My dad passed away last Friday, 11 April 2025.
He was not only fighting stage 4 lung cancer, but also quietly battling dementia—a silent thief we didn’t fully recognize until two years before his passing.
Looking back, the signs were there, but we didn’t understand them. We thought he was going through a phase—what we jokingly called “man’s menopause”. There were moments that puzzled and frustrated us, and as a family, we often didn’t know how to respond.
It was especially hard on my mom. Dad’s words became harsh, his actions unpredictable. There were times he got lost and couldn’t find his way home. He’d forget if he had eaten. He became like a child again—vulnerable, sensitive, and sometimes angry.
But that’s not the dad I want to remember today.
I want to hold onto the warmth of the man who always brought home bags of fruits and snacks. The dad who took us out for weekend meals so Mom could have a break. The man who brought us along on his work trips to Pulau Ketam just to give us a little adventure. The one who waited patiently while my sister and I sat for piano exams. These are the memories I will keep closest to my heart.
The last two years and two months—after his diagnosis—became precious. They gave us time to see him in a new light, not just as a father, but as someone we wanted to love better. We found joy in small things: a meal at the food court, sharing his favourite dishes, laughing at old jokes. We got the chance to make peace, to cherish him.
During the final week before he took his last breath, there was a quiet tenderness in him. He called each of us—me and my siblings—by name. He gently patted our cheeks and arms. He didn’t say much, but those simple gestures said everything. He loved us. He always had. Even when words failed him, his heart still spoke.
And we were there with him until the end.
In his final two days, his body weakened, but his heart stayed strong. Even when he could no longer move or speak, he kept his eyes open, searching for my mom and for us, his children. And just before his last breath, he used all his strength to turn his head and look at my mom one last time. That moment will stay with me forever. His love for her never faded. It was the illness that clouded it—not his heart.
Thank you, Daddy, for everything you gave us when you were healthy and full of life. I forgave you long ago—because I know it wasn’t you, it was the disease.
And if there were times I failed to understand, or didn’t know how to help when you were confused or scared, please forgive me too.
You are deeply missed. But your love, your strength, and your memories will always stay with us.
See you in heaven.
Love,
Ah Mei
(that's how dad called me).
Dad's final love letter to us in Chinese. He had no strength to write.
Daddy and mummy holding hands.
Precious moments for us to feed you back, daddy.
My siblings, hubby and sis-in-law.
They are my best supporters. Thank you for being there together.
Final family portrait with dad.
