My father was diagnosed with stage 4 prostate cancer with a prognosis of 12 to 18 months in September 2018. I was 22 years old at the time, and had just started studying when we got the news and it felt like my world had suddenly lost all meaning. I couldn’t begin to fathom how to continue living my life when he was effectively given a death sentence – the strongest man I knew wasn’t going to live forever. I know, I know, that sounds silly; obviously, he wasn’t going to live forever but in my world, nothing could get him down, and when obstacles did pop up, he overcame them as if they were a pebble in his shoe. For 6 years, he went for his treatments, handled the side effects that wreaked havoc on his body, and still showed up for everyone in his life as if he wasn’t fighting this war in private. If you didn’t know about his diagnosis, you wouldn’t have known that he was in a battle against time. 

It took countless hours of therapy and tears to begin to comprehend that while most people my age are blessed to have their parents in their lives until they’re in their 40s, 50s or even 60s, that wouldn’t be my reality. I couldn’t allow myself to wallow in his cancer because he didn’t – he went to each treatment with a smile on his face and championed through the side effects with our feelings in mind. He never wanted us to know how much he was really struggling, and in some way, that made it easier to get through every day. 

One day, as we were leaving the hospital after yet another appointment, I jokingly told him that I was mad at him for having me so late in life, and that I only got so few years with him while my brother and sister got almost 40 years each! We laughed about how funny life turns out sometimes and chatted about fond memories of my childhood. I think the journey of walking beside someone at the end of their life while mine was just beginning was quite a sobering reality, and while I did everything I could to support him in whatever way he needed, I learned to make the most of every moment, every phone call, every interaction for my own peace of mind. I never ended a call without an emphatic “I love you, Daddy,” and when he hung up without saying it back, you best believe I called him and made him say it to me because I never knew when that would be the last time that I’d hear it. The little things became important, like holding his hand, sitting tightly next to him, staring deeply into his eyes so that I could memorise the marbled grey eyes, filled with a lifetime of wisdom, looking back at me. I knew the clock was ticking, and I was powerless to stop it. I didn’t know what to do – how do I stop the inevitable? It was only when I saw a quote that said “Grief is not a problem to be solved, but a friend to be listened to.” that things clicked into place for me. I was powerless to stop this, but maybe it wasn’t my job to do that – what if I just sat with him and enjoyed whatever time we had left together without worrying about tomorrow?

My dad, Uncle Solly, was honestly such a legend – have you ever seen a man walk into a chemo room with a big smile on his face, and a mischievous energy to endlessly tease the nurses? Who knew just which buttons to press with the ladies at the radiation room that would have them erupt into peals of laughter? Despite his diagnosis, he made sure that the members of his care team received a Christmas present every year, whether it was a bunch of flowers for the desk, or individual KitKats – it was important to him to show his gratitude to the people who walked this road with him. As he lay in the ward during his final days, the nurses shared stories with us about Mr Hans and all of his shenanigans over the years – he made an impact wherever he went and I’m so proud that he was mine, and that I am his. 

When he was called home on 21 March 2024, the loss surpassed losing what was, but encompassed the memories that’ll never be. I’d thought about this before he passed and I had to keep reminding myself that I’m on my own timeline, but when the reality set in that he’s no longer earth-side, it became real – he’ll never meet my kids, I’ll never get to drive up our long driveway in my brand new car and take him for a ride, he’ll never see me turn 30 and he’ll never get to own that Mercedes he always wanted. And while I mourn for what’ll never be, I’m grateful that I get to see his signature on my marriage certificate, that I see reminders of him in my own reflection and I feel myself holding on to the lessons he always strived to teach. He was a man of great faith, and I believe it was his unwavering faith in God that gave him the mental and physical fortitude to overcome his disease to reach his final resting place in the arms of our Lord.  I’m filled with a warm ball of light when I think of how his laughter filled a room, and how much he loved all of us. He loved us more than himself, he loved us even when we disappointed him, and he made sure that we knew it. He bestowed blessings on us, and the future generations that he’ll never meet and I hold that close to my heart until I breathe my last. 

My dad passed away from stage 4 prostate cancer, but he never let his disease define or change the man he was and that’s how I want him to be remembered.