My mother delivered the news of my father’s cancer diagnosis in an upbeat email, filled with optimism and gratitude — so much so that I nearly overlooked its seriousness.
Everyone copes with fear in their own way; for me, it involves seeking comfort through information and connections with loved ones. I reached out to a doctor friend, who listened intently but had no idea I was inquiring about my dad. I’ve reflected on my lack of openness in that moment, but what I truly needed was the unvarnished truth — no fluff.
“That man’s got no more than a year. If I were him, I’d forgo the treatment.”
BAM. The raw, unfiltered truth hit me hard.
I wish I could tell you that I took a deep breath and centered myself afterward. Instead, I found myself at an upscale fried chicken joint near my office, feeling frantic. I ordered a “very large gin and tonic.”
“A double?” the bartender queried, just as they do in movies. I’m not much of a drinker and wasn’t sure whether a double meant twice the size or twice the alcohol, but I was certain of one thing: my dad was dying.
With my husband away in another country and several time zones apart, I called my best friend, someone who has been in my life since the fifth grade.
“Oh my God, what?” she said, immediately sensing the chaos in my voice.
“He’s dying.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
I quickly devised a plan. If I had a year left with my dad, I wanted to maximize that time. It was simple. We didn’t share interests in books, politics, movies, or even faith, but he was still my dad, deserving of my love — and I needed that connection, too. We shared love.
That evening, I told my husband, “I want to be with my dad as much as possible because I refuse to look back with regrets.”
On Mother’s Day, my father woke up disoriented. A trip to the ER revealed dangerously high potassium levels, prompting me to change my weekend plans to a week to wait for his health to stabilize.
My family is fortunate to have a robust support system, and my sister stepped in as I returned home to my children and husband. We found ourselves in a local seafood diner, where I shared everything I knew about Dad’s condition.
“I’ll come back when I can,” I assured her.
“I can handle it,” she replied.
“I just don’t want to look back and regret not spending more time with him.”
I did return several times. My dad and I developed a routine where I’d sit silently next to him (I can manage silence if I focus). Eventually, he would say something like, “Let me show you my contact list.”
At first, it was subtle, but soon enough we spoke about “funeral” and “eulogy,” as he tried to share his wishes with me.
I brought my kids to see him for his 80th birthday and rushed back eleven days later, just in time to hold his hand and say goodbye.
The hospice team and funeral home staff were compassionate and gentle. He had been with us, and then he was gone. Just like that.
When my thoughts began to form again, the first one was: “Why didn’t I stay with him for the hour he waited for surgery? If I had just been there… then I wouldn’t feel this way.”
And there it was: Regret.
Even after spending more time with him in that year than ever before, my immediate thought was one of regret for not doing enough.
Then it hit me: you can’t outsmart regret. It’s an intrinsic part of grief. You can’t avoid it; you have to confront it.
Regret whispers, “I wish I’d had more time, stayed longer, said the right thing, been kinder, more patient, more honest, more loving, more direct… and then I wouldn’t feel this way.”
But that’s a lie.
It always hurts this much when you lose someone you love.
I understand the yearning to believe that if you could have just said the right words before they passed, it would ease your sorrow. Maybe it would help, but what is certain is that we are both heartbroken. Moving forward feels daunting.
Perhaps that’s the essence of regret: it helps us cope with the present pain by fixating on the past and placing blame on ourselves. It can even distract us from the overwhelming task of envisioning a future without our loved ones.
Over and over, I’ve had to release the regret of the moments I missed with my dad, focusing instead on the countless cherished minutes we did share. That’s where the love truly resides.
If you’re navigating your own journey of grief and regret, you might find comfort in exploring more about these experiences here. And for those seeking information on home insemination, you can check out this essential resource. For further insights into pregnancy and related topics, Mount Sinai offers excellent resources.
Summary
Regret is a natural component of the grieving process. It often emerges when we reflect on missed opportunities with our loved ones. While it can be painful, recognizing and confronting regret is essential to navigating through grief. Cherishing the time shared can help alleviate some of the burdens that regret brings.
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