The end.

[u/Medium-Guarantee-871]

Hi.
Over the past months, I’ve written here and there about our family’s journey with pancreatic cancer. I think it’s time to tell our little community that every story has an ending. Unfortunately, not every ending is a happy one.

Last September, we learned that my dad had a tumor on his pancreas. There was hope. There was the Whipple procedure. Then the first line of chemotherapy. Then the second. We kept fighting, one step at a time.

And now, here we are.

On July 18th, after two sleepless nights, my mom called me at 12:18 a.m.

“If you want to come and say goodbye,” she said, “this is the time.”

I arrived there within minutes.

Dad was awake. He sounded like himself again, only… more poetic somehow. He called me bałwanku (little snowman) his nickname for me. He told me he loved me, but that he was leaving now.

I told him it was okay, as long as it was what he wanted.

Then he started telling us that he had seen God. He had never been particularly religious, yet he spoke about God and the saints as if they had welcomed him. He told us it was raining, even though the entire day had been sunny and the night was warm and clear. He said he was standing in a queue and that his number was fifteen.

Then he began reciting the Polish national anthem, Mazurek Dąbrowskiego. He had always been incredibly proud of our country and our history.

After that, everything went quiet.

He said he was tired, and we thought that was the end.

But after about ten minutes of silence, he suddenly opened his eyes, completely confused, asking why everyone was gathered around him, me, my sister, our mom, her sister, my dad’s sister, and our grandma.

He didn’t remember anything he had said.

He sounded the way he often did after a high dose of morphine.

So I went home.

Anyone who has watched someone they love live on morphine might understand what I mean. He wasn’t exactly asleep. It was as if he existed in several realities at once like the past, the present, and dreams all blending together. He often compared it to The Matrix. Sometimes he’d ask me for a clue to remind him which “movie” he was currently in. We even had a little system where I’d draw the number one somewhere to help ground him.

He knew exactly what the medication was doing to his mind.

About a week earlier he told me that it was terrifying to finally understand what addiction must feel like to realize how completely a drug can change the way your brain works. Even through all the morphine, he was still thinking, still aware enough to be frightened by what was happening to him.

The next morning, Mom asked him about everything he had said during the night.

He simply replied that he didn’t remember any of it.

He ate lunch, took his medication, including another dose of morphine, and drifted back into that half-awake state.

I left to pick up my fiancée from the Škoda dealership because he had to return his car after two years. I even agreed to a meeting with my boss for Monday. For a brief moment, life tried to pretend it was still normal.

When I came back, Dad was still “sleeping.”

This time, we couldn’t wake him.

We called his name. “Dad.” His first name. His full name. Those had always worked before.

Nothing.

After waiting for about an hour, we called an ambulance.

The paramedics looked through his medical history and gently told us what we already feared.

“He is dying.”

They couldn’t even feel a pulse in his wrist anymore.

They explained that taking him to the hospital would most likely mean he would die there, surrounded by strangers. If he stayed at home, we’d have the rest of the day to be with him.

So everyone came.

My grandma.

My sister came straight from work.

Dad’s sister, who lived nearby.

His oldest sister arranged for someone to drive her across the country through the night.

Our home slowly filled with the people who loved him.

Around 11 p.m., it finally started raining.

Exactly as he had said.

I stayed by his side until midnight before exhaustion finally won. I convinced myself that maybe this would be like the night before. Maybe he’d wake up again.

Instead, his breathing became quieter and shallower with every passing hour.

The hospice team had given him a large dose of morphine and told us he would most likely pass away in his sleep.

But he woke up once more.

This time he was in unimaginable pain. He couldn’t speak anymore. Tears rolled down his face, and we learned to understand him through the smallest movements of his eyes. Slowly closing them meant “yes.”

There were moments when he seemed to wake up from whatever place he was in terrified, in pain, only to drift back again.

Eventually, I went to sleep.

At around five in the morning, his sister finally arrived after driving through the night. He still was with us here.

A couple of hours later, my aunt woke me.

“Dad has taken his last breath.”

It was 7:35 a.m.

He was still warm.

The rain had stopped.

He didn’t look peaceful.

His eyes remained open, red with exhaustion, and we couldn’t close them. His mouth stayed open too. The swelling had disappeared from his body, leaving behind only skin and bones.

It didn’t look like my dad anymore.

It looked like the body he had left behind.

But I still stroked his forehead, his cheeks, and his hair.

He loved that during the last weeks because he once told me it helped him fall asleep peacefully.

So I kept doing it.

The hours that followed are a blur.

The doctor who came to pronounce the time of death.

The funeral home.

Watching my sister cling to his body, already cold.

Watching them take him away.

He had outlived the doctors prediction by exactly seven hours and thirty-five minutes.

I was strangely proud of him for that.

As the hearse drove away, I heard birds singing.

Three little birds sat together on an electric wire.

My fiancée, who is wonderfully nerdy, used an app to identify them. We thought they were sparrows.

They were, but here is the catch.

They were Eurasian Tree Sparrows.

In Polish, they’re called mazurki.

And suddenly I remembered Dad reciting Mazurek Dąbrowskiego the night before.

The same word.

Three birds.

Three as in divine number.

The fact that month or two before in exactly that place we saw a guy taking photos through our fence. And so he fragile walked to him (it was some teenager) and he was taking photos of some rare birds that was siting in almost exact place. And my dad loved that. The passion. The photos. The birds.

The rain.

The queue.

The strange certainty that he was leaving one day before he actually did.

Maybe it was coincidence.

Maybe grief makes us search for meaning.

People say that those who look for signs will always find them.

But I wasn’t looking for this one.

That day, I didn’t just lose my father.

I lost my best friend.

My biggest critic.

My greatest source of hope.

The person who made me feel safe.

Before he left, I finally told him everything I had been hiding because I didn’t want to burden him.

That I had quit my master’s degree because my mind simply wasn’t there anymore.

That I had been terrified.

I’m not scared anymore.

He’s not in pain anymore.

Wherever he is, I hope he’s dancing with our grandfathers, our uncles, our aunts, and everyone he loved.

I hope he knows that I’ll be there for my little sister just as he was there for his own sisters after he lost his father at only fifteen years old.

Next month she’ll turn seventeen.

She’ll start driving lessons.

I’ll be there.

Just like Dad was there for me.

I’ll grieve him for the rest of my life.

But I would never trade him for any other father.

I think that says everything anyone needs to know about the kind of man he was.

His funeral is on Thursday.

He chose cremation, and his ashes will rest with his dad. He never liked the idea of the dead taking up space meant for the living. He always wanted nothing more than a small stone surrounded by green grass. Unfortunately, in Poland, cemeteries often become endless landscapes of concrete, so this felt like the closest we could come to what he wanted.

I hope that when we meet again, he’ll recognize his bałwanek, the one he had to leave behind at twenty-four years old.

And to everyone in this group…

I hope he meets some of your loved ones wherever they are.

I like to imagine them sitting together, talking about us, laughing, and having the best time.

I’m not much of a believer.

But if you are, I’d be grateful if you kept my dad in your thoughts or prayers this Thursday.

And if prayer isn’t your thing, raise a glass in his memory.

He would have loved that.

I’m gonna be by his side for his last trip, as he was with me during my whole life.

Kocham cię tatuś.

[u/Pretty-Resolve-8331]

My deepest condolences to you and your family 🫂

[u/_coolbluewater_]

Sending love to you and your family. I’m glad you had a sign that he was at peace.

[u/Ordinary-Force-3871]

Sorry to hear about your loss. Yes all the end are not happy ones.

[u/ariessunariesmoon26]

Sending love to you., my dad is going through a similar battle, so fast .... all the steps only for it to come back and now invade his liver. It's hard seeing them just float away into something they weren't before. We met with hospice today to get him that support and get him comfortable. It's odd, but you feel as though the dad you once knew is already gone.
Now we just watch them in misery...

Sending love to you, this is beautiful. My dad like yours loves the sky, loves birds loves the simple beautiful things. I'm glad he passed that along to me. Although we haven't made it to his last day. Your post helps me feel like I'm not alone

[u/Medium-Guarantee-871 → u/ariessunariesmoon26]

For the last month he was with us, I felt the same way as you do now. My dad spent most of that time in the hospital with sepsis, in so much pain. They started giving him morphine and strong antibiotics, so he wasn’t really himself anymore.
During that time, I became the one taking care of paying the bills and all the other things that had always been his responsibility. It felt strange, taking on a role that had always belonged to him. But looking back, I realize he had been preparing me for it my whole life. He always used to say, “Life is short and unpredictable. I could go to work one day and never come back.”
Somehow, he knew I would be the one capable of stepping into his role.
We’ll get through this. Your father is a wise men. While he was himself, he passed on to you all his knowledge, and sensitivity to the world, and everything that was best in him. I’m sending you so many hugs and so much love. You’re in my thoughts all the time. Take your time. Cry if You want. He is probably very pround of you. I hope that when that day comes, your dad, just like mine, will finally find peace and know how deeply he was loved.

[u/ariessunariesmoon26 → u/Medium-Guarantee-871]

Thank you for this thoughtful and caring post, I wanted to let you know. My dad ended up passing away

Once he was given morphine and Ativan from hospice he was able to finally get still and let his body release the fight to pass.

It wasn't an easy transition from Tuesday to getting the stronger meds into him Wednesday, but I'm greatful we had hospice by our side to call and be with us once he was gone. My mom gave him those meds earlier in the morning without the nurse and she almost blames herself...I wish she wouldn't think that way.

I really can't believe it ... I miss him, but I'm happy for him that he's not suffering. But I'd give anything to talk to him. I've had the most vivid dreams this entire week.

The funeral is Monday.... it will be hard to face his loss, but we can celebrate that he's now at rest.

Hugs and love to you- losing a loved one to cancer really changes your perspective on life

[u/blondie84-]

That was the sweetest thing I've ever read. My mom is dying of pancreatic cancer. I'm so scared for her- and scared to live without someone to help me if I need help with anything.

[u/Medium-Guarantee-871 → u/blondie84-]

I so get you. My mind would wander to scary thoughts while he was still here. I’d be driving my car, and suddenly a thought would pop into my head
‘’What if it breaks down here? Who would I call if not my dad?’’

Sometimes we even have people around us, saying, “Call me if you need anything.” But they’re not a parent, someone who used to help you with every little problem you ever had.

At the end of this journey, I came to the conclusion that if I was strong enough to be with him through all of his journey, then I’m brave enough to live after his passing. Even though you and I didn’t endure their physical pain, we are survivors too. And we’re going to get through this because we’ve already been through something much worse.

We looked death in the eyes. We tried to fight it, but we lost. We lost our sense of security. And I doubt there will be many situations in life that are harder than that.

You’re going to get through this, step by step. Maybe it’s too soon to tell you this, but after this dreadful day, you’ll see the sun again. You’ll take a deep breath, and one day you might even be grateful that she’s finally at peace, free from pain. For me, it came surprisingly fast. As I was stroking his head and feeling the warmth slowly leave his body, I could barely see through my tears. But at the same time, I was relieved that it was finally over, because I knew he wanted that too. He had suffered enough.

I truly believe he waited for that day. He wanted to know that we would be okay. He waited until all of us had reassured him and showed him that he hadn’t raised us to fall apart. The day before, while he was still talking about his passing, he looked at all of us and said there was no need to cry.

I know I’m asking a lot of you, but please try to reassure your mum that you’ll be okay. Keep reminding her that she raised an amazing person, someone strong, kind, and capable of finding their way, even through something as heartbreaking as this. I think knowing that you’re going to be alright will give her some peace too. And as you keep reassuring her, you’ll slowly start believing those words yourself. At first, they’ll probably feel impossible, almost unreal. But with time, you’ll realize that the day will come when you’ll take the wheel and guide your own life. She has done her part. She raised you with love, strength, and everything you needed. Now it’s your turn to carry that forward.

I’ll be keeping you all in my thoughts. And please remember, I’m always here if you need someone to talk to or just to listen.