Mental Health
Grieving a Parent Who’s in Denial About the End of Life
Wishing my dad would find acceptance and peace in his final days
My Dad is at the end of his life. His medical status is ‘terminal,’ but he doesn’t want to believe it. And I’ve worked with enough people at the end of life to know the signs.
His body has stopped balancing fluids and responding to medications, all of his teeth have recently fallen out, and many organ systems have slowed down as his body starts failing.
Yet my Dad refuses to acknowledge the end is near. He’s in complete denial.
Where it begins
My Dad had a rough childhood — his parents were disabled early in life, and the children were shuffled around to different family members. My Dad was the youngest and smallest and endured abuse and bullying.
My Dad also became passive-aggressive through the years. One of his friends told me that alcohol turned him into an ‘angry drunk,’ and I believe it. He never faced his feelings but continuously stuffed them down, adding to a lifetime of bottled-up emotions.
Love covers all
Despite my Dad’s flaws, I love him very much. He’s always been a kind, caring, and compassionate father. He always let me know he loved me and cared for me — not something I felt from many people in my life.
My Dad went out of his way to make sure I enjoyed childhood. For a while, he lived in a one-bedroom apartment. When I came to stay, he would sleep on the couch so I could have the bed and room all to myself.
I didn’t even understand or appreciate the gesture then.
My Dad taught me how to drive, even if he scared me to death by telling me that ‘crossing the yellow line was illegal and you can go to jail by doing so.’ Imagine a young teenager white-knuckling the steering wheel, trying not to make a single mistake!
He even let me drive his old beloved truck, a stick shift. And he showed unimaginable patience as I constantly stripped the gears and stalled out the engine. I remember feeling seasick as I jerked the truck around, trying to figure out the workings of the gears and pedals.
Today is full of sorrow
When I see my Dad today, I feel a lot of compassion and empathy. But mostly sorrow. Sorrow that he didn’t really live out and enjoy his life but held onto anger and unforgiveness toward the people who hurt him.
Sorrow that he didn’t take better care of himself but turned to his addictions for comfort. Sorrow that he burned bridges and friendships, so he is now mostly alone in his suffering and pain.
Every time I see or think about him, I want to cry. It’s hard seeing someone you always thought of as ‘strong’ waste away into a weak and frail human.
This is not the first time
I watched the same thing happen to my stepdad a few years ago. He was at the end of life, but the doctors continued to implement stringent procedures and treatments that were hard on his worn-out body.
I told my Mom and sister that he was near the end and should be on hospice care instead of continuing aggressive treatments. I felt they should know, but I also knew I needed to tread lightly.
My sister listened and asked, ‘How long?’ I told her no one could answer that question but God. My Mom refused to believe and remained in denial, rushing him from appointment to appointment. I didn’t want to say too much or overstep my bounds, so I kept quiet.
Day after day, I lamented, wondering if I should say more.
“Stop pushing his body so hard — he’s barely hanging on as is. Let him have peace before he goes!”
“Why aren’t you spending more time with him?! He doesn’t have much time left!”
“Bring him home so he can spend his last days at home instead of at the hospital or rehab center!”
The doctors didn’t tell my family he was at the end of life. I saw ‘terminal’ on his paperwork and tried to point it out to my Mom. “That’s not real — they just put that on there so he could get stronger pain medication,” she said.
Still in denial.
Maybe I should speak up more.
The beginning of the end
Christmas Eve of 2020 was the first time our family all met together in my parents’ new home. A home they’d waited their entire lives to build in my stepdad’s favorite spot. It would be his first and last Christmas there.
After Christmas, my stepdad spent his last few weeks at a rehab center. One day, a new doctor walked in and said, “Why is this man here?! And why are they still operating and doing procedures on him?! He should be at home on hospice!”
Finally, someone speaks truth!
My Mom was angry, “He shouldn’t have said that,” she fussed. I was just relieved that someone was finally telling her the truth. He sent my stepdad home the next day. And none too soon, as he died a few days later.
Regret upon regret
On my stepdad’s last day, he said he ‘felt funny’ and asked my nephew (like a son to him) to take care of my Mom when he was gone. He FaceTimed everyone. And he asked my Mom for a beer, but she didn’t think he should have one. One of many regrets she still holds onto.
And a few hours later, he was gone.
“You were right.”
“You tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen.”
“I should’ve listened to you.”
For the next two years, I heard these statements repeatedly as my Mom hashed out her regrets of his last days. Hearing it did not bring any comfort but only sorrow.
I wish I’d spoken up more while he was still alive. Maybe his last days would’ve been spent with loved ones instead of at a hospital or rehab center.
Here we go again
Now, here I am dealing with the same thing with my Dad. I don’t want to watch the same thing happen to him, so I’ve spoken up.
But it’s hard.
I’ve told him the end is near, and he needs to be on hospice care. That hospice will take care of him and show him gentleness and kindness, not the continued harshness that the doctors, testing, and procedures offer.
I’m annoyed that the doctors haven’t told him of his ‘terminal’ status. If he doesn’t hear it directly from them, he won’t believe it.
I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell my dad he’s dying and that all these appointments and procedures are done in vain.
Is denial all that’s left?
Most doctors don’t want to have the hard conversation with their patients. But these are the last days a patient has with their loved ones. And unless a doctor says, ‘There’s nothing left we can do,’ a person will not be forced to face their mortality.
The hard conversations need to be had for the consideration of the human life in front of them and the loved ones connected to them.
Instead of asking his doctors if he should be on hospice care, my Dad angrily fussed at them for ruining his health and demanded more tests and treatment.
“Is this really what you want?” I asked. “To spend your last days going from doctor to doctor, being poked and prodded? I’d hoped you’d find acceptance and peace instead…”
Are you good with God?
In desperation, I told my Dad I wanted to make sure he was ‘good with God’ as I felt it was time to have that conversation. Maybe that would ‘wake him up.’
“Me and God are great — we talk every day,” my Dad said.
“But you have so much anger and unforgiveness,’ I replied.
My Dad’s held onto every comment and offense. And, I love my Dad, but his life has become the epitome of why I don’t want to live with unforgiveness. I’ve seen what it does to a person and I want to be free of it.
The last inning
So here it is, the last inning of the ballgame, and all I can do is let my Dad make his own choices and tell him I love him. I can’t make him face his end — or his Maker. He has to come to that on his own.
For now, I grieve and cry for a man who will not grieve and cry for himself. I can accept that the end is near, but I wish he would accept it, too.
I can love him and be thankful for the life he’s lived. Pray that he goes as painlessly and with as little suffering as possible. And that somehow he will come to peace and forgiveness on his own terms.
Peace and forgiveness I wish he’d claimed earlier in life so he could’ve enjoyed it.
So dad—I love you. I thank you for all you’ve done for me. And I hope you find the love and healing you’ve always been searching for.
“There is a time for everything… a time to be born and a time to die… a time to mourn and a time to dance… a time to search and a time to give up… a time to be silent and a time to speak...” (
