Daughter’s Regrets
I have regrets. It’s difficult to admit, but it’s true. I keep thinking about what I could have done to make everything better. I try to tell myself that I did what I could, but the pain persists.
My biggest regret is not making my dad feel loved enough. He passed away recently, and it was one of the hardest experiences of my life. I was there when he had his first heart attack, and seeing him in the ICU, connected to tubes, was devastating.
I’m not fond of hospitals or getting sick. It’s demoralizing to think that your own body can betray you. As I write this, tears flow uncontrollably. The weight of the emotions is overwhelming. Months have passed, but I keep remembering the times I felt sad and tired, and how I failed to express my love for a man who would leave this world in less than six months.
If only I had known.
The first time I broke down was when he received his cancer diagnosis. I remember being unable to work, but I found the courage to ask him what he needed.
I hate that we didn’t have a lot of money. I hate that my thoughts were consumed by the cost of his treatment. It was in the middle of the pandemic, and I had just contracted COVID. I felt overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do. I never imagined that it wouldn’t be the cancer that took him, but his kidney.
My family is not close. We have a rocky relationship, to say the least. I knew it was hard, but I never imagined feeling so alone during the most brutal moments.
My dad was hospitalized three times in six weeks. He was in and out of critical condition, requiring tubes and constant care. I witnessed his second heart attack while at work. He called out for me to call an ambulance because his blood pressure had skyrocketed to 190/100.
My anxiety was through the roof. It was the first time I held my father’s hand as an adult. The ambulance was small, and I held my breath and pushed through. If I didn’t do it, who would?
During that time, I was asked if I wanted to allow the tubes to go into his lungs again. I was also asked if I wanted to sign a DNR. This took a tremendous toll on me. I would never wish that feeling upon anyone. The second hospitalization lasted two weeks, and there is a growing concern about our financial situation and my sanity.
After my dad’s second heart attack, he suffered a mild stroke. He couldn’t get up and needed help with his basic needs. He was a bit of a rule-breaker and would try to revert to his old ways. We had a heated argument when he asked for food he wasn’t allowed to eat. He replied that he didn’t want to eat and would just stay in his room until he died. I didn’t know what to do.
Diapers, caregivers, oxygen tanks, house helpers, dialysis sessions, groceries, and our house loan — my brain was trying to juggle how to fit my salary and my sister’s salary to cover all of our needs. We talked about trying to avoid another hospitalization because they were happening every two weeks.
But it happened again. This time, I was already feeling numb.
We didn’t have a car, and our house wasn’t near transportation unless you walked for 10 minutes. I remember taking a taxi back and forth to carry the small oxygen tank and have it refilled. The next morning, as I was about to go back to work, my dad screamed that he couldn’t breathe. A part of me thought he just needed to relax, that it might be anxiety.
I’m familiar with those episodes.
But everything changed when the tank became empty and the rain started pouring. There were no taxis or Grab cars available. I had to walk and find a tricycle rider who could take me to the oxygen supplier. I bought a bigger tank, but it was 10 times the regular price. The rain was strong at that time, and we started contacting people because we thought this might be it.
Our caregiver showed up and advised us that we needed to go to the hospital again. I didn’t know what to do. My life savings were almost gone. I contacted some priests who were friends with my dad and gave him the last rites. Afterward, we went to the hospital. No tubes this time. We just waited for him to get better.
His infections were stronger now, and more doctors were involved. Our insurance was maxed out, and the daily rate for the caregiver was expensive as well. I was about to give up. I cried my hardest and asked God, “Why are you doing this? I can’t understand your plan.” I started taking a higher dose of antidepressants, as prescribed by my psychiatrist.
After all of this, I wanted to escape.
The Frances back then deserved a break. After my dad’s third hospitalization, I prayed that he would get better. No more critical things. I could carry the financial burden, but I needed a break from the emotional and mental toll. I still don’t think I’ve ever fully recovered. That’s probably why I’m writing this.
I know that I was preparing myself.
Those were my thoughts 7 months ago. Today marks the first anniversary of my dad’s passing. I know that the pain, stress, and hurt I experienced were too much for me.
I’m writing to say that it gets better.
Grief is such a powerful emotion. In my journey of processing this feeling, I realized that it’s better to remember the good things than the regrets.
In my dad’s final weeks, he got better. They call it the surge before death, but during those times, I genuinely believed we could go back to the old days. He was able to walk again, no longer needed diapers, and was capable of taking care of simple things on his own.
We didn’t expect that God had another plan.
On the night of the 21st, I brought him one of his favorite meals, Sinabawan na isda (Fish stew). He even asked for extra rice from my mom. He was smiling and glowing when my mom said good night to him.
I learned that no matter how bad your mood or how stressed you are, never sleep without saying good night to the people you love.
I guess that’s my biggest regret. I didn’t get to say good night. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
The next morning, at 5 AM, I was half awake. I was anticipating his dialysis session at 6 AM and waited for him to get up and prepare for his appointment. It was quiet. I thought he was just sleeping. I didn’t mind it.
He was about to be late. I knocked on his door. Once, twice. No answer.
I banged on the door. I tried to open it. It was locked. He never locked his door. I got worried. I called for his caregiver. We called a locksmith to open the door. We went to the window and tried shouting, “Pa, bugtaw na” (Pa, wake up).
We tried all the methods to wake him up. Throwing water, shouting, poking with a long stick. Nothing. We tried to break the door open as we waited for the locksmith. We tried to remember where the key was. It was a stressful morning.
There was an odd sound coming from his mouth, like a snore. It looked like he was in a deep sleep. His tummy was still going up and down.
When we finally opened the door, we took his blood pressure. It was his regular BP. We thought the challenge here was that he would miss his session. We tried waking him up, but there was no answer.
I called the ambulance. I was passed around. The hospital and the emergency response didn’t know what to do with our case. I got mad. After a lot of back and forth, a car arrived. It didn’t look like an ambulance.
The people who came were newbies. It didn’t seem like they knew what they were doing. We told them to get him to the hospital. Awake or not, get him there so that he doesn’t miss his session. Even they didn’t know what to do because he was asleep.
I didn’t join the ambulance to the hospital. Only the caregiver and my dad were there. I thought that all was well. He was about to wake up at the ER and proceed with his day.
After 30 minutes, I got a call.
They were resuscitating him and asking if they should continue. I broke down. I didn’t understand what was happening. Everything was alright earlier. Why? How?
At this point, he was brain dead, and CPR wouldn’t help him survive.
He was pronounced dead, and I wasn’t there.
It hurt me that I didn’t go in the ambulance. My reasoning was that I wasn’t feeling well and had motion sickness. In his previous ambulance rides, I was always there. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there for the last one.
I cried but ended up regaining my composure to plan the next steps. The arrangements, the payments, the funeral — being diagnosed with anxiety and depression back in 2022, I thank my meds for keeping me sane during one of the worst months of my life.
If you have read up to this point, thank you. As painful as it is to share the experience I had when my father got sick, as I release this post on his death anniversary, I want to share the top lessons I learned from my dad and how these lessons will always be with me.
Share your talents and don’t be afraid of the spotlight.
My dad loved to talk to people and was loved by his friends. I think I got my hosting/speaking skills and extroverted behavior from him. It gives me comfort that the skill we share is one of those skills I use daily in my role now as a manager.
A relationship with God is important and can save you in tough times.
My dad was the most religious person I know. He would push us to go to church and text or call to remind us to go to mass on holy days of obligation. In his final days, he was attending mass and continued to be close to God. He would even bring an oxygen tank just to go to mass. I am still working on my relationship with God. I do agree that when we are down, lifting up our troubles and anxiety to Jesus is key to surviving.
Serve when you can and serve for the good.
On my dad’s final day, I remember this song being played over and over again: “Amare Et Servire,” which means “To Love and Serve in All Things.” I think my dad lived for others more than for himself.
You are stronger than you think.
My dad was a fighter. He pushed through and surpassed cancer, 2 heart attacks, a stroke, and dialysis. He was bedridden but was able to eat and walk before he died. He showed me indirectly that I can be strong. I wish he had stayed longer for a better quality of life; it would have been the best comeback. I know that he fought, but God has plans. I hope you are happy where you are, Pa.
The last lesson is: Treasure your family as early as you can.
Even if we have a rocky situation, my dad made me realize that your real family will never leave you, and the people and friends who genuinely care for you will be there for you. We posted a fund raising for my dad’s expenses and his angiogram. We receive a ton of support from my friends. I received more messages of support. Thank you thank you to all who tried to save my dad. It means the world to me. I hope my dad felt the love we tried to give or can give.
I don’t want to end this post on a sad note because I am tired of crying. As I remember my dad and the things I regret in our relationship, I hope to focus more on the fond memories we still have. We miss you here, Pa. I hope you are okay in heaven. I’m praying for you.
Although my dad’s passing has been incredibly painful, I find solace in the lessons he taught me and the love we shared. His memory lives on through the talents he nurtured in me, the faith he instilled, and the selflessness he exemplified. As I continue my journey through life, I will carry his wisdom and love with me, knowing that he is watching over me from above. I am grateful for the time we had together and the impact he had on my life. Rest in peace, Pa. You will forever be in my heart.
