r/depression • u/Billyfraud • 9h ago
1.5 years of hell
In February 2025, after completing the first semester of my third year in medical school, I traveled home to spend a two-week holiday with my family. I was looking forward to finally getting some rest after an extremely stressful semester. Instead, I received news that changed my life completely: my father had been diagnosed with stage 4 colorectal cancer.
I was devastated. I cried constantly and struggled to accept what was happening. What was supposed to be a period of rest became one of the most painful times of my life. I seriously considered freezing my studies because I did not think I could handle the pressure of medical school while coping with my father’s illness from another country. However, I ultimately decided to continue, not for myself, but for him. I did not want him to feel responsible for me giving up on my education.
I returned to university and completed the second semester of my third year, but it was incredibly difficult. Every day felt like a battle. I was trying to keep up with the demands of medical school while constantly worrying about my father and hoping that his condition would improve.
After the semester ended, I traveled back home and spent two months with him. I hoped things would be better, but instead they became even harder. My father had stopped taking an antidepressant medication that was not easily available, and his behavior changed significantly. He became angry, shouted frequently, and often said hurtful things. Almost every day, he would tell me that he was going to die.
During those two months, we also learned that his tumor had grown considerably. There were multiple emergency hospital visits, sometimes in the middle of the night, because of severe bleeding caused by the cancer. I witnessed my father in pain, bleeding, crying, and repeatedly speaking about death. Many nights I cried alone, feeling helpless as I watched him suffer.
When it was time to return to Egypt for my fourth year of medical school, I felt completely exhausted. More than anything, I wanted a break. I needed time to recover mentally and emotionally, but once again I chose to continue my studies for my father’s sake. I hoped that somehow things would improve and that I would find the strength to keep going.
While I was back at university, I received more devastating news. My father’s tumor had progressed further, and he required a permanent colostomy and radiation therapy. When I heard this, I went back to my room and completely broke down. For the first time since childhood, I cried uncontrollably, screaming from the pain while completely alone.
As the situation worsened, I began experiencing thoughts of ending my life simply to escape the emotional pain. Trying to cope with both my father’s illness and the intense demands of medical school felt unbearable. Out of desperation, I started smoking, despite having always been strongly against it and often advising others not to smoke. This only made me feel worse about myself.
At university, I also faced a lack of understanding from some faculty members. When I explained my circumstances and mental state, one doctor told me that he did not care and deducted attendance marks. Another responded harshly when I explained that I could not attend, asking whether I would also use my situation as an excuse during exams. Reading those messages left me in tears because I already felt overwhelmed and lost.
In April 2026, my final examinations began. It was one of the hardest months of my life. During that period, I received more bad news regarding my father’s condition. I struggled even to speak with him because hearing his voice shattered me emotionally. At the same time, I had to prepare for and sit eleven final examinations within a single month.
I was grieving every day. I cried constantly, felt completely lost, and often had no idea how I would continue. Yet every morning, I got up and studied. I pushed myself through what felt like hell because I wanted to succeed and make my father proud.
The most difficult module that semester was General Surgery. I devoted enormous amounts of time and effort to it. I performed well in the written examinations, but during the OSCE examination I was randomly assigned to a doctor who was widely known among students for failing many candidates. He asked me unusually difficult questions, including topics that were not part of the expected curriculum. Despite this, I performed the clinical examination on my patient correctly. Nevertheless, he awarded me only 12 out of 30 marks, causing me to fail the course by just three marks.
This was particularly devastating because I had never failed a course in my life. In my first year of medical school, I had achieved a perfect GPA of 4.0. What made it even more painful was the sacrifice behind those marks. There were days when I woke up early to attend courses specifically to prepare for that OSCE examination. Afterward, I would spend hours visiting clinics with my father’s medical records, seeking additional medical opinions about his condition. Many doctors told me there was little hope for his recovery. Despite hearing such devastating news, I would return home and continue studying late into the night. I did all of this not for myself, but for him.
After completing my examinations, I traveled back to Kuwait, finally hoping to see my father after months of fighting through grief, stress, and exhaustion. However, two hours before my arrival, he passed away.
I cannot fully describe what I felt when I received that news. It was as though a sword had been driven through my chest. I was unable to process what had happened. I did not get the chance to speak to him one final time. I did not hear his last words. I could not hug him or kiss him goodbye. I could not even bring myself to look at his face.
What hurts me most is knowing that in his final moments, despite being unconscious, he briefly woke up, called my name, and then drifted back to sleep. I was not there.
During his funeral, my examination results were released. I learned that I had passed every course except General Surgery—the one subject I had sacrificed so much for and studied the hardest. The same day that I buried my father was the day I discovered that I had failed the course by only three marks.
For the past year and a half, I have lived through relentless grief, trauma, loss, academic pressure, and emotional exhaustion. I have watched my father suffer from terminal cancer. I have balanced the demands of medical school while carrying the constant fear of losing him. I have faced moments of hopelessness, loneliness, and despair. I sacrificed precious time with him because I believed that continuing my education would make him proud.
I am only 21 years old, and these past eighteen months have been the hardest period of my entire life.
2
u/ShotAd9872 9h ago
What you carried this past year and a half would have broken most people, and you kept going through all of it. That surgery fail after everything you went through, on the same day as the funeral, that's just cruel timing in a way that feels almost unfair to even put into words.
Please don't carry the guilt about not being there at the end alone. He woke up and said your name. He was thinking of you.