“When it comes down to it, that’s what life is all about: showing up for the ones you love over and over until you can’t show up anymore.” ~Rebecca Walker
When my father first admitted that he was afraid, I felt something change inside me.
It’s not uncomfortable. I’m not worried. He was terrified.
Recently IV. He was diagnosed with stage 1 colorectal cancer and we were standing together when he asked quietly, “Is this what’s taking it out?”
I wish I could say that I answered wisely or graciously. Instead, I did what many people do when faced with something beyond their control. I tried to bargain.
“I won’t take you out if you don’t want me to,” I told her.
Even as the words left my mouth, I knew they weren’t true.
I didn’t talk to him. I talked to fate. I was talking about fear. I spoke with the impossible reality that my father could die.
For most of my life, my father was larger than life. Stubborn. Funny. Independent. The kind of person who treated rules as suggestions and authority as challenges.
He was also the person who made me feel safe. And suddenly he was reassuringly looking for me.
This was the moment when I experienced what many grown children face, but few are prepared for: the reversal of roles.
The person who once carried you begins to lean on you. The person who once had an answer starts asking questions. The person who taught her how to navigate the world becomes vulnerable in ways she never imagined.
People often think that grief begins when someone dies. My experiences taught me otherwise. Sometimes the grief begins the moment you realize they do.
As my father’s illness progressed, everyone in my family found different ways to cope.
One of the nurses organized meetings and schedules.
Another flew across the country and started sneaking avocados into her soup because she read about the nutritional benefits.
There were green smoothies, supplements, treatment plans, research articles, and endless conversations about what could help.
My mother had a different point of view.
“Let him eat what he wants,” he said. “He’s a dying man.”
Back then, it seemed like everyone was speaking a different language. Looking back, I realize we were all doing the same thing. We tried to create certainty where none existed.
Loss is a way of revealing how uncomfortable we are with uncertainty.
Some people manage it. Some research. Some to fix. Some people avoid it. Some will be angry. Most of us go through them all.
I wasn’t immune. I simply expressed it differently. Instead of trying to save him, I became obsessed with making things easier.
Can we hire help? Can we reduce stress? Could we simplify your life?
I was looking for something useful, because usefulness was safer than helplessness.
One of the most important lessons I learned during this time is that action and control are not the same thing.
Action can be helpful. Control is often an illusion.
The more I tried to deal with the situation emotionally, the more exhausted I became. The more I accept what happened, the more I can be present.
It sounds simple. It wasn’t.
Acceptance is often mistaken for giving up. To me, acceptance felt like an acknowledgment of reality while still loving him completely.
This meant that I understood that I could not change the outcome, but I could influence the experience. I could choose how to appear.
One of my favorite memories happened during a hospital visit.
A port was installed for treatment and smoking was strictly prohibited on campus. My father wanted a cigarette. I told him he shouldn’t. Then I went to get the car.
When I stood up, he was in the passenger seat with the biggest grin.
“Yes,” he said. “Look.”
He pointed to the ground. There was a half-smoked cigarette by the sidewalk. Someone threw it away. Apparently my father saved him. He was so proud of himself.
I remember laughing in spite of myself. The moment was ridiculous. But it was also perfect.
Because at that moment he was not a cancer patient. There was no diagnosis. There was no problem to solve. He was simply my father. Stubborn. Resourceful. Apologetically himself.
This memory taught me something that I did not fully understand at the time.
When people are nearing the end of their lives, we are often so focused on preserving them that we don’t see them.
We see symptoms. Meetings. Medicines. Decline. We forget that the person is still there underneath it all.
The greatest gift we can offer someone facing loss is not always our solutions. Sometimes it’s our attention. Sometimes you remember who they are.
As the months passed, something unexpected happened. The memories came out without warning.
I would be standing in my kitchen and suddenly find myself transported back to childhood.
I saw us in the driveway of Sonoma, California. I heard her laugh. I felt the wobble of my bike as he taught me to ride.
The memories weren’t dramatic. They were ordinary. And somehow it made them stronger.
At first I didn’t understand why they kept appearing.
Now I think my mind was doing exactly what it was supposed to do. It saved him. Not the patient version. Live version. The version that shaped me.
Towards the end, something else happened that I have since noticed in many families facing significant loss. People started to unfold. Patience is gone. Arguments appeared out of nowhere. Minor disagreements turned into serious conflicts. Everyone seemed emotionally raw.
It seemed chaotic at the time. I understand it differently now. When people feel helpless, emotions look for a place to go.
Fear often disguises itself as frustration. Sadness often disguises itself as anger. Grief rarely comes in the neat, recognizable form we expect. Sometimes she comes in different clothes.
I want more people to understand that there is no perfect way to navigate these experiences. There is only awareness. The more aware we become of what we really feel, the less likely we are to project it onto everyone around us.
If you’re facing a difficult loss right now—or any transition in your life that feels like more than you can handle—I’ve learned a few things that might help.
First, don’t count on certainty.
The need for certainty causes further suffering because life rarely offers it.
Second, pay attention to how you try to gain control.
Do you fix it? Research? Avoid? Fight?
Understanding coping strategies won’t eliminate them, but it will help you use them more consciously.
Third, don’t wait for the perfect moments.
Meaningful moments are usually mundane.
Conversation in the parking lot. Shared meal. Ridiculous joke. A half-smoked cigarette was found on the floor. These moments often 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 don’t have to make an impossible situation feel acceptable.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stay. Stay with the conversation. Stay for the memory. Keep laughing. Stay for the heartache. Stay human.
My father eventually died. But when I think about that season of my life now, it’s not the fear that remains. This is not the diagnosis. Not even the loss itself.
What remains is his smile. His personality. His stubbornness. The moments when he was unmistakably, undeniably himself.
It was then that I finally understood what the waiting sorrow had been trying to teach me all along.
Love is not measured by our ability to save people. We measure this by our willingness to be fully and honestly with them, even when we cannot.
About Meghan Phelan
Owned by Meghan Phelan Granny NANNIES from South Floridawith eighteen years of experience in elderly care. After graduating from the University of Central Florida with a degree in health services administration, she dedicated her career to helping seniors age safely at home. Based in Miami, Meghan is also a Community Educator and Support Group Facilitator for the Alzheimer’s Association, dedicated to providing compassionate care and reliable support to families throughout South Florida.
