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My father died.

Last year, he lost a lot of weight — and he was overweight, so we thought that was good. His balance was bad, so he used two walking poles to get around and walking took him more and more effort — so we hoped that with a bit of reduced weight it would be easier for him to get around. But he also got a bit ‘confused’ (as he called it) now and then. It took my mother more and more effort to get him presentable and out of the house. He also didn’t want to eat a lot of different things anymore.

This Christmas, he seemed more withdrawn and less outgoing. There were some medical things, and at the start of January their general practitioner sent him to the hospital for an upper endoscopy. That gave a strong indication of esophagal cancer. A week later, a full torso scan was made, and halfway January we got the diagnosis: esophagal cancer that had spread to the liver. It was already too far advanced to be curable, especially given the bad physical condition of my father. So there was no chemotherapy or radiotherapy. The tumor had already severely restricted the esophagus, which explained why he had trouble eating certain foods.

At the start of February, my father got a stent in his esophagus to push the tumor aside and open up the esophagus so he could continue eating and drinking. This went well for a bit, but his situation steadily deteriorated. He discussed his options with his doctor, and he was adamant that he be brought into palliative sedation when he would not be able to eat anymore. At a certain point he could not climb the stairs anymore, nor even walk to the toilet — he sat in his chair or lied in bed. He was tired all the time, slept a lot, and at a certain point also didn’t want visitors anymore.

Last week Tuesday, he admitted to his doctor that he was just waiting to die. And Friday, he asked to be put into palliative sedation, because he was so tired. Of course we went to my parents when we got the news, and we could speak with him a bit. But he was ready to die. It was so hard to see him so confused: he wanted to ask for something but could not find the right word — but he still sounded like himself, using the interjections he always used. It was like he was still there, but in a sense already left.

And then, in a split moment of clarity, he said to my mother and sister: “I want to die.”

A few hours later, the doctor gave him the first injection to put him under (I think his last words were “bedankt” (“thank you”) to the doctor) and he slept his last few remaining hours. He died, asleep, on Saturday afternoon.

We are sad, of course, but also relieved. Relieved that he does not have to suffer anymore. He always said that he didn’t feel any pain — and he might have. But I wonder if he, like cats, didn’t suffer quietly for a long time before the diagnosis came. How long did he know that something was wrong? I guess we will never know now.

All that remains are the memories. And the photos.