Despite his bleak prognosis, Dad remained remarkably well for much of his illness. He continued doing many of the things he loved – friends would tell of seeing him whizz through town on his bike just weeks after brain surgery. He and my mum travelled around Europe between chemotherapy cycles, always with trips and plans with friends to look forward to.
He faced life with relentless determination and optimism. He didn’t complain about the constant hospital trips, the sickness he experienced from treatment, or the little bald patch he had where the radiotherapy had stopped his hair from growing.
He wanted to keep on living – and so that is the approach we silently took as a family.
Life carried on, and for the next few years we lived between cycles of scans, chemotherapy and operations.
It wasn’t until April 2021, when I was visiting from university for Dad’s 60th birthday, two and a half years after his diagnosis, that it became clear how his health had begun to deteriorate.
Worsening condition
As the tumour spread, his language suffered, and his mobility worsened.
When I finished university and moved home that June, Dad was unrecognisable. His once olive-brown skin was sallow and pale, and his face was puffy from steroids. I felt scared. I couldn’t reconcile the man in front of me with the father I knew.
By then, Dad was reliant on Mum for most of his care. Our days revolved around hospital appointments, lifting him in and out of bed, and helping him eat. There was no space to plan for the future – it was survival.
As the tumour progressed, his behaviour and communication became increasingly strained. Understandably frustrated, trapped in a body that no longer did what he asked, he could become angry.
“Can’t you see I’m dying?” he would shout.
By then, it was too late to have the balanced, important conversations we had avoided for so long.
After developing a chest infection, he was taken into hospital. We stood at the front door and watched the ambulance pull away, unaware it would be the last time he would leave our home.