Death begins at birth

The last times we missed

Aug 14, 2025

Since Dad died, I haven’t written a single newsletter.

I’ve had ideas. I’ve been inspired. But every post that’s not about death felt like a distraction. And about death, I didn’t know what to say.

So I stalled. I published Dad’s eulogy. I compiled a “Best Of.” All while dreading the moment I eventually open this blank document to write the next newsletter.

But of course—the longer I waited, the scarier it became.

So here we are.

Layers of Death

In Dad’s final months, when we were no longer speaking because he was always asleep when I called, I began thinking of death as layers. An onion you peel.

The first layer of Dad’s death onion was him picking me up after I met friends for dinner in town. I’d take the hour-and-a-half train in. But after work, and Bangkok’s impossible rush hour, dad would make the long drive to fetch me. That last time I had hot pot with a high school friend in a mall, and once done we walked up to Dad who stood waiting in front of the bookstore, as he always had. He greeted my friend with a smile. But when we got to the car he asked me to drive because his legs were hurting. He never picked me up again.

The second layer was seeing Dad at the airport. In all the years I’d flown back to visit, his face was always the first I recognised in the sea of waiting families, friends, and drivers. Mum is sitting over there, he would say. Then we’d take turns for the bathroom, there would be confusion as he tried to remember which level he’d parked on, and he’d drive us home. That last time I didn’t know was the last. Or I would have made more of an effort to remember. Might have given him a hug.

The third layer was lunch at the food market. When I was home, Dad and I would have lunch together, and one of our favourite spots was the food market. It was a short drive away—that wasn’t the issue—but once there we had to walk a fair distance to get to the food stall Dad liked. First a cane was sufficient, then I needed to carry his food tray because he couldn’t do it with one hand, and finally it was just too much. That last time, he was struggling through a bowl of noodles—he lost his appetite regularly by then—and told me not to wait. So I left him at our table and went to buy my obligatory post-lunch coffee. Then, through the café window, I snapped a picture of Dad hunched over his bowl. I sent it to him after—paparazzi shot!, I wrote—but if I’d known that was his last meal at the market, I might have sat with him while he ate.

The fourth layer was conversations in the living room. Dad would have his dinner, shower, then lounge for an hour before going to bed. I would join him, and there—each on our recliner—we would talk. This is where I played him birthday messages from his friends that final birthday—the grandest birthday I’ve ever had, Dad said after recording a thank you message where, holding back tears, he told the friends who’d wished for his recovery: there is no getting better. During that daily hour in the living room, he also said I was weak, thanked me for taking him to a fancier hospital he wanted to switch to, admitted to his failings as a father. That last time, I told him I loved him and asked if he loved me too. He said yes.

Death Begins at Birth

But if I’m honest, the first layer of Dad’s death wasn’t his not being able to drive into town to pick me up just a few years ago.

It was when I learnt how to ride a bike and no longer needed him to hold me steady. When I learnt how to swim. How to drive.
It was when I outgrew birthday celebrations, Japanese animes, delivery pizzas.
It was when my world stopped revolving around Dad, when I forgot my dependence on him the first decade and a half of my life, when I moved to Ho Chi Minh City to be with my partner.

From the moment we are born, we experience untold layers of death of the people in our lives, last times we don’t recognise, presents cemented into the past.

Your relationship with your parents—with anyone, really—today is not what it was five, ten, fifteen years ago. And in that inevitable evolution, you lose experiences you once shared. No more skating lessons, study sessions, afternoons at the cinema.

And because we’re busy living, we don’t see these layers of death peeling off over decades, and the next thing we know, the onion has shrunk to almost nothing and we’re left grieving all the last times we missed because we weren’t paying attention.

What do you think?

Dad’s drawn-out death was painful, but because it took place over years, I had ample opportunity to notice our last times, say the things I wanted him to hear.

Even then, I have regrets. That time teenage me overslept and didn’t meet him at the airport when he flew to the UK to visit. That time I didn’t tell him I cared when he wondered aloud if I did. That time I could have hugged him but didn’t, said I loved him but didn’t.

What layers of death have been peeled with the people you love? How will you treasure the layers that remain, the time you have left?

Questions you’ve probably never asked, but that I think you should. Because the only certainty in life is death, and it is up to us to make the most of the transient life we share. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone you cherish.