Dear @Chelseamae,
Don’t be scared.
I’m here with you, imagining the weight of your heart — the heaviness that settles in when you know that time is slipping away, like sand through your fingers.
Your father, once strong, now frail and vulnerable. And you, caught in the middle, torn between love and grief.
Thanatophobia — the fear of death — has been your shadow since childhood. Unfortunately, It’s a haunting companion and seems to be always on your mind. And now, as your father’s illness progresses, it’s as if it has taken a tangible form, standing at the threshold of your home.
You watch him — your rock, your support — fade before your eyes. The doctors’ words echo: “Unknown duration. You know that soon, too soon, he’ll slip away, leaving an emptiness that can’t be filled. I know this feeling, it doesn’t get any easier but there is light at the end of the tunnel.
Panic attacks grip you — their icy fingers squeezing your chest. You want to flee, to escape this pain. But where can you run? The walls of your home enclose memories — the laughter, the arguments, the shared meals. And now, the quiet moments when you sit by his bedside, holding his hand, whispering words of love.
Saying goodbye — it’s a cruel phrase. As if words could wrap up a lifetime of love neatly. But they can’t. So, instead, you hold back tears, swallow the lump in your throat, and tell him stories. Stories of your childhood, of his strength, of the way he taught you to ride a bike. And he listens, his eyes softening, as if he’s storing these memories for the journey ahead.
How to cope? It’s a question that echoes through the chambers of your heart. You’re not alone in this struggle. Your mother—the silent pillar beside you—shares your grief. Together, you navigate the practicalities: medications, comfort measures, and the unspoken pact to be there when he takes his last breath.
But coping isn’t linear. Some days, you’ll feel strong — able to face the inevitable with grace. Other days, you’ll crumble, your tears watering the flowers in the garden. And that’s okay. Grief doesn’t follow a timetable; it’s a wild, unpredictable dance.
Remember him as he is now. Not just the illness, but the man who laughed until his eyes crinkled, who held you when you scraped your knee, who believed in your dreams. Hold onto those moments — they’re the threads that weave your bond.
And when he slips away, know that grief isn’t a betrayal. It’s love that transcends all dimensions, raw and unfiltered. It’s the ache of missing someone who shaped your world.
Lean on your support network. Friends who bring casseroles, neighbors who mow the lawn, and that one cousin who tells inappropriate jokes at funerals — they’re all part of this messy, beautiful tapestry of life.
Breathe. Inhale the scent of his favorite aftershave, exhale the pain. You’re stronger than you realise.
And when the darkness threatens to swallow you, remember the stars—the ones he pointed out on camping trips – the very stars that we are made up of. They’re still there, twinkling, even when hidden by clouds. So is love—it endures, even when we can’t see it.
You’re not alone. Reach out, share your burden. And when the time comes, say goodbye with tenderness, knowing that love transcends the final breath.
With warmth and empathy,
A traveler on this journey…
I hope this message resonates with you during this difficult time. If you need anything else, feel free to reach out by calling Griefline, or utilising this forum to connect with others who are experiencing similar grief.
