12/12/2025
The day I walked past my dad’s room and thought he was a stranger.
He had changed so much I didn’t recognize him between one day and the next. Quiet in a way that makes your chest tighten.
Pale. Eyes closed. That “O” shape to the mouth. Eyes rolled back.
I stopped breathing. I stopped walking. I stood frozen mid-step, looking at him through the glass of the door, my heart racing ahead of my thoughts.
I knew.
I just knew.
But did I?
If i knew, why did I start him on antibiotics? Someone asked me if i trust my brain or my instinct.
My instinct was telling me he wasn’t ready even if the numbers said otherwise.
I turned toward the nurses’ station. A nurse was quietly typing, the normalcy almost jarring. I introduced myself. She gave me the numbers. The plan. The procedures lined up.
I asked to slow things down.
My voice cracked. She smiled gently and told me to take my time.
Overhead, a code was called for another patient. “Code Blue. Radiology”. Another patient. A heart stopped somewhere else in the hospital.
Adrenaline flooded my body. CPR images ran through my mind before I could stop them. Years of training firing all at once. Why now?
And before I could fully think it through, my mouth moved.
“Please make my dad DNR.” That was the moment I chose clarity over urgency, intention over reflex.
I didn’t announce it. I didn’t gather anyone. Everyone trusted me. Including him.
He looked uneasy. A frown lingered on his face. I sat beside him, laptop open, pretending to work. I needed normal. Chaos would come soon enough. For now, I needed stillness.
When I looked again, the frown was gone.
Thank you, I thought. For telling me I did the right thing.
The labs returned.
ProBNP: not high. Astronomically high. Fifteen thousand.
Heart failure.
Chest X-ray: completely clean.
His heart is working harder than it should. The kind of mixed picture that reminds you medicine isn’t a checklist.
His heart was failing despite everything being done “right.”
The pallor. The low blood pressure. The rising lactate.
I was tired of thinking.
When my mind finally quieted, all that remained was something no training prepares you for.
I’m a son losing his dad. Slowly. Helplessly.
We’re still treating what’s reasonable. Antibiotics. Pain control. Care that helps not burden without meaning.
I asked my Maker for steadiness. Not to rush what comes next, and not to fear it either. To guide me toward prayers instead of panic.
He lived his life on his own terms.
Is it time?
I don’t know.
My brain says yes. My instinct says no.
He has surprised us before.
Modern medicine is very good at doing things. It’s not always good at knowing when not to.
Right now, I am not a physician.
Not a decision-maker.
Not a protector.
Right now, I am simply a child watching his father slip away.
And right now, my job isn’t to predict the end.
It’s to make sure whatever comes is handled with dignity.
That’s not giving up.
That’s care.
