I MISS YOU,DADDY

This is a true story.

Even when facing Stage 4 bile duct cancer,

my father lived with incredible strength until the very end. I am writing this to leave a record of his life—a testament that he was here.

My Daddy spent many years as a long-haul truck driver, driving his big rig all across Japan.

He loved spending time with his five grandchildren and the family dog, Leo. No matter how tired he was from work, he always took us to many different places in his car.

He was a man of few words, but he loved my sister and me deeply as his precious daughters.

He often complained of back pain and went to the doctor for it. In October 2025, the pain became very bad. An ultrasound showed a large shadow on his liver.　

A few years ago, Daddy had surgery to remove most of his stomach because of gastric cancer. But he recovered so well that everyone was surprised. He looked healthier than before and ate very well. He never missed his checkups.

After the shadow was found, long tests began at a big hospital. Waiting for the results felt like forever. During that time, I just wanted someone to take away his terrible back pain.

Before he was admitted to the hospital, Daddy said to us:

"As long as you children are healthy, this pain is nothing to me."

My sister cried. "Don't say things like that," she said.

In November, he went into the hospital for more tests. Until the final results came, he was watched closely with IV drips and medicine. About a month later, the doctor finally explained everything.

By then, Daddy’s symptoms were getting worse. He started to have delirium (confusion), saying things that didn't make sense. Even though he was in pain, he tried to walk by himself and fell. He often had high fevers caused by the cancer.

When Daddy was moved to a private room near the nursing station, I went to see him every single morning.

Our whole family visited him every day. My mother stayed until late at night.

As his confusion got worse, he started seeing things that weren't there. "Run! I can't move, so you go!" he would say, trying to protect us. His past memories and the present were all mixed up.

At the same time, he said over and over:

"Why am I here?"

"That’s enough, let’s go home."

He wanted to go home so many times. It was so hard to tell him, "We are still waiting for more tests."

It was heartbreaking to see him forget even the fact that he was in a hospital.

The daily fevers were hard on him. He lost his appetite and became very thin. It was very painful to see Daddy—who was always so strong—saying he was lonely and thanking us many times.

Every morning, I was scared to enter his room. I would peek through the curtain, and only when I saw him moving would I feel relieved and say hello.

Daddy was happy that I came early every day. He told me, "I'm so glad you're here." He happily told me what the nurses said: "It’s rare to see a child who lies down in bed next to their parent like this." He answered them, "I thought this was normal for us."

One morning, I saw him talking to a nurse. He looked happy and said, "I have such a lovely daughter, that’s why I want to go home."

My sister and I were so scared of him getting weaker. We wanted to be as close to him as possible, so we would squeeze onto his narrow hospital bed and lie down with him.

Then, the doctor explained again. Stage 4 bile duct cancer. Terminal.

The doctor said he might not make it to the New Year. Because of his blood tests, he couldn't have chemotherapy. He only had radiation once.

When my sister asked, "Do you want to know what the doctor said about how much time is left?" Daddy answered:

"No matter what the result is, my mind will not change."

Even then, he stayed strong in front of us. But I felt his true feelings. Once, he joked by putting his fingers to his eyes like he was crying and said, "When I'm alone, I cry like this." He was trying to make us laugh, but I knew that in reality, he was crying quietly by himself.

It must have been so frustrating for him.

He was fighting a pain that no one can imagine. I wished many times that I could take his place. If it could have saved him, I would have given him my liver.

He had so many more things he wanted to do. He wanted to go out with the family and spend time together like we used to.

After the doctor’s talk, Daddy asked me:

"Have you all made up your minds?"

I answered, "We will do whatever you want, Daddy."

Then, Daddy gently patted my head as I lay next to him. Even though he was the one suffering, he said:

"Let’s laugh the cancer away. It will be okay."

I didn't want him to see my tears, so I couldn't look up. His voice was weak, and he turned his face away too. I think he was trying his best not to cry.

On December 19th, he finally came home.

In a wheelchair in a special taxi, he fought the pain all the way home. He had a catheter and an IV for pain medicine.

We were worried. We were scared that once he felt safe at home, he might leave us.

At home, Daddy lay on his bed.

My sister and I washed his feet in a basin with warm water and bath salts, just like he wanted. He looked so happy.

He smiled at my sister’s husband and said, "Raise your children to be like these daughters." He was so proud of us.

We promised him, "Let’s do this again tomorrow."

Strangely, the high fevers he had every day in the hospital stopped completely once he got home.

Daddy loved making ramen, and he was very good at it. He often made it for the family. Even though he was so weak and could barely stand, he got up. With our help,

he went to the bathroom by himself.

Then, as a way to say "thank you," he stood in the kitchen with a pained expression and made ramen for everyone.

The most delicious, final bowl of ramen.

My sister took one bite and cried. She told me, "Eat this." I took a bite of that ramen made with all his heart, and I couldn't stop crying.

Daddy loved movies. That night, he said in a weak voice, "Let’s watch a movie." He was bedridden and fell asleep quickly, but I knew. I knew he just wanted that "family time."

The morning of December 20th came.

His oxygen and blood pressure seemed okay. At breakfast, Daddy waited to eat with us. We brought breakfast to his bedside, and the family ate together for the first time in a long while.

Even though the numbers were okay, Daddy seemed to be suffering from the morning. He fought the pain and finished his breakfast slowly. He drank the miso soup my mother made and said, "It's so good."

A few hours later, everything changed suddenly.

His oxygen got low, and he couldn't breathe.

Daddy struggled. He called my name and asked for help.

My mother and I desperately called out, "Daddy!" I called my sister, and my mother called an ambulance.

The look on his face, his voice, and the way his eyes changed stay in my mind. My sister’s family rushed over. We all took turns doing CPR and chest compressions until the ambulance came.

Daddy’s heart stopped three times, but each time, it was as if our voices brought him back. He breathed again three times.

When the paramedics arrived, his heart had stopped. We rode in the ambulance with him, holding his hand the whole time.

At the hospital, the doctor tried to help, but he was gone. We stayed around him, speaking to his cold body.

"You worked so hard. You did your best."

He was only 61. It was too soon. I couldn't save him.

My sister and I were always "Daddy’s girls."

He was such a big part of our lives. No matter what happened, he was always on our side and protected us. He took us to so many places. He was the pillar of our family. He looked stern, but he was the kindest person.

I often think, "What is a world without my Daddy...?"

In the hospital, he smiled and said that a song by Tsuyoshi Nagabuchi was playing in his head: "Don't die, don't die. Live until you die."

Daddy, my sister, and I all love Tsuyoshi Nagabuchi.

I asked him, "Isn't the lyric 'Live, live, live your life to the fullest'?"

Daddy answered, "That part ended when I had gastric cancer."

Hey, Daddy.

Just like those lyrics, you really lived until the very moment you died.

You lived in a way that no one else could ever copy.

It has been over two months since you passed away. Now, those words—"Don't die, don't die. Live until you die"—are always playing in my head.

The wisteria lights we saw on our last family trip were so beautiful.

I want to say "thank you" so many times,

more than I can ever say.

I wonder how I looked to you?

What do you think of me now?

I miss you so much, Daddy.