The anniversary of the day I realized my dad was dying.

I’ll always be haunted by this date — October 20.

Exactly a year ago, my father stopped eating. He was undergoing an aggressive palliative chemotherapy regimen — orally he was taking over a dozen medications and simultaneously given IV chemo every few weeks. On this day, one year ago, his body couldn’t take it any longer. All of a sudden, he stopped speaking and eating. Overnight, something switched in his brain and he was suddenly cut off from the world. I felt a plethora of conflicting emotions — sadness, anger, and hopelessness. I begged him to eat. I pleaded with him to drink water. I told him to forget all of the treatments and medications. I just wanted him to consume some calories so he wouldn’t die from starvation. In response, he blankly stared past me. His eyes drifted sideways and he couldn’t maintain eye contact. I tried my best to not cry in front of him up until that point — this moment marked a new phase in the caregiving process. I realized my father was no longer perceiving the same world I was living in. He wasn’t conscious of the same stimuli and this was the beginning of the end.

Sometime midday, he tried getting up to use the restroom. His bony body gave up and I caught him as he fell back against the bed. Although he wouldn’t mutter a word and didn’t have any energy to get back up on his own, I could tell he was giving it his all to pull himself up. I couldn’t tell if he was aware of my presence — was I his daughter, in his eyes, or some figment of his imagination?