I’m Proud of How My Dad Faced His Final Days

MY FATHER TOOK his last breath on April 2, 2024, in his home in Southern California. My sister, my aunt, and I were present. He was 68.

Just days before, we were considering chemotherapy. But the illness had already swung into high gear, and his body shut down quickly. The day before my dad’s first chemo appointment, he died.

My dad was a complicated man who kept many secrets. He had written “Metastatic Stage IV Colon Cancer” in a notebook in mid-February, over a week before he told any of us how far the cancer had spread. In his final weeks, he began to relinquish independence and control, starting with giving me durable power of attorney over his affairs just an hour before he went into surgery to remove the tumor in his colon. Up until then, he didn’t want to sign the papers.

Over the following weeks, I watched my dad grow more and more dependent — on me, my brother, other family members, and the health care workers around him. We helped him use the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and spoon-fed him mouthfuls of what little he could eat. He told me all I needed to know to file his taxes. I rubbed his feet a lot to relieve the swelling. The day before my dad died, he gave me the passcode to his phone.

Others may praise a fighting spirit, one that refuses to give cancer any inch of their lives. But to me, my father’s last weeks of letting go and letting others in were his show of strength. It takes courage to face what you can’t control. To let others see who you really are, beyond the facade. To let your body do what it needs to do and entrust yourself to those who love you as you endure.

Accompanying my dad in his final days came to feel like being a doula — a supportive guide. There is a growing recognition that dying people need companionship in the same ways that birthing people do. Author and podcaster Claudia Love Mair is training to be a death doula. “Birth and death are different feelings,” she told me recently, “but in both cases, the angels are there.”

Moments before my dad died, I was about to go downstairs to get the laundry. But I felt I should check on him first. His breathing had changed significantly — he had what is known as a death rattle. I rubbed his shoulder and told him it was okay, that he was doing great. A few breaths later, his entire body tightened up, and my aunt and I waited. My sister ran over, and my father took one last breath.

I’m proud of my dad for how he faced his final days. And I’m honored to have been invited into the holy work of accompanying him.