“It’s nice that you’re home four times a year.”
I take a sip of my coffee. My dad smiles and takes a sip of his.
“Feels about right,” he adds.
I look at my dad. Outwardly he seems fine. But inside his battle with cancer rages on.
“No.” I break my silence.
“Sorry?” Dad looks up, surprised.
“Two, not four times,” I state plainly.
“Oh.” Dad’s face clouds over.
“I come home twice a year,” I repeat, and go on to explain how my four trips to Thailand that year won’t become an annual routine, how my life is now in Vietnam, how going forward he and mom will have me home twice a year and no more.
Dad’s stunned expression turns into sadness. Which also saddens me.
But I stand my ground. Twice a year is what I’m willing to commit to. And twice a year it will be.
The time we have left
It’s one year later, and I’ve stayed true to my word. Last year, I made two extended visits home. No more, no less.
You should come more often, urged friends and family. Think about your dad. Each time someone says this, I’m wracked with guilt. But I don’t budge.
When dad’s cancer was discovered in 2021, I was in Vietnam and borders were closed thanks to the Covid-19 pandemic. As my dad was rushed in and out of hospital, I watched from afar, as concerned as I was helpless. When international travel resumed the following year, I flew home for my first extended visit. Dad had recovered after a fashion, and we got to enjoy some quality time. But the cancer was never far from my mind.
He doesn’t have much time left, I told myself. We don’t have much time left. How much time exactly, no one could—or would—say. But not much was the general consensus.
This situation—this unknown—was new to me. No one close to me had ever suffered from a terminal illness. Death had come suddenly for both my maternal grandparents. And I’d been lucky enough not to have lost anyone else dear to me.
Granted, you never know how long someone has left—I could be run over by a bus tomorrow—but knowing death is at the door changes everything.
For the first time, I had to ask myself: How much time do I want? How many more morning coffees, lunches, and dinners do I want to have with dad before all I have left of our conversations and his smiles is memories?
It’s a difficult question to ask, and almost impossible to answer. But sitting across from my dad that day, I decided on twice a year, a number so ridiculously small you wouldn’t be wrong to find me ungrateful.
I decided on twice a year because two visits of 3-4 weeks each is already 1.5-2 months out of twelve. Two months where I won’t get to wake up next to my partner and fall asleep on his shoulder, two months of not going to my beloved gym to work on my body, two months of not deepening my connection with the friends I’ve made in Ho Chi Minh City and exploring this place I now call home.
I decided on twice a year because I didn’t want to spend all my holidays in Thailand. Because once a year I want to visit my partner’s family in London and stroll the streets of one of my favourite cities on earth. Because once a year I want to go somewhere on my own to keep alive my sense of adventure and feed my creative flame.
I decided on twice a year because I knew that if I visited more often, I’d feel resentful. I’d be putting my parents before myself. Which is what you might expect someone in my position to do.
But not me. I always put myself first. And I don’t think that’s something to condemn or be ashamed of.
Putting myself first
I put myself first because, at the end of the day, all I have is me. No one else can shoulder my burdens, fix my problems, keep me sane. Only I can do it. Only I can make sure I’m drawing and enforcing my boundaries, staying healthy in body and mind, making space, and spending quality time with all the people I love—including myself. Only I can do these things.
Only I know—and can give myself—what I need.
Which is why, despite dad’s rapid deterioration last year, I stuck to my decision and visited him twice. Twice a year was what I could commit to whilst still keeping myself healthy and happy. Twice a year was me putting myself first even though that meant disappointing my dad who wanted me home more often.
This Sunday, I’m flying to Thailand for my first extended visit of 2024—three weeks at home plus five days in Bangkok to catch up with friends, some I haven’t seen in years.
For a few weeks now, I’ve been agonising over whether to take the entire time off work to spend with my dad. Will I feel guilty later if I don’t spend all my hours with him, and this turns out to be the last time?
Yesterday, I finally made up my mind and told my boss and colleagues, all of whom had urged me to take the time off, that I’m not going to.
My decision is partly motivated by duty towards my job, but it’s also a choice freely made. It’s me choosing not to maximise the time I have left with my dad, but instead to spend whatever time we have left in the best way possible—quality over quantity.
This may well be our last three weeks together. And I want to make the most of it. Not by spending all our waking moments together. But by going out for meals if dad’s able and having bedside conversations when he’s not resting, while still working, writing, exercising, meditating—all the things I love that keep me sane.
And when I kiss dad goodbye in three weeks, I’ll know that we’ll have shared beautiful moments—memories I’ll cherish long after he’s gone. And I’ll have no regrets.
What do you think?
Everyone you love is going to die, and some sooner rather than later.
How do you want to spend the time you have left?
Will you, like me, choose quality over quantity? Or would you rather maximise the time? There is no right or wrong answer, only decisions we make. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with someone you love.
Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,
Val
Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash