What my dad taught me about love

My father was injected so he could not say the word back to me.

I told him I loved him.

Instead, he pointed to himself little by little and then to me.

“Do you love me too?” I asked.

His eyes widened slightly and he nodded gently, giving me the greatest response his body could give me. Holding on to that moment, there seemed to be something solid in the room where everything else slid forward.

It was the last time we were together before he started slipping in and out of consciousness, mostly out.

For the first few days, I asked him to fight. To hold. Partly because I knew he wanted to fight. I know he is not ready. And partly because I was far from doing it.

I asked about his statistics and referred them to a doctor friend, hoping there were any signs that he might recover. At first, there were some promise signs until there were none.

Day by day, his condition became less hopeful. Doctors have little idea what we can test. And his body began to fatigue.

It hurts to look at someone I love deeply, someone who has always given me strength and my safest place, growing up weak. I felt a little hopeless and stuck as my world was collapsing around me.

I want more of his warm and safe hug. The more stable I feel with him. I just want more time.

After some direct conversation with the doctor, it was clear that he would not wake up. We can keep him alive, but he is in pain. And I’m fine to leave him there to avoid my pain.

It was probably the hardest decision I ever made: to withdraw my life support. But his peace is more important than my despair of keeping him here.

So the next time I spoke to him, I whispered in his ear, “I know you tried. Okay, we’re fine. You can go.”

I floated through the day like in a dream. It felt amazing to be on a subway surrounded by people, most likely traveling through a normal day, when I just decided to let my dad die.

For a long time, I held that moment in disbelief. How can life move forward when a mine explodes? How can there be travelers, coffee runs, small talk and dinner plans when one of the most basic loves in my life is gone?

At first, the grief was sharp and immediate. It lives close to the surface. It was the pain of losing him, the shock of his absence, the insecurity that someone so important in my life could no longer be here.

Over time, grief does not go away, but it does change. For a while, it felt big and usable, like it took all the air in the room. There is also fear: How can I live in a world without him? What does it mean?

Years later, it became more and more like the familiar, calming pain. More like Thank you for the love. I still wish you here.

And somewhere in the transition, I began to understand something I could not see when I was in the thick of it: letting go is not always giving up. Sometimes it is the most loving thing we can do.

Before my father died, I thought that part of me was equal to love with holding. With more intense fighting. Without loosening my hand. Letting go feels unexpected, almost like betrayal.

It seems that by insisting that this should not happen or that it should not be how it ends, I can change what is unfolding in front of me.

But eventually I could feel my pain being tied not only to losing him, but it was so painful that I wanted it to be untrue. Grief has a way of showing where we are still fighting what has already happened.

I want more time. I want a different ending – for things to go the other way. I want life to be better.

And that is its heartbreak.

I think this is why indulgence can feel difficult in many parts of life, not just death. We do not just take people for granted. We cling to hopes, plans, identities, expectations, and versions of life that we think will last longer or look different now.

We are stuck because something important. Because we are not ready yet. Because letting go can force us to face the changes and little control that we really have.

Along with losing myself is the fear of uncertainty: How do I move forward? Who am I without this? What am I doing now?

But sometimes what we are really holding is not our own. It is the hope that it can still be different, the desire that the end can still change, and the refusal to experience anything because it hurts so much.

Giving up does not mean that what we want does not matter. It does not mean that we stop caring or that it feels fair.

And it is not the same as sacrificing ourselves, others or our dreams. Sometimes it means loosening our grip on how something is exposed so we can begin to experience life as it is.

That realization changed the way I came to the end now, even though it was not over immediately, there was no struggle. It is one thing to understand letting go of our hearts and another to feel it inside when something we love is changing.

I have learned that before I can ask myself to reconsider, I often have to notice what is going on in my body, i.e. the tightness in my chest, the urge to bend the part I want to hold more.

Meeting that response a little politely helped soften my heart to ask: Do I still feel that it is still true or is it because I find it hard to accept that it is changing?

Sometimes I ask: Can I respect what that means to me without having to keep it?

And sometimes the question is simpler: What am I afraid of that makes me feel?

I still miss my father. I still want to hug him. I still wish that life gave us more time.

But I no longer see that last act as abandonment.

I see it as love without the illusion of control. Love that can not fix the price or keep him here. Love that can tell the truth.

You tried. It’s okay. We will be fine. You can go.

I think many of us are taught to appreciate the part of ourselves that clings to perseverance and perseverance. And sometimes those parts are desperately needed.

But there are also times when the force looks softer than we expected. More submissive. Gentle.

Sometimes strength is loosening our hands.

Sometimes indulgence is not the absence of love, hope, or meaning, but when we stop asking for life for something other than what it is.

And sometimes healing begins there, not when we stop worrying, but when we stop believing that a tighter grip will change the reality of what is already here.