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My dad passed away 10 days ago, and I am struggling more than I ever imagined.
It all began three years ago. For months, he suffered with severe pain in his leg before having what was thought to be a minor heart attack. That’s when doctors discovered that years of smoking had left his arteries almost completely blocked.
He underwent major vascular surgery, where they cleared the blockages and placed stents in his chest and one on each side of his groin. The surgery itself went well, and afterwards he came to live with my husband and me while he recovered.
About a week or two after coming home, he started complaining of pain around the incision in his left groin and developed a fever. We were getting him ready to go to the emergency department when he stood up and suddenly began screaming. Blood poured down his leg.
The graft in his left groin had ruptured, and he was bleeding to death.
By some miracle, my husband managed to hold pressure on the wound while performing CPR with his other hand. I was completely frozen in shock, only able to call the ambulance. They arrived within six minutes and rushed him straight into emergency surgery.
The doctors told us he most likely wouldn’t survive the night. If he did, there was a high chance he would lose his leg because of the lack of blood flow. They could only perform the surgery needed to save his life and his leg, knowing he would eventually need another operation for a more permanent repair.
Against all odds, he survived. His leg responded incredibly well—its colour returned, the nerves were functioning, and he was able to move it. After months in hospital and rehabilitation, he came home again. Later, he underwent another surgery to permanently repair the graft. We were eventually told the rupture had been caused by an infection in the graft itself.
Months later, he had that surgery, and everything went well. He made an incredible recovery, was cleared to return home, and even went back to work.
About a year later, the nightmare started again. His legs became swollen, he developed fevers, and he was constantly vomiting. Another infection. Another operation to clean out the infected grafts. Once again, we were told he probably wouldn’t survive. If he did, his body seemed so prone to infection that he would need to remain on lifelong antibiotics.
Somehow, he recovered.
Then in October last year, he developed sepsis again. We were told he would die.
He recovered.
Then in May this year, another episode of sepsis.
Again, we were told he would die.
Again, he recovered.
By this point, Dad was exhausted. He had lost a tremendous amount of weight and was so physically drained, but he continued fighting. He went to rehabilitation, slowly gained weight, and for a little while, it finally seemed like he was improving.
Then, 13 days ago, the cycle began again.
His leg swelled, the fevers returned, and he stopped eating. By then, the infections were only months apart. He had no fight left in him, but after hearing five separate times that he was going to die only to watch him recover, I couldn’t help but believe this time would be the same. I truly thought they would find another solution.
Two days after being admitted to ICU, he wasn’t getting worse—he was stable.
Then the phone rang.
We were told to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.
He had gone into septic shock, and his organs were shutting down.
For the sixth time, I was told my dad was going to die.
This time, he did.
We were able to tell him how much we loved him and say our goodbyes. Within an hour, he was gone.
I’m grieving the loss of the most incredible father I could have ever asked for, but I’m also carrying the trauma of the last three years. I watched him suffer through countless hospital admissions, repeated surgeries, life-threatening infections, and unimaginable pain. I watched him bleed to death in front of me. I lived through the fear of believing I was losing him over and over again, only to be given hope each time he survived.
Watching the man I adored slowly be taken from me has left wounds that I don’t know how to heal.
There is some comfort in knowing he is finally at peace and no longer suffering. He fought harder than anyone I’ve ever known, and he never gave up, even when his body was failing him.
But the weight of everything we’ve been through feels unbearable.
Losing him has broken my heart. Living through the years that led to losing him has broken something else entirely.
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