Early one morning, I was on the way to work when I received a WhatsApp voice note from Dad: “Chua Jia Ling, I don’t want you as a daughter anymore. Just let me die.” He sent my siblings similar voice notes.
Out of everything in those five months, this hit me the hardest.
But what could I do? I pulled myself together in silence and started another long day of work.
“GO WHERE YOU NEED TO GO”
On May 14, 2023, we received a call around 9pm: Dad had had a heart attack and was comatose in the intensive care unit (ICU).
I rushed to the hospital to see him lying motionless in bed, intubated on life-support. I stroked his face and assured him that he’d be okay, that we were all here with him.
After weeks of intensive care brought no change, the doctor gently but firmly brought up palliative care and end-of-life planning.
We had two options: Extubation (removing the tubes inserted into his body), with minimal medical intervention to ensure he would be pain-free, or to continue monitoring him in ICU with little hope of improvement. Slow death number one, or slow death number two.
Dad died three days after extubation.
We got the call in the wee hours of Jun 1, 2023. We leapt into action, but we were too late. His heart had stopped before we arrived.
We took turns saying goodbye. I kissed Dad’s forehead and held his hand for the last time. It felt cold.
The day we cremated him, before the undertaker sealed the coffin, I said to Dad: “Don’t worry about us, okay? We are all grown-ups and will look after each other. We will not let anyone bully us. So go where you need to go, and don’t look back.”
He was laid to rest at the same temple where my mum is.
