Family relations can be complex at times, especially when it comes to in-laws, and this isn’t something I am just making up. No, anyone can tell you how much truth there is in these words. And yes, relations aren’t built in a single day. Oh, no! It takes a lot of time and patience to start considering someone family. I know it takes a lot of Sunday dinners, and sharing a bunch of important stuff together because I’ve experienced that first hand.
But when a loss comes, then everything changes.
As a parent, I can tell you that losing a child is so painful that it cannot be compared to any other form of pain. Losing a child means losing a part of yourself, and it means that your life can never be the same.
My son passed away recently at the age of 25. Two years prior, he was diagnosed with bowel cancer. Until then, he was a relatively healthy young man who never experienced any illnesses. His diagnosis came as a shock to everyone, because he was someone who was obsessed with living a healthy lifestyle, always minding his diet and exercising. But then, out of the blue, he started experiencing troubles with his abdomen which he brushed off at first. Then, he reached to some over-the-counter medication that he thought would help him with his constipation. But as it didn’t work, he finally visited a doctor who prescribed him with a bunch of pills.
Not long after, he started experiencing excruciating pain and was rushed to the ER.
The doctor ordered scans and it was revealed there was a mass in his colon.
Not long after, he was taken to surgery during which doctors removed a large part of his colon and told him they had also found large cancer-like tumours on his omentum.
Sadly, at that point, the cancer was at stage four and had already spread to other parts of his body, including his lungs, liver and spleen. He underwent two more surgeries during which the tumors were removed, and he ended up receiving chemotherapy.
His battle with the cancer went on for two long years. It included long hospital stays and even more surgeries.
To this day, I still feel the smell of the hospital and I still wake up in the middle of the night thinking he needs my company, forgetting he’s gone.
In the middle of my pain and grief, she was still there, my son’s fiancée.
They were high-school sweethearts, and he loved her endlessly. I have known her since forever, or it just seems to me like it.
She and my son lived together in a small house that is still on my name. I bought that place years ago as an investment. I believe it was even before the two met. So when they needed a place, I was happy to offer that house to them.
Today, the place feels like a museum. I can’t even force myself to go there any longer because all of my son’s stuff is still there. I don’t know why, but that house makes my chest tighten. I just lose my breath.
During the last couple of weeks, I had been thinking of renting the place. And it’s not just because I can’t go there. It’s also the medical bills from my son’s hospital stays and surgeries that mounted up. I nearly thinned my retirement saving and renting the house felt like a reasonable thing to do. I caught myself telling that to myself at least couple of times a day. At the end of the day, the house belongs to me.
So, one afternoon, I gathered the courage and told my son’s fiancée to leave the place. I wasn’t rude. Honestly, I tried to choose appropriate words, but no matter how I said it, I knew it didn’t sound right.
At the time, she was in the kitchen, having coffee. She was sad, and I knew she was truly heartbroken by my son’s passing. They loved each other unconditionally, and she missed him. She missed him more than she could say. But now that he was no longer there, I believed it was for the best if she just moved and continued with her own life.
“I need to rent the house,” I said. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find somewhere else.”
She looked at me as though she couldn’t understand what I was saying. And at first, she didn’t say anything. She just starred at that mug.
I started feeling uncomfortable and didn’t know if I should say anything else. But then she looked at me and said, “I took care of him for two years like a nurse. Is this really your gratitude?”
Her words hit me, but I wouldn’t let them sink in. I couldn’t. If I stopped to really hear what she was saying, I was afraid something inside me would split wide open.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, though it sounded hollow even to my own ears.
I helped her pack. Actually, that’s not true. The truth is that I forced her. I carried boxes to the door, stacked them too quickly, set her suitcase out on the porch like it was just another task to be finished and I told myself I was doing what needed to be done. I told myself I had to protect what little strength I had left.
However, when I took that last box outside the house, I didn’t feel the relief I expected to feel. Instead, the place felt even bigger and quieter than before.
But I tried to convince myself that it was a good thing. Right? It was a good thing!
That evening, while I was taking some of the old stuff out, I noticed my old neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez. She stood by the fence and then approached me. She knew my son for years. Since the moment I bought that house.
“I’m sorry for you loss,” she said. “Daren was a good man. He truly was one of a kind. A neighbor anyone would ask for. And the same goes for his beautiful fiancée.”
I said “thank you,” and rushed to get inside. But Mrs. Alvarez said, “By the way, where is Anna. Why isn’t she around?”
“She left,” I said, but somehow, I was ashamed of the words that were coming out of my mouth. “You know, I decided to rent the place,” I said. “I guess you’ll have new neighbors,” I said while trying to leave as soon as possible.
“I guess I will,” she said and handed me a folder. “I found this near the curb. It looked important. Maybe it’s just trash, who knows.”
I took it and recognized my son’s handwriting immediately.
Inside tat folder there were medical bills, pharmacy receipts, insurance papers stamped in red where they wouldn’t cover everything. There were pages of scribbled notes about dosages, appointment times, reminders to call this doctor or that specialist.
And on one sheet, in his shaky handwriting, he’d written: “Don’t tell dad how bad today was. You know he worries.”
There were also bank statements that belonged to Anna, including withdrawals, transfers, and large payments that aligned with treatment dates. Also, there was a receipt from a pawn shop for jewelry sold.
And that’s when I realized what I had done to that poor woman.
She had been covering the treatments insurance wouldn’t fully pay for. She was working night shifts, and there were the pay stubs to prove it. And after all that, she’d come home to take care of him all day. She’d sold off parts of her own future just to give him a little more time.
And somehow, I hadn’t seen any of it.
When I thought about it, I realized how selfish I really was. While trying to manage my grief, I somehow forgot she was grieving too, and I never asked her how she was doing. I never saw it that way. I never realized that she not only lost her loved one, but also the future she planning with him.
I called her right away and asked her where she was. “I’m in the neighborhood,” she said. She was just standing there, one street away from the house, because she had nowhere to go.
I begged her to return to the house, at least until she finds a place on her own. But I told her not to rush, to take her time.
“He made me promise to check on you,” she said. “He said you wouldn’t ask for help.”
I started crying, because at that point, I just couldn’t stop my tears. “He knew me too well,” I said.
She just nodded and said, “And he loved you so much.”
That evening, we spent the night taking about Daren. Anna shared stories about him, and honestly, I couldn’t recognize my son in some of them, because I knew he was suffering, but I didn’t know how much the cancer changed him. And Anna, she knew all too well.
“Stay,” I said once again. “At least until you find your footing. We’ll figure the rest out together.”
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Bored Daddy
Love and Peace
