Chapter 1: The Heart of Farewell

It was the moment we dreaded.

As the doctors confirmed that the only course of action left was to withdraw life support for my father, despair filled the room. His body, swollen with infection from the feeding tube, showed no signs of recovery. The antibiotics had failed, and we were faced with the inevitable.

Tears blurred my vision as my family gathered around. My sister, mother, and an uncle stood by, each sharing the weight of this painful reality. We had consulted numerous doctors, but the diagnosis remained unchanged: it was time to let go.

Despite our preparations, the news felt like a bucket of icy water, shocking and disorienting.

My sister, always perceptive, suggested seeking another opinion, perhaps from a different specialist. Meanwhile, my uncle sat quietly, his support overshadowed by the heavy toll of watching my father slip away over the past months.

I couldn't bear to look at my mother, who buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with sobs. Relief mingled with a tidal wave of anger surged within me.

"We know how this story ends!" I yelled, struggling to catch my breath. "Just let him have some dignity. Hasn't he suffered enough?"

What I really meant was, hadn't I endured enough? For three long months, I watched the man I loved become a shadow of himself, fading from strength to frailty. The once-familiar scent of his life was replaced by antiseptic and the odors of a hospital room.

Death's grasp was relentless, and I was done with it. Overcome with rage, I stormed out, my mother calling after me, but I needed air; otherwise, I felt I might suffocate.

Memories of my father intertwined with frustration, leaving me disoriented. The thought of more sleepless nights, endless hospital visits, and half-hearted conversations with faceless nurses filled me with dread.

I wandered outside, where the mid-afternoon sun bathed everything in warmth. The street was alive with springtime energy, yet all I could hear was the somber melody of death's approach.

After hours of aimless wandering through parking lots and aisles of a nearby store, I found myself back at the hospital, sitting in a transit kiosk, counting the minutes. It didn’t cross my mind that my family might be worried; they had nowhere else to go, and I doubted any miraculous turn of events would occur.

Instead of returning to my father's room, I found myself outside the chapel. Although I had walked my mother there countless times, I had never stepped inside. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe; I just felt no urgency to engage in prayer.

In my heart, I knew this was the end. I just wasn’t ready to speak it aloud. Acknowledging it would make it real.

The chapel was small, filled with a handful of people lost in prayer, their murmurs a soft backdrop to the atmosphere of grief.

I took a seat in the back row, bowed my head, and began to pray. It was in that moment that my emotions overflowed. I wept, the tears soaking into the dark carpet beneath me.

Those final weeks were excruciating. My family was fracturing under the weight of our collective pain, and it felt like an eternity.

I didn’t question why; I simply yearned for an end to the suffering. I wanted my father to be released from his pain, and in turn, I needed to be freed from my own.

Surprisingly, instead of finding solace, the words “thank you” echoed in my mind. Thank you for this pain, for it brought purpose.

When I lifted my head, I found all eyes in the chapel on me. Couples drew closer together, and those clutching rosaries tightened their grips.

The feeling of death that had lingered was replaced by a newfound hope and faith. The sympathetic gazes reassured me that we would endure this together.

In my anguish, I had inadvertently provided purpose for others.

Rising from the chair, I set out to find my family, ready to share that everything would be alright.

Reflecting on that chapel visit, I concluded that my father’s passing was inevitable. He would leave this world, regardless of my readiness.

The Lord was calling him home, but in the process, my pain served to uplift others.

Call it trauma-induced delusion or divine intervention; either way, I had to say goodbye to the one who understood me better than anyone else. And somehow, I found peace in that.

As we approach May, it will mark 14 years since my father’s departure. In that time, I have witnessed more miraculous moments than that day in the chapel.

And for that, I can’t help but express my gratitude.

The first video titled "How To Use Pain To Find Your Purpose" explores the transformative power of pain and how it can guide us to discover our true calling.

The second video, "A Purpose in Your Pain," delves into finding meaning through suffering and how adversity can lead to personal growth and healing.