When my mother informed me of my father’s cancer diagnosis through an upbeat email filled with optimism, I almost overlooked the seriousness of the news. We all cope with fear differently; my approach is to seek solace in knowledge and the support of loved ones.
I reached out to a doctor friend, who listened intently as I inquired about the situation, though I had not revealed it was about my dad. I’ve reflected on my reluctance to be transparent, realizing I craved the unvarnished truth — no embellishments. “He’s got about a year left. Honestly, if I were him, I’d forgo treatment,” he bluntly stated.
In that moment, reality hit hard. I wish I could say that I took a deep breath and centered myself. Instead, I walked straight into the upscale fried chicken restaurant next to my office, feeling as if I were hyperventilating. “I’ll have a large gin and tonic, please!” I asked. “A double?” the bartender quipped, like a scene from a film. I’m not much of a drinker, so I wasn’t sure if that meant a larger glass or more gin, but I did understand that my father was facing a grave situation.
With my husband overseas and in a different time zone, I called my childhood friend, Jenna, who could sense the chaos in my tone. “What’s going on?” she asked. “He’s dying,” I replied, my heart heavy. “Oh, honey.”
From that moment, I resolved to maximize the time I had left with my dad. Though we didn’t share common interests like books, politics, or movies, he was my father, deserving of my love and attention, and I needed that connection too.
That evening, I told my husband, “I want to be with my dad as much as possible. I can’t face the thought of looking back with regrets.”
On Mother’s Day, my father awoke confused and, after a trip to the ER due to dangerously high potassium levels, I postponed my weekend plans to spend a week waiting for his condition to stabilize. My sister stepped in as I returned home to my kids and husband, who was traveling for work. Over a meal of fried fish, I shared everything I knew about our father’s health with her. We weren’t entirely sure how critical things were, yet deep down, we understood.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” I promised. “I just don’t want to regret not spending enough time with him.”
I did return several times, establishing a routine where I sat quietly by his side. Eventually, he started sharing his wishes with me, using words like “funeral” and “eulogy.” In June, I brought my children to celebrate his 80th birthday, and just eleven days later, I rushed back to hold his hand and say goodbye.
The hospice team and funeral home staff were compassionate and gentle. One moment he was there, and the next, he was gone. In the immediate aftermath, my first thought was, “Why didn’t I stay with him during the hour he waited for surgery? If I had just been there…”
And there it was—regret. This thought formed in my mind, even after I had spent more time with him that year than ever before. My initial reaction was to feel guilty for not having done more.
But then I realized something crucial. Regret is an unavoidable aspect of grief. You can’t sidestep it or avoid it; you must navigate through it. Regret often deceives us, whispering things like, “If only I had more time, or if I had said the right words…” But that’s the fallacy. The pain of losing someone you love always feels as intense as it does in that moment.
I understand your longing to believe that if you had been able to express your love before their passing, it would ease your heartache. Perhaps it might, but the reality is that we are all heartbroken. Moving forward feels daunting.
Regret serves as a mechanism to help us cope with the present pain by fixating on the past and assigning blame to ourselves. It can distract us from the overwhelming task of envisioning a future marked by such significant loss. I work to release the regret of missed moments with my father, often reminding myself to focus on the countless cherished minutes we did share. That is where the love resides.
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In summary, regret is a natural component of the grieving process. It can cloud our thoughts and make us question our actions, but ultimately, it’s important to focus on the love and moments we shared with those we’ve lost.