Hey everyone. Creating this community here because i know how hard it can be to talk about these stuff in real life with your family members. Posting this here because I just can't shake this emotional weight away, and I figured if there’s anywhere I can finally be honest, it’s here.



My dad is under palliative care right now, and the doctors have gently let us know that we’re in the final stretch. Objectively, I know what’s coming. But I don't know how to face it.



Growing up, it was always "don't cry, stay strong", "real men dont cry", "you are going to be the man of the house, you have to keep it together for everyone else". When dad was diagnosed I knew this was the time I had to be the rock for the family. When Mum broke down, I was the one holding her up. When my sisters panicked, I was the calm one making the phone calls. But now that my dad is actually slipping away, I feel totally paralysed.



There are so many things I want to say to him before it's too late. I want to thank him for everything, tell him I forgive him for old arguments, and just let him know how much he means to me. But every time I walk into his room and sit by his bed, my throat tightens up. I always end up asking about how his sleep or appetite was.



I know i might crumble if I ever manage to say the things I want to say. Even if I manage to keep my composure, I'll probably lose it when I hear what my dad has to say to it too. I'm terrified of breaking down in front of him or my family, but I'm even more terrified of waking up one day with a lifetime of unsaid words heavy on my chest.



How do you guys break through that lifelong habit of hiding your emotions? How did you find the courage to have those raw, vulnerable, heart-to-heart goodbyes when you're so used to being the strong one? Would really appreciate any advice from fellow sons or anyone who’s had to drop their armor.

Hi community, I wanted to share a small update and perhaps offer a little glimmer of hope to anyone else currently going through the darkest, final chapters of end-of-life care.

In the early stages of looking after my dad, I was always caught up with the practical things, pain management schedules, adjusting pillows, changing sheets, tracking heart rates, and feeling like an inexperienced panicked nurse rather than a daughter. But over the last couple of weeks, we’ve entered the palliative stage and somehow last night I learned to slow down the chaos.

Usually, after settling my dad down for the night, it’s a rush to finish the chores so I can go to bed as soon as possible. And as usual, I was really tired by the time I got him settled. He always had trouble sleeping and I decided that I could take a break as well, and sit by his bed while he tried to fall asleep. I put on a soft instrumental playlist of old songs he used to play when I was a kid, hoping that it would help him fall asleep easier. He has been too weak to talk for awhile now, so I just held his hand. His grip was very light but I could tell he tried to squeeze my hand. We sat there together in the dim light, listening to the music.

The chores still had to be done and the reality was the same but for those few minutes together, there was no rush and there was no panic. At the end of the day, regardless of the circumstances, we are still just a father that loves his daughter and a daughter who loves her father back.

If you are in the thick of the final stages right now, I hope you can find those tiny pockets of grace and peace. Remember to slow down, and truly truly cherish the last moments together.

Writing this post tonight with a mix of heavy emotions while my mum sits right beside me on the couch, quietly watching TV.

After a gruelling few years of chemo, seeing how much her body has deteriorated and the cancer has progressed, my family came together and made the decision to stop treatment. Rationally, I know it was the right call, chemo was no longer fighting the cancer, just robbing her of quality of life. But I can’t convince the rest of myself.

To be honest, there was an initial wave of relief, which makes me feel like the worst person in the world. As her primary caregiver, my life has revolved around her. I was drained from caring for her and watching her suffer, and part of me was relieved her torture was ending.

But then im always stuck in suffocating wavess of guilt. Am I relieved for her, or secretly just for myself to get my life back? Am I logically preparing for the worst, or using a defense mechanism to avoid the pain? I’m grateful we can say goodbye, but it’s deeply draining to feel like I’m just waiting for her to die. Now that she’s in palliative care and looks more comfortable, I constantly wonder: Did I give up too easily? 

I don’t know how to feel anymore. It feels like I’m already grieving her while she’s still breathing right next to me, even catching myself packing up her unused things. But every night, I realise how Im completely unprepared for her to leave. I feel an uneasy dread realising we aren't fighting anymore. We're just waiting.

If you’ve been through this exhausting limbo of stopping treatment and waiting for the end, how do you survive the mental weight? How do you quiet the guilt and just be present?