Dear Paul,
I trust you are at rest. The memory of our final farewell on your last day at the hospital remains vivid in my mind. Although many patients instinctively shy away from discussing their mortality, I was grateful that you were open enough to ask.
Witnessing first hand the rapid progression of the cancer, it was clear to me that this was a battle with life that could not be won.
Throughout your stay, I chose to be transparent with you, ensuring you understood the reality of your situation. While delivering the news of your impending death was difficult, I remain certain that honesty was the necessary and right path to take.
Life Is Not Fair
At first, you appeared composed, but after a minute, your voice began to tremble. I waited for you to speak as your eyes grew red with emotion. You shared your deep disappointment and your feeling that life had been profoundly unjust.
The cruelty of cancer had already claimed your son years ago, and now it had returned to target another member of your family.
But Paul, the reality is that life is rarely fair to anyone. Throughout my career, I have seen a young man pass away in his prime, a mother lose her life after the birth of her first child, and a close friend succumb to cancer just after earning his MRCP qualification, at the very moment he expected his years of dedication to finally bear fruit as a specialist.
I have lived long enough to recognize that life does not operate on fairness; expecting it to do so only leads to true heartbreak.
Death Is Certain
The tragedy of our existence is the inescapable truth that we begin dying from the moment we are born.
As I enter my third decade in medical practice, I am struck by the smallness of a single life when measured against the vastness of the earth, the sea, and the universe. I am reminded of Seneca’s wisdom: “He who fears death will never do anything worthy of a living man.”
Though I recognised you weren’t ready, I wonder if anyone truly is. Your body had begun to fail you, leaving you tethered to infusion pumps and drifting through the fog of consciousness while I worked to ease your physical pain.
My medical training has taught me to accept human mortality and the inevitable limits of our medical science. While I could only sometimes take away your pain, I always sought to offer you the comfort of my words. It was the very least I could do for you, Paul.
You Leave Behind Your Love
None of us escape death, but we can strive to build a legacy that endures. As Albert Einstein said, ”Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us; our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life.”
I believe you have lived your life to the fullest, leaving a profound impact on love. It is my hope that in my own final moments, I can mirror that sentiment, knowing I have pursued every dream and fulfilled every purpose.
I do not wish to follow the footsteps of Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw. When asked on his deathbed, “What would you do if you could live your life over again?”, his reply was a lamentation that echoes through the ages: ”I’d like to be the person I could have been but never was.”
While cancer is a cruel thief, it was a comfort to see you constantly supported by your family. Having your wife and loved ones by your side in the hospital provided a meaningful solace.
Though your absence creates a void that cannot be filled, the love you shared remains a permanent treasure for your family, one that time can never take away.
We Were All Young Once, And Time Has Passed
Indeed, we all shared the gift of youth once, for time is an impartial companion to every one of us.
Reflecting on your journey, it is those moments of reaching for the stars that stand out most vividly, even as you realised how quickly the years had quietly slipped away.
I carry with me your encouragement to prioritise time with my own family. You reminded me that life soon approaches its winter season, a time marked by the beauty of cornelian leaves glistening under the moisture of rain and the first light dust of snow.
While departing from this world is difficult, the Stoics teach us to meditate on the impermanent nature of all things. Since neither youth nor health can be sustained indefinitely, we must learn to accept our own mortality.
For me, Paul, losing a patient feels as profound as losing a limb. Time might eventually dull the sharp ache of the injury, but the scar remains as a permanent part of who I am.
It seems that suffering is often just the gap between our current reality and how we once envisioned things ought to be.
It is my sincere hope that your passing was serene and free from distress. I trust you have found tranquillity and rest now.
With a heavy but hopeful heart, I reach out to you in spirit until the day we meet again in heaven.
Yours sincerely,
Dr HK Goh.
The author is a consultant nephrologist and physician.
- This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of CodeBlue.
