Life, Death, and the Space Between
Life, Death, and the Space Between
January 16, 2026
On January 15, 2026, I lost my dad.
I received the news around 6:00 PM. He had been in a coma for over eleven months, kept alive by oxygen and liquid food delivered through a tube in his nose. When my wife told me the news, I felt surprisingly calm. I felt peace.
My dad suffered greatly this past year. For eleven months, he lay in bed without consciousness. My mom and brother suffered too—caring for him day after day with no hope of recovery. When he first collapsed last February, doctors tried to insert something into his mouth. He reacted so strongly that he nearly bit off the doctor's fingers. From that moment on, whenever anyone brought anything near his mouth, he would instinctively try to bite. Feeding him normally became too dangerous. The only option was a tube through his nose.
Last April, when I heard the news that he had collapsed and hadn't woken up, I made an emergency trip home, my first trip home in almost 10 years. I stayed for ten days. It was one of the most stressful periods of my life. I could not imagine how my mom, my brother, and his family had endured those months—and would continue to endure them for many months more.
Only my dad truly knew what he experienced during those long months in the darkness of his coma.
Now, he does not need to suffer anymore. He is free.
My dad was a strict man with a difficult past.
He was born into poverty and ran away from home at age ten to escape a harsh stepmother. He traveled hundreds of kilometers alone, staying with an aunt in a distant city, and worked hard labor from as early as he could remember. He slept outside. He went hungry. He worked from dawn until dark just to survive.
He never went to school. He could not read or write. As a farmer in a poor rural area, he stood at the bottom of the social ladder. We had neighbors who went days, sometimes weeks, without enough food. Though we never quite starved, our family was always tight on money. My dad was extremely frugal—he would not spend a penny on anything that was not absolutely necessary.
He worked from dawn to dark, seven days a week, even in extreme heat. During my summer breaks from middle school, we had to do the same. I remember begging him for just a half-day of rest. There were no weekends. No sleeping in. Just walking to school and back, working until dark. Those are the memories I carry of my childhood and my dad.
Looking back, I understand now. He was tough because his life demanded it. He was harsh because hardship was all he knew. That same hardship built our family. We had just enough.
Both of my parents had zero formal education. Yet somehow, they raised three children who built good lives. Two of us finished university. One—me—went on to earn a PhD in the United States and become a professor at a top business school in Canada. My brother, the oldest, did not go to university. My father pulled him out of school to support the family, believing it would be impossible to support three students at once. He was proven wrong. My sister and I finished our education mostly on scholarships. We did not burden the family at all.
But my brother's sacrifice stayed with me.
In raising his children, my dad was a star. Growing up with nothing but his own physical labor, he raised three kids he could be proud of. My brother built his own home renovation business. I became a professor. My sister became an elementary school teacher. We all married happily. He witnessed all of it.
He was happy. He was proud.
My dad had vision problems for as long as I can remember. My grandmother on his side also couldn't see—perhaps some genetic inheritance passed down. About fifteen years ago, my dad lost his sight completely. His world went dark.
I used to close my eyes and try to imagine his life. It was terrifying. To live in total darkness for so many years—every single day becomes a battle with yourself.
But today, I believe he can see again. He can see the vibrant, beautiful colors of this world from wherever he is now. He is free from the darkness.
The last twelve months have made me think deeply about life and death.
Seeing my father in bed in a coma for almost a year. Losing a close friend to cancer. Experiencing a near-death moment myself.
Life is extremely strong, yet very fragile. Death is inevitable. Today might be my last day, or it might be fifty years from now.
Just ten days ago, in early January, my wife and I were traveling in Costa Rica. One of our stops was La Fortuna waterfall—one of the must-visit places in the country. After a morning hike, we drove to the waterfall entrance and descended five hundred stairs to reach the bottom.
The waterfall was stunning. The water underneath was clean and inviting. I saw people standing in the water at the edge—the water came up to their waists. Others were playing in the shallower areas where the water barely reached their knees. I thought to myself: I can do this.
I set my backpack down on a large rock, took off my shirt, and stepped in. I couldn't wait.
What I didn't account for were the rocks of various sizes beneath the surface. Within seconds, my foot slipped. I plunged into water deeper than my height.
I do not know how to swim.
I panicked. I tried to raise my hand toward two men who had been standing in the water near me just moments before. They looked at each other, uncertain—perhaps wondering if it was some kind of joke. It wasn't.
Before long, I was fully underwater. I tried to move toward shore, but I had no sense of direction. Struggling blindly was dangerous—the closer I drifted to the center of the waterfall, the worse it would get. I kept trying to push my hands above the surface, hoping someone would grab me. Someone did. They tried to pull me up, but my hand slipped away.
I was sinking. And I thought: Is this it? Am I going to die here?
Yes, I really had those thoughts. While struggling to reach the surface with no success.
I don't know how many seconds passed—maybe not long. Someone pushed me from behind, got me above water, and pulled me to shore.
When I looked up, dozens of people had gathered around. My wife was next to me. A lifeguard was gripping my hand. My legs wouldn't stop shaking.
He asked me, "Do you know how to swim?"
I said no.
He replied, "If you don't know how to swim, you should be on the other side with the shallow water. Not here. You understand?"
I said yes.
Later, my wife told me she had quickly realized I was in trouble and started screaming for help. My legs kept shaking for several minutes before they finally stopped.
It was a matter of seconds and inches between life and death. Fortunately, I stayed on the side of life.
Others were not so fortunate.
Last July, we lost a close friend to cancer. She came to Canada with her two children—a ten-year-old son and a sixteen-year-old daughter—just under a year before her diagnosis. In late October 2024, doctors delivered the worst possible news: advanced stomach cancer. They told her she had three to six months to live. She should prepare.
My wife was the first person she told.
But she did not give up.
In December, she started Phase 1 chemotherapy—twelve sessions, one each week. I still remember taking her to the hospital for her very first chemo. She was so weak we had to use a wheelchair just to get her from the entrance to the treatment room.
Then something remarkable happened. After each session, she got a little stronger. Her blood work improved. By the halfway point of Phase 1, she could walk herself into the chemo room and walk out afterward. She even started doing light exercises. Her doctors were hopeful. They began discussing immune therapy for after the chemotherapy ended.
She started talking about the future. She wanted to live a few more years. She wanted to go to university to study properly. She wanted to start a business with my wife in London. In her good days, you wouldn't believe she had last-stage cancer. She was lively, energetic, and always smiling.
On July 4th, my wife and I were in Prague. We would fly back to Canada the next day and planned to stop by her place to pick up our car before driving home to London. That evening, my wife called her. She said she had prepared hot pot for us—a meal we could all enjoy together the next night. It was so sweet of her. So kind.
The next day, we were on the plane to Toronto when my wife received a text from her daughter: her mother had vomited blood early that morning and been rushed to the emergency room.
The news shocked us.
When we landed, we drove straight to the hospital. She was weak, receiving blood transfusions. But she was happy to see us. She cried at times. She said she had relaxed too much, seeing herself getting better. She shouldn't have done that. Once she got out of the hospital, she promised, she would be extremely careful. She would take good care of herself. Always.
But life is harsh. It does not always give you a chance when you need one.
And she did not get one.
Her condition deteriorated quickly. She grew weaker and weaker. The cancer cells gradually overtook her body. Eighteen days later, on July 23, 2025, she passed away.
Eighteen days.
We all believed she had more years to live. Eighteen days later, she was gone.
My dad collapsed eleven months ago. We believed he might have only a few days to live. But he survived eleven months—sustained only by homemade liquid food blended and fed through his nose. I did not believe the human body could maintain its functions on such a small amount of food, food that wasn't even nutritious, for more than three hundred days. It was a miracle.
My friend seemed to be recovering. She was gone in eighteen days.
Life is extremely strong. And very fragile.
At the end, they are both free and at peace. I truly believe that.
When we saw our friend one last time at her funeral, she was smiling. My dad, I believe, can see again now—the vibrant and beautiful colors of this world, from above.
As for me, life goes on. I walk forward in remembrance of my dad and our friend, carrying what I've learned from losing them both within twelve months.
I have a fresh perspective now—on life, and on death.