Three years is a long time to grieve

When no one has died

30th August, 2021 was the day my dad was diagnosed with Stage IV prostate cancer. It had spread, we were told. He might have weeks, months, years—nobody knew.

It’s 1,313 days later, and he’s still alive. And, to be painfully frank, I don’t know what to feel.

For three and a half years I have been preparing, waiting, for his death. I have hoped, cried, compartmentalised to the edge of denial. I have continued with my life, made friends, earned a promotion, pretended everything is fine—and all the while I’ve been grieving.

Here’s the thing about grieving someone who’s still alive: everything feels wrong. Wishing them to suffer a life of pain feels selfish, wishing for their death unthinkable, and not wishing anything at all numbs you to the point where you’re left wondering if you’re still human.

Unlike grief after death, where you’re encouraged to feel all the feels, then start the next chapter of your life free from worries and regrets, there is no moving on from grief before death. There is only the spectre of death, ever-present, ever-threatening, an end in sight that you can never hope for.

There was no playbook for this. Let me share mine.

The trade-off

Dad’s cancer news dropped less than six months after I’d moved to Ho Chi Minh City to be with my partner of (then) two and a half years. And the first of many difficult decisions I made was to not get on the first flight home, but stay put and plant roots in my new city.

This decision was motivated entirely by self-preservation. Being far away made the knowledge easier to bear. Instead of hospital visits and sleepless nights, I chose café hopping, daily walks to the gym, and spontaneous back hugs.

This choice has kept me happy the past three and a half years. But it comes at a cost, the cost of my time with dad.

Early on, I had to come to terms with the fact that I have months, not years, left with the man who for three and a half decades has been a steady, towering presence in my life. And that this is due to a choice I make every day not to return.

One time, my dad developed a mysterious leg pain during my twice-yearly visit, and a friend asked, uncomprehending, why I wouldn’t extend my three-week trip to care for him. I didn’t say this to my friend—I wasn’t brave enough—but the reason was I didn’t know how long the pain would last, and I wasn’t willing to commit indefinitely to his care.

And fewer laughs, coffees, dinners with dad is the price I’ve committed to pay.

No regrets

I feel guilt every day I’m not home, every time I see a message from mum informing me of dad’s latest medical emergency, that one evening dad sobbed saying how much he missed me.

But I don’t regret my choice to stay in Ho Chi Minh City.

Back in 2021, I had no clue how long my dad would live, and so I chose to continue with mine. It’s a shitty trade-off—my life for his—but one I made knowingly. And I’m proud of myself for it.

It might seem like the easy way out, living in denial, shielding myself from the ugly reality of dad’s impending death. I can tell you it’s anything but.

It’s the toughest boundary I’ve ever had to draw. It’s the toughest conversation I’ve ever had to have, over and over: I won’t be moving back, my life is in Vietnam, I’ll see you in six months.

Choosing my life over dad’s is a decision that hurts everyone involved. It leaves mum saddled with dad’s care. It leaves dad lonely and wondering if I give a damn. It leaves me feeling like the most selfish, ungrateful daughter on earth.

But it’s the choice I make. I stand by it. And though I will never rid myself of the guilt, at least I will feel no regret when that day inevitably comes and I run out of the limited time we have left.

What do you think?

What would you do?

In my shoes, what would you do? Why? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment to share with me your playbook on anticipatory grief—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with a friend who might have an insight into my protracted predicament.

Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val