“When it comes down to it, that’s what life is all about: showing up for the people you love, again and again, until you can’t show up anymore.” ~Rebecca Walker
The first time my dad admitted he was scared, I felt something shift inside me.
Not uncomfortable. Not worried. Scared.
He had recently been diagnosed with Stage IV colorectal cancer, and we were standing together when he quietly asked, “Is this what takes me out?”
I wish I could tell you I responded with wisdom or grace. Instead, I did what many people do when confronted with something they cannot control. I tried to bargain.
“It won’t take you out if you don’t want it to,” I told him.
Even as the words left my mouth, I knew they weren’t true.
I wasn’t talking to him. I was talking to fate. I was talking to fear. I was talking to the impossible reality that my father might die.
For most of my life, my dad had been larger than life. Stubborn. Funny. Independent. The kind of person who treated rules as suggestions and authority as a challenge.
He was also the person who made me feel safe. And suddenly, he was looking to me for reassurance.
That was the moment I experienced what many adult children eventually face but few are prepared for: the reversal of roles.
The person who once carried you begins to lean on you. The person who once had answers begins asking questions. The person who taught you how to navigate the world becomes vulnerable in ways you never imagined.
People often think grief begins when someone dies. My experience taught me otherwise. Sometimes grief begins the moment you realize they will.
As my father’s illness progressed, everyone in my family found a different way to cope.
One sister organized appointments and schedules.
Another flew across the country and started sneaking avocado into his soup because she had read about the nutritional benefits.
There were green smoothies, supplements, treatment plans, research articles, and endless conversations about what might help.
My mother had a different perspective.
“Let him eat what he wants,” she said. “He’s a dying man.”
At the time, everyone seemed to be speaking different languages. Looking back, I realize we were all doing the same thing. We were trying to create certainty where none existed.
Loss has a way of exposing how uncomfortable we are with uncertainty.
Some people manage. Some research. Some fix. Some avoid. Some become angry. Most of us cycle through all of them.
I wasn’t immune. I simply expressed it differently. Instead of trying to save him, I became obsessed with making things easier.
Could we hire help? Could we reduce his stress? Could we simplify his life?
I was searching for something useful to do because usefulness felt safer than helplessness.
One of the most important lessons I learned during that time is that action and control are not the same thing.
Action can be helpful. Control is often an illusion.
The more I tried to manage the situation emotionally, the more exhausted I became. The more I accepted what was happening, the more present I could be.
That sounds simple. It wasn’t.
Acceptance is often misunderstood as giving up. For me, acceptance looked like acknowledging reality while continuing to love him fully.
It meant understanding that I could not change the outcome, but I could influence the experience. I could choose how I showed up.
One of my favorite memories happened during a hospital visit.
He was getting a port installed for treatment, and the campus was strictly non-smoking. My dad wanted a cigarette. I told him it wasn’t allowed. Then I left to get the car.
When I pulled up, he was sitting in the passenger seat wearing the biggest grin.
“Meg,” he said. “Look.”
He pointed toward the ground. There, next to the curb, was a half-smoked cigarette. Someone had thrown it away. My father had apparently rescued it. He was so proud of himself.
I remember laughing despite myself. The moment was ridiculous. But it was also perfect.
Because in that instant, he wasn’t a cancer patient. He wasn’t a diagnosis. He wasn’t a problem to solve. He was simply my dad. Stubborn. Resourceful. Unapologetically himself.
That memory taught me something I didn’t fully understand at the time.
When people are approaching the end of life, we often become so focused on preserving them that we stop seeing them.
We see symptoms. Appointments. Medications. Decline. We forget the person still exists underneath all of it.
The greatest gift we can offer someone facing loss is not always our solutions. Sometimes it’s our attention. Sometimes it’s remembering who they are.
As the months passed, something unexpected began happening. Memories surfaced without warning.
I would be standing in my kitchen and suddenly find myself transported back to childhood.
I could see us in the driveway in Sonoma, California. I could hear his laughter. I could feel the wobble of my bike as he taught me how to ride.
The memories weren’t dramatic. They were ordinary. And somehow, that made them more powerful.
At first, I didn’t understand why they kept appearing.
Now I think my mind was doing exactly what it needed to do. It was preserving him. Not the version of him that was sick. The version of him that was alive. The version that had shaped me.
Toward the end, something else happened that I’ve since noticed in many families facing significant loss. People began unraveling. Patience disappeared. Arguments appeared out of nowhere. Small disagreements became major conflicts. Everyone seemed emotionally raw.
At the time, it felt chaotic. Now I understand it differently. When people feel powerless, emotions look for somewhere to go.
Fear often disguises itself as frustration. Sadness often masquerades as anger. Grief rarely arrives in the neat, recognizable form we expect. Sometimes it arrives wearing different clothes.
One thing I wish more people understood is that there is no perfect way to navigate these experiences. There is only awareness. The more aware we become of what we’re actually feeling, the less likely we are to project it onto everyone around us.
If you’re facing a difficult loss right now—or any life transition that feels bigger than your ability to manage it—there are a few things I learned that may help.
First, stop expecting certainty.
The need for certainty creates additional suffering because life rarely offers it.
Second, pay attention to how you’re trying to gain control.
Are you fixing? Researching? Avoiding? Fighting?
Understanding your coping strategies doesn’t eliminate them, but it helps you use them more consciously.
Third, don’t wait for perfect moments.
The meaningful moments are usually ordinary.
A conversation in a parking lot. A shared meal. A ridiculous joke. A half-smoked cigarette discovered on the ground. Those are often the moments that stay with us.
Most importantly, remember that being present is enough.
You do not have to solve every problem. You do not have to carry every emotion. You do not have to make an impossible situation feel acceptable.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stay. Stay for the conversation. Stay for the memory. Stay for the laughter. Stay for the heartbreak. Stay for the person.
My father eventually died. But when I think about that season of my life now, what remains isn’t the fear. It isn’t the diagnosis. It isn’t even the loss itself.
What remains is his smile. His personality. His stubbornness. The moments when he was unmistakably, undeniably himself.
That’s when I finally understood what anticipatory grief had been trying to teach me all along.
Love isn’t measured by our ability to save people. It’s measured by our willingness to be with them, fully and honestly, even when we can’t.
About Meghan Phelan
Meghan Phelan is the owner of Granny NANNIES of South Florida, bringing eighteen years of experience in elder care. After earning her degree in Health Service Administration from the University of Central Florida, she dedicated her career to helping seniors age safely at home. Based in Miami, Meghan is also an Alzheimer’s Association community educator and support group facilitator, committed to providing compassionate care and trusted support for families across South Florida.
