicine Rejection We forget that the person still exists underneath it all.
The greatest gift we can give someone experiencing loss is not always our solution. Sometimes it’s our attention. Sometimes I remember who they are.
As the months pass, something unexpected happens. Memories surfaced without warning.
I would stand in my kitchen and suddenly find myself back in childhood.
I could see us in the driveway in Sonoma, California. I could hear her laugh. I could feel the movement of my bike as he taught me how to ride.
The memories were not dramatic. They were common. And somehow, it made them stronger.
At first, I didn’t understand why they were appearing.
Now I think my mind was doing exactly what it needed to do. It was protecting him. Not his version that was sick. His version of that was alive. That version gave me shape.
Lately, something else has happened that I’ve noticed is that many families have suffered significant losses. People begin to unravel. I lost patience. Arguments appeared from nowhere. Small disagreements turn into major conflicts. Everyone looked raw with emotion.
It feels chaotic at this time. Now I understand differently. When people feel powerless, emotions want to go somewhere.
Fear often disguises itself as despair. Sadness often masquerades as anger. Grief rarely comes in the neat, recognizable forms we expect. Sometimes comes in different clothes.
One thing I wish more people understood is that there is no perfect way to navigate this experience. There is only awareness. The more aware we are of what we are really feeling, the less likely we are to project it onto everyone around us.
If you’re going through a difficult loss right now—or a life change that feels too big for you to handle—I’ve learned a few things that might help.
First, stop expecting certainty.
The need for certainty creates additional pain because life rarely provides it.
Second, pay attention to how you are trying to gain control.
What are you doing right? Doing research? Skipping? fighting?
Understanding your coping strategies doesn’t make them go away, but it does help you use them more consciously.
Third, don’t wait for perfect moments.
Meaningful moments are usually common.
A conversation in a parking lot. A shared meal. A funny joke. A half-smoked cigarette discovered on the ground. Those are often the moments that stay with us.
Most importantly, remember that being present is enough.
You don’t have to solve every problem. You don’t have to carry every emotion. You must not think an impossible situation is acceptable.
Sometimes all you can do is stay. Stay for the conversation. Stay for the memories. Stay for the laughs. Stay for the heartbreak. Be for the person.
My father eventually died. But now when I think back to that season of my life, there is no more fear. It is not a diagnosis. It doesn’t even harm itself.
His smile remains. his personality his insistence The moments he is undoubtedly, undoubtedly himself.
It was then that I finally understood what anticipatory grief had been trying to teach me all along.
Love is not measured by its ability to save people. It is measured by our willingness to be with them, fully and honestly, even when we cannot.
about Meghan Phelan
Owned by Meghan Phelan Granny Nannies of South FloridaBringing eighteen years of experience in aged care. After earning her degree in Health Services Administration from the University of Central Florida, she dedicated her career to helping seniors stay safely in nursing homes. Based in Miami, Megan is an Alzheimer’s Association Community Educator and Support Group Facilitator, committed to providing compassionate care and trusted support for families throughout South Florida.
