My mother delivered the news of my father’s cancer diagnosis through a seemingly optimistic email, brimming with hope and gratitude—so much so that I nearly overlooked its severity.
People cope with fear in various manners; for me, it involves seeking information and connecting with loved ones. I reached out to a doctor friend who, unaware that I was inquiring about my dad, listened intently as I sought the unvarnished truth. “That guy has no more than a year. If I were him, I’d forgo treatment.”
BAM. The stark reality hit hard.
I wish I could say I handled it with grace, perhaps through meditation or prayer. Instead, I found myself in an upscale fried chicken restaurant next to my office, practically hyperventilating. I ordered a “very large gin and tonic.”
“A double?” the bartender asked, straight out of a movie scene. I’m not much of a drinker, unsure if a double meant twice the size or the amount of gin, but I knew my father was dying.
With my husband overseas, I called my childhood best friend, someone who can sense turmoil in my voice. “Oh my God, what?” she exclaimed.
“He’s dying.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
A plan quickly formed in my mind. If I had a year left with my dad, I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. It was that simple.
We didn’t share interests, politics, or even faith, but he was my father, and he deserved my love—and I deserved to give it. We had love in common.
That night, I told my husband, “I want to be with my dad as often as possible because I don’t want to look back and regret not spending enough time with him.”
Mother’s Day arrived, and my father woke up confused. After a trip to the ER and alarming potassium levels, I altered my weekend plans into a week-long stay, waiting for his health to stabilize.
My family is fortunate to have many supportive members; my sister covered for me so I could return to my kids and husband, who was traveling for work. We sat in a local fish-and-chips shop as I shared everything I knew about our father’s condition. We were uncertain of the full extent, yet we understood.
“I’ll come back when I can.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I just don’t want to look back with regrets about not spending more time with him.”
I did return several times. My dad and I developed a routine where I would sit beside him in silence (I can manage quiet if I focus). Eventually, he would say, “Let me walk you through my contact list.”
At first, it was subtle, but soon enough, we were discussing “funerals” and “eulogies,” as he tried to share his wishes with me.
I brought my children to visit him for his 80th birthday and hurried back eleven days later, just in time to hold his hand and say goodbye.
The hospice team and funeral home staff were compassionate and gentle. One moment he was with us, and the next, he was gone.
As my thoughts began to settle, my first reflection was, “Why didn’t I stay with him the hour he waited for surgery? If I had been there… then I wouldn’t feel this way.”
And there it was: regret.
It was mere minutes after my dad passed away. Despite having visited him more in that last year than ever before, my initial thought was to lament that I hadn’t done more.
Then I realized:
One cannot outsmart regret. It is an intrinsic part of grief. You cannot go around it or under it; you must go through it.
Regret deceives us. It whispers, “I wish I had… spent more time, stayed longer, said the right thing, shown more kindness, patience, honesty, love, or directness—and then I wouldn’t feel this awful.”
But that’s the falsehood.
It was always going to hurt this much. When someone you cherish passes away, the pain feels exactly this heavy.
I understand the longing to believe that if you had just expressed your love before they departed, it would ease your heartache. Perhaps.
But what I know for certain is that heartbreak is profound. I’m heartbroken; you’re heartbroken. Moving forward feels daunting.
And maybe that’s the key role of regret. It allows us to cope with present pain by dwelling on the past and placing blame on ourselves.
I consciously release the regret over those fleeting minutes with my dad (I find myself letting it go repeatedly, as regret resurfaces often), hoping instead to cherish the countless moments we shared.
That’s where love resides.
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Summary
Regret is an unavoidable aspect of the grieving process, often surfacing as we reflect on missed opportunities and unspoken sentiments with our loved ones. While it can feel overwhelming, understanding that regret is part of grief helps us navigate through the pain. Cherishing the love we shared and focusing on the meaningful moments can guide us toward healing.