A season, or just life (part 1)

“There is a season for everything under the sun—even when we can’t see the sun.”- Jared Brock.

Some seasons can be so long; maybe they are not just seasons. Seasons come and go. Life, life just is.

A Season of Losses and Lessons

I am surprised to note that the last time I blogged was over one and a half years ago. While the season—or maybe just life—that I have experienced in the past one and a half years usually would benefit from writing, which I find therapeutic, I have not had the energy to try to express my thoughts on ‘paper.’ It has been an extended period. An extended season.

If I were to describe this period, I would call it a season of losses and lessons.

The Day Everything Changed

At the beginning of 2021, the world was still actively battling the impact of COVID-19, wondering when this nightmare would end and looking for vaccines. Life had started changing for my family, but nothing could have prepared me for that Sunday morning on November 7th.

Was it warm or cold? Did the sun even rise? I have no recollection of anything else that morning. What I do remember vividly is my older brother Martin knocking on our door and calling me. His tone was unusual, but I couldn’t quite place what was wrong. My mother always taught us that when someone called, we should go to them rather than asking, “What is it?”

When I walked into the sitting room, my younger sister was already seated next to my brother. They looked somber. He did not say good morning.

“He is gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dad is gone,” he repeated.

The words didn’t make sense. My mind struggled to grasp them.

We had been holding our breath for six months, hoping for the best. Just like that, he was gone. And another tough season was beginning.

A Reluctant Patient

Last year, my dad, who had always been the epitome of good health, started ailing. The shift was subtle at first. I do not know when he truly got sick, and I do not think we will ever be able to pinpoint the exact moment.

Dad was never one to dwell on illness. He did not ‘do sick.’ He was also not good at allowing people to take care of him. It became a challenge when he needed medical attention. He would agree to one medical check-up but refuse any follow-ups he deemed unnecessary.

I recall a few years ago when I took him to a doctor. After multiple tests and a long discussion, we secured a follow-up appointment. But when I called to confirm, he was categorical:

“That doctor is taking too much money for nothing. The tests were costly. I will monitor my vitals at the local clinic.”

That was the end of that chapter. It did not matter that we were paying the bills and were not complaining.

So, when he started looking and feeling weak last year, convincing him to return to the hospital was a struggle. He was assertive, and if he refused, there was little we could do except wait for another opportunity—usually when the pain became unbearable. If he ever asked to be taken to the hospital, we knew it was serious.

The Silent Battle

The first time he was admitted last year, my brother, who had taken him, refused to bring him home. Dad reluctantly agreed to stay. The second time, only a month later, he didn’t even wait for the doctor’s discharge—he simply decided he was leaving.

By the third admission in September, things had changed. He had lost significant weight, barely ate, and required frequent blood transfusions. The oncologist suspected cancer. It was then that we began hearing the term “Gastrointestinal Stromal Tumor (GIST).”

I recall the oncologist telling me, “Sophie, just stop asking Dr. Google; ask me.” But we couldn’t help it. We were desperate for answers, desperate for hope.

What I cannot reconcile is how my dad, the most disciplined person regarding diet, got digestive system cancer. We will never understand. Maybe there is nothing to understand—only to accept.

The Final Days

Going home became more urgent and frequent. That Saturday, November 6th, I travelled home knowing he had been having a bad week. We debated whether to take him to the hospital, but there was no clear reason. He had just started on targeted therapy, and the doctor was due to see him on Monday, November 8th.

When I arrived, he was sleeping. But later, he woke up and spoke with my sister and me. He looked better. He had managed to eat a little, and some of his symptoms had eased. For the first time in a long time, we felt reassured.

We were wrong.

The next morning, he was gone.

I still see my chat history with the doctor from November 5th, updating him on Dad’s progress and confirming his appointment for November 8th. But he never made it to that appointment. Instead, he went for another one—one none of us knew about.

Living with Loss

Coming to terms with the loss was, and still is, difficult. I don’t think one ever fully does. December was a struggle. We were entering the season of “firsts”—the first Christmas without Dad, remembering the last one with him.

By the end of the year, I was determined to find the energy to restart. Grief doesn’t follow a timeline, but I held on to the hope that the season of holding my breath was behind me. While grief lingers, I was ready to step into another season.

This has been a season of losses, but also a season of lessons. Lessons in love, in family, in resilience, and in the unpredictable nature of life.

I don’t know what the next season holds, but I am stepping into it with hope.

Even if I could not see the sun, that season was over. Or was it?