My dad had been healthy his whole life. At 74, the only symptom he had was a cough. In June 2024 he went to the hospital for a checkup about that cough, and that same day we were told he had stage 4 lung cancer. He was admitted immediately.
My mum was 73 and had also been healthy all her life. Hospitals were places other people went to, not them. I still remember the night she called me: “Your dad went to the hospital for a checkup and they admitted him immediately. I don’t know what to do.” She sounded like someone had pulled the floor out from under her. They were suddenly in a world of scans, doctors and serious words they didn’t understand.
I’m their only child. As soon as I hung up, one thought hit me: I’m the only one who can think clearly right now. I have to take responsibility. That was the moment I became a caregiver, whether I felt ready or not.
If you’re reading this because you’ve just been thrown into caregiving too, I’m writing this for you. Caring for someone you love is one of the most demanding and meaningful things you can do, and it will change you. Looking back, there are 10 things I wish I’d known before I started caring for my dad, and I want to share them so you can walk into this stage of life a little more prepared.
1. This will eat more time and energy than you think.
Even “just” one hospital visit every two weeks can swallow a whole working day once you add blood tests, scans, waiting, the doctor’s visit and the pharmacy line. If you are the main caregiver, be prepared that your normal life will not fit around this. You may need flexibility from your job, or you may have to reduce your hours. I ended up only being able to do part‑time work. In the last stage I was basically living at the hospital, 24/7.
You have to take care of yourself first, or you won’t be able to take care of your loved ones. It’s the airplane oxygen mask rule: if you pass out, you can’t help anybody. Constant stress, lack of sleep and emotional pressure will wear you down. If you’re running on empty you’re more likely to misjudge situations or miss important signs, and in a medical crisis, that can matter. When the situation is heavy and you feel exhausted, try to think long-term: how can I stay standing for months or years, not just push through for a week or two?
For me, that included keeping regular meals and simple movement (yoga and breathing exercises), even when I was living at the hospital. It helped me recharge and take better care of my dad.
2. Caregiving is a family decision, not just your decision.
When one person becomes very sick, the whole family’s life changes. It’s not just your time that gets squeezed; it affects your partner, your children, your finances, your daily rhythm. In the last four months of my dad’s life, my husband had to work in another country and he took our child with him. He was parenting alone so I could be with my dad. That was not “my private decision”. It was something my whole family chose to carry with me.
If your caregiving will change your partner’s and children’s lives, talk about it openly. Have a real family conversation. You can start as simply as: ”I have a big problem and I need your opinions and help.” It’s not only “my choice to care for my dad”; it’s something the whole household carries. You will need their support, and they deserve honesty.
I was lucky. My husband and my child supported me without blame or resentment. They went through the whole thing with me and never made me choose between them and my dad. That support is the only reason I could do what I did.
If you are not in the same situation, remember that everyone has limits and that’s about them, not about your worth. Look outward – friends, neighbours, relatives, church, support groups, anyone who can take a small piece of the load. Even one person on your side can make a real difference.
3. The medical system has its own language. Learn enough to know what’s going on.
Hospitals speak a language of scans, lab values, staging, acronyms and polite phrases that often hide how serious things really are. For example, I thought “stable disease” sounded good, until I learned the hard way it basically meant “the cancer is still there, just not growing fast right now.” It doesn’t mean the cancer is “under control” in the everyday sense of “we are safe now”.
You don’t have years in medical school; your loved one is already in the system and decisions come fast. So what can you do? The good news is you don’t need to become a doctor. But you do need to understand enough to ask clear questions and actually hear the answers. What exactly happened to my loved one? What does that mean for their daily life? What is the goal of this treatment – cure, control or comfort? What can this hospital offer? Are there other options?
I used tools like GPT to translate medical language into plain English, and that helped. But many times I still had to sit in front of the doctor, listen, and say “I don’t understand that, can you explain more?” The most important skill was not memorising the terms. It was having the courage to admit I didn’t understand and ask again until I did.
4. Hope is absolutely necessary – but you also need a plan.
Our attitude changes how we move through a crisis. Hope keeps you and your loved one able to see good things, even when they are small. It brings moments of laughter and joy, and it lets you plan for tomorrow instead of giving up.
But hope alone is not enough. You also need a strategy: How are we going to fight in this crisis? You still have to work hard to look for options and make decisions.
I read Joe Tippens’ blog. To me, he is a living example of hope and hard work. He found his own strategy that worked for him, and I was amazed at how his positive thinking and persistence shaped his story. I wish everyone could have such a story. But I am not advocating his protocol. I am not a doctor. I don’t recommend any specific treatment plan.
As a caregiver I wanted to “throw everything but the kitchen sink at it”. It was my own father in the bed and he had only one life. At the same time, I’m a scientific researcher by training. My research brain wanted things that were tested, proven, and certified. The tension was strong and real.
Looking back, this is what I’d tell you: You need to do your homework. You have to push yourself hard to look for options and make decisions. Don’t blindly copy anyone’s protocol from the internet. Ask your medical team’s opinion. If you expect them to disagree, ask in a smart way and make sure you understand why they say no. Always have a Plan A and a Plan B so you’re not frozen when things change. And if there is an emergency, don’t delay – get professional help fast.
5. You will make decisions without enough information.
In textbooks, you get time to study first and answer later. In real life, I often heard versions of: “Your dad has X. We need to do Y. Here is the consent form. Please sign.” Sometimes I had a day to think. Sometimes I had minutes.
Did I make choices I regret? Probably yes. During my dad’s last hospitalisation, there are decisions I still replay in my head. But the brutal truth is: no one knows what would have happened if we had chosen differently. You only ever see the path you took, never the other one.
The question that helped me was this: If I say no, and the bad thing they warn me about actually happens, will I regret not doing it? I tried to make decisions I could live with later, knowing I would never have perfect information. Only God sees all the outcomes; we don’t.
6. Your loved one and you are not the same person.
No matter how close you are, you and your loved one will think differently. Sometimes you will believe their decisions are completely wrong. Sometimes challenging them is part of love. If you see more of the whole picture, don’t be afraid to say things like: I’m scared of this choice, or Can we talk again about why you don’t want that treatment?
But at the end of the day, it is their body and their life. They are the one feeling the pain, the chemo, the weakness, the fear. You can say everything you want and still find that your loved one refuses another round of chemo, insists on going home early, or chooses no intervention over more time in ICU. Your job is to make sure they are informed while their mind is still clear, to speak honestly about what you see and feel, and then to live with the decisions together – even when those decisions hurt you.
In my dad’s final days he chose no life‑sustaining treatment at all – not even blood transfusions or drugs to push up his blood pressure. His thinking was simple: if I am going to die, I would rather it be fast than suffer longer. His blood pressure dropped faster than anyone expected. He never got to see my child, his only grandson, one last time like he wanted. The last words he heard from my son were: “Wait for me, grandpa!” My dad tried so hard to wait for him. His eyes were still wide open when he died and I couldn’t close them. He loved my son with all his heart and I believe he really did his best to hold on.
Do I wish we’d had more time? Yes. Was it also a relief that he suffered less? Also yes. Both feelings live in me, and they still come back from time to time. I will never know if he regretted his choice, and I’ll never get an answer from him.
I share my dad’s story because I don’t want your loved one to pay the same price that my dad and I did. Respect their choices, but also ask them to think very carefully about what could happen with each decision – not only the good outcomes, but also the hard ones. I learned this the hard way. I hope you and your loved one don’t have to.
7. Grief starts long before the end.
If, very unfortunately, your journey goes that way – if your loved one may not recover fully, or may never go back to the healthy person they were – you don’t start grieving on the final day. Grief begins when you realise they might not get better, or that even if they make it through, they are not the same as before. You start to grieve when tiny everyday things change.
There are hundreds of small losses I only noticed later: the last time my dad climbed stairs, the last time he ate and drank normally, the last time he went outside into the sunlight, the last time he used his cellphone, the last time he said “I love you”, the last time he smiled at me, the last time he held my hand with a strong, warm grip.
I felt regret, helpless and sad all through the process. I cried while my dad was still alive and thought I was too weak. That grief arrived early and grew gradually. It is still with me because I witnessed every step of how my dad was shrinking. Sometimes my mind still replays it and I can’t stop reflecting on it. That’s also one of the reasons I write this blog and tell my dad’s story.
8. The end comes faster and quieter than you think. Say what you need to say early.
I wish your loved one a full recovery and a long life. But if a terminal stage has been discussed, please don’t wait for the “perfect” moment or the very end. Say the important things as early and as often as you can.
You’ve probably seen this kind of ending in dramas: alarms, people rushing in, last speeches, clear warnings, a lot of tension, waiting, chaos and tears. Real life can be much quieter. Sometimes there is no sign and no time to gather everyone. Death can come faster than you expect, while the world around goes on as if it were a normal day. Only you and your loved one seem to be outsiders.
Tell them you love them, even if you are still angry about some of their choices. Tell them how much you appreciate them. Apologise if you feel you need to. Talk about good memories; you might be surprised by what they still remember. Share your plans for tomorrow, no matter how small they are. Kiss them when you get the chance. Hug them as long as they let you. Hold their hands as long as you can. Say the important things early and often, even if the words feel clumsy and sound like a cliché.
Say them while they can still hear you, even if they can no longer respond. When the end comes, you’ll be grateful that those clumsy, cliché words were said out loud as many times as you could.
9. Caregiving will change how you see death.
I had never been so close to death before. I had very little idea what death really meant or what it actually looked like. Being my dad’s caregiver, I saw how fragile he was and how little control I had. I watched him in pain, struggling to breathe, and he could hardly sleep. Sometimes all I heard from staff was “You have to accept the reality” or “We wait.” There was very little I could do in those moments, and I still wish I had pushed more. It really hurts to watch someone you love fail in front of you and know you can do nothing.
At the same time, being with my dad through his final season – as hard and ugly as parts of it were – stripped some of the fear away. I saw closely what death from disease can look like: not peaceful, often painful and uncomfortable, but still something my dad walked through and was finally free from. I feel deeply sad because my dad was such a great person and he didn’t deserve that kind of ending. He suffered so much. But on the other hand, I am less afraid of death now. Even a difficult, frightening death doesn’t scare me as much, because I faced it directly beside someone I love. I was there.
My relationship with death has changed. When my own day comes, I hope I can meet it with less fear, knowing my dad went through it and I can too.
10. Your presence matters more than perfection – and you will grow.
You will not be a perfect caregiver. You will miss things, snap in anger, say things you regret, freeze at the wrong moment, or sign something you’re not sure about. Join the club.
None of that cancels the value of simply being there. Your presence tells your loved one: Don’t worry. No matter what happens, you are not alone. I am here with you. Every visit, every night, every boring little conversation matters. Your loved one may not say it. They may not even realize it. But having you there changes their spirit.
I believe I made a difference in my dad’s last season. He was never completely helpless or alone. We had another year together after many years of living apart, and I got a second chance to know his small habits and his stories. My child got to see what love and responsibility look like when life gets ugly. We have limited power – we are not God – but we can still love and appreciate what we have. If you are caring for someone now, remember that. What you are doing is hard and imperfect, and at the same time, deeply precious.
Being a caregiver also grows you in ways you don’t see at the time. You do things you never imagined: you advocate with doctors, you clean up messes, and you witness decline step by step, yet you still show up the next day. You feel helpless and desperate, and yet you keep doing the next right thing. That strength stays with you, whatever the final outcome.
You start to appreciate the things you once took for granted: your own health, your family, or something as simple as breathing freely and feeling the sun on your face. If you are in the middle of caregiving today, I hope you can notice at least one small thing like that. Remember: your presence is the greatest gift.
This post describes my personal experience as a caregiver, not medical advice. I’m not a doctor. Please talk to your own medical team before changing any treatment, medication, or plan. For more details, see my Disclaimer.
Translating Life 
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