Last year, my dad and I went to Outspan Hospital to collect his biopsy results.
Neither of us knew that day would change our lives forever.
The doctor said one word:
Cancer.
Last year, my dad and I went to Outspan Hospital to collect his biopsy results.
Neither of us knew that day would change our lives forever.
The doctor said one word:
Cancer.
When I lost my dad, it felt like I lost a part of myself.
He was my safe place, my biggest supporter, my first love.
I'd always tell people I was his favorite daughter.
Now I wake up every day learning how to live with a love that has nowhere to go.
On the morning of March 19, my brother received a call from the hospital.
We rushed there, hoping for good news.
Instead, we found our dad had passed away.
In that moment, our world stood still.
Around February 20, his condition worsened.
He was admitted again.
The hospital became his home.
There came a point when he could no longer recognize himself.
I became more than a daughter.
I fed him when he couldn't feed himself.
I helped him sit, stand, and smiled through my own tears because I wanted him to feel loved, even on his hardest days.
Some days, I preferred seeing Dad in the hospital rather than at home.
It hurt to watch him suffer.
He barely ate. I'd cook different meals, hoping one would tempt him.
I never stopped trying.
As time went on, the oral morphine wasn't enough.
The doctors adjusted his pain management, trying fentanyl patches and other options.
Watching someone you love live in constant pain changes you forever.
By December, the cancer had progressed, and Dad became very ill.
He was admitted to the hospital and spent most of December and January there.
The pain was relentless. Morphine became part of his daily life.