What My Grandfather’s Journey Taught Me About Love, Life, and Letting Go

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On 25 November at 1.44am, my grandfather, my Ahkong, took his final breath. In that quiet, heart-wrenching moment, I lost my father figure, my greatest supporter, and the man who raised me. But as I sit with my grief, I realise that my journey as his caregiver—and the questions, fears, and doubts that came with it—is a story worth telling.

When Cancer Changes Everything

It all happened so fast. On 20 October, we learned about his diagnosis. Just over a month later, on 25 November, he was gone. The speed of it all was staggering, leaving little time to process or prepare. He was joking about missing his ice cream, and the next moment, we were bringing him home to ensure he had peace in his final hours.

This experience is still so fresh. The grief, sharp and relentless, feels like an open wound. But as I navigate these emotions, I hold tightly to what I learned through it all.

My grandparents were the ones taking care of me—from sending me to kindergarten to university and even picking me up after work. Then suddenly, I was rushing back to Penang because Ahkong wanted to see me.

When I walked into the hospital ward and cried, he cried too. “You need to be strong,” he said. “If you’re not strong, how can I be?”

From that moment, my life revolved around him. I became his caregiver, balancing my grief and love with endless questions:

• How do I make him comfortable?
• Why is he in so much pain even with medication?
• Will he ever feel strong enough for treatment?

The hardest part about cancer is the uncertainty. Every patient’s journey is different. Even with all the medical knowledge in the world, there are no clear answers. I asked the doctors if he had months or weeks left, but all they could do was estimate.

The Weight of Being a Caregiver

He was a man who worked every single day of his life and never once complained. Whether it was running the laksa business, helping me with hospital appointments, or supporting the family, he gave his all with quiet determination.

He loved working, just as he loved so many other things—music, strawberry ice cream, and, most of all, me.

Caring for him was an honour, but it wasn’t easy. The nights blurred into days as I stayed by his bedside in the hospital, holding his hand, helping him eat, and trying to soothe his pain.

At home, I listened to his needs and searched for answers when I didn’t know how to help. When he was breathless, I asked, What position should he lie in? Should he be walking?

Even the smallest things became critical: when he asked for strawberry ice cream in the hospital, I went out immediately to find it. It was the least I could do. But no matter how much I tried, I always wondered: Am I doing enough? Am I letting him down?

The Five Stages of Grief: Not a Straight Line

If I’ve learned anything from this journey, it’s that grief doesn’t follow a script. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—aren’t linear. They overlap, repeat, and sometimes, you feel them all at once.

When I learned about his diagnosis, I denied how serious it was. Surely we had more time. When the cancer spread and his body weakened, I felt anger—at the disease, at the unfairness of it all.

I bargained with myself: If I just care for him a little better, maybe he’ll feel stronger.

In his final days, depression hit like a wave. Watching him groan in pain, I climbed into his hospital bed and held him. I told him he was free to go, though it broke my heart to say it. And yet, acceptance remains the hardest stage of all.

A Life of Love, Laughter, and Music

Throughout this journey, I’ve found comfort in the memories of the man he was. Ahkong wasn’t just my grandfather—he was my biggest playmate. We teased each other endlessly. He’d pretend to sulk and say, “You forgot about Ahkong already!” He’d play his “password” game at the door, groaning dramatically if I gave the wrong answer. And no matter what, he’d always let me in with a smile.

He filled our lives with music, singing every day, whether it was karaoke at home or whistling while he worked. Even as his health declined, he remained lively and full of humour. He reminded me to laugh even in the darkest times.

Finding Strength in Letting Go

On his last day, we brought him home to give him the peace he deserved. That night, I stayed close as he took his final breaths. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever witnessed, but also the most profound. I told him, “You’re free now,” though I’m not sure I’ll ever truly feel free from this grief.

I’ve learned that caregiving is an act of love, but also one of letting go—of guilt, of what-ifs, of the belief that we can control everything. Cancer is unpredictable, and so is grief. All we can do is our best.

To Fellow Caregivers: Be Kind to Yourself

If you’re a caregiver, I want you to know it’s okay to feel like you’re not doing enough. The truth is, you are. The love you show, the time you give, and the presence you offer are more than enough. It’s okay to cry, to doubt, and to grieve. And it’s okay to take moments for yourself—because your loved one would want you to.

Ahkong’s passing taught me that life is fragile, but love endures. Even now, I feel his presence in the music he left behind, in the jokes we shared, and in the memories that make me smile through my tears.

To anyone walking this path: you’re not alone. And you are so much stronger than you think.

There are so many words left unsaid, so many feelings unresolved, but I know you’re not in pain anymore, and for that, I cannot be selfish. You’re in a better place now, free from suffering, and though it hurts to let you go, I’ll carry your love with me always.

Ahkong, I’ll miss you every single day, but I’ll try to find peace knowing you’re finally at rest. Thank you. It has been an absolute honour.

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