He Deserved More From Death
And frankly, from life too
I have always prided myself on being the girl who always finds a solution, no matter how far-fetched. You know the kind of person who always has a plan B for a plan C; that never sees anything as unfixable — that used to be me.
Well, 2023 and 2024 changed that.
18th of July 2023 afternoon was when I that call -
“Chidinma, your dad was involved in an accident, and his left leg is broken.”
Of course, like always, my brain went into planning and solution mode. The first thing I asked was how bad it was and what the Doctors thought about it — was it fixable and what would it take to fix it?
It turned out to be fixable. After several surgeries, 5 months of bed rest, and physical therapy, my dad was starting to get better. He could now walk around the house with crutches, cook for his family, bathe and feed himself. The pain had reduced drastically and we were all starting to finally heave a sigh of relief when things took a downward turn.
Around October 2023, he started complaining of pain during bowel movements. At first, we chalked it up to constipation and possibly internal hemorrhoids. According to the Doctors at that early stage, he had spent 5 months sedentary and he must be constipated, so they recommended home therapy; fruits, lots of water, movement, a diet rich in fiber, and over-the-counter medications if the pain was too much to bear.
For 4 months we did all of this and I thought it was getting better, until my dad called me in tears on February 14, 2024. I remember that phone call clear as day. He was sobbing on that call, asking that we get a third opinion because the pain had gotten unbearable for him. Immediately I called my mum and we agreed to go to a different hospital with those tears, hopefully, they would take us seriously and do some serious checks.
The next day he went for a check and the Doctors recommended a colonoscopy and biopsy. A few days later, the results of the test came out and we were given the news — Stage 4 colorectal cancer.
Again, my brain went into solution mode — Is it fixable? What are our options? What are his chances? What do we need to do? Oh, I Googled a whole ton of things. My Google search that month was filled with articles about colorectal cancer. Of course, there had to be a solution somewhere on this earth, and if there was, I was going to find it.
The Doctors recommended a Chemotherapy + Radiotherapy + Surgery plan. A couple of rounds of chemotherapy to slow the growth of cancer, surgery, and radiotherapy to kill off the rest of the cancerous cells. At that point, I wasn’t so apprehensive yet — at least there was a treatment plan so all hope wasn’t lost. At least there was a plan to try to fix it and there were some success stories.
From March to December, we tried — several rounds of Chemo, diet changes, herbal solutions, and hopping from state to state looking for a working Radiotherapy machine. In all of this, amidst the tears and immense pain, my dad kept fighting; kept hoping, and being positive. He kept saying he wouldn’t die and he would get well soon enough to take a trip.
But the cancer kept taking from him bit by bit. First his strength, then his legs, his rectum, his anus, his prostrate, his kidney, his liver, his blood, his skin, his mind, his voice, then his spirit, and lastly, his breath.
In December 2024, after 9 days of radiotherapy, we were told to take him home as there was nothing more they could do for him. When I got that message, I couldn’t comprehend what I had heard. Did they mean I should just sit and watch my dad die? How could I do that? I am a fixer, for crying out loud. How could a solution-finder comprehend that there was no solution?
We watched him die slowly and painfully. He had been crying all year, but in those final days, he groaned. He went from positivity to gnashing his teeth, to crying, groaning, and then finally, on January 2nd, 2025, silence. My father did not die peacefully — he died in severe pain, covered in bed sores and swollen organs.
I have so many wishes.
I wish he got better and lived many more beautiful years.
I wish I had listened to him earlier when he complained of painful bowel movements and pushed for a more in-depth check. Maybe we could have caught the cancer at an earlier stage.
I wish I remember what his laughter sounds like, not his pain.
I wish I had better joyful memories at the forefront of my memory, not memories of his cries, groans, and teeth gnashing.
Heck, I wish he died a better and less painful death.
He deserved more from life — he didn’t have an easy life and I was working hard to give him that. Now death came and gave him worse. He deserved more from death. He didn’t deserve to spend the last 17 months and 13 days painfully dying. He was a good man and didn’t deserve to die the way he did.
People ask me how I am and I respond with a lie — I am fine. I am not.
I am mad at life.
I am mad at death.
I am mad at my memories.
And I am hurting.
They say the memories get better and at some point, it begins to hurt less. I sincerely hope they are right.
Oh, and my “fix it” spirit, let’s hope it’s in there somewhere.
