It’s my job to prepare people for a loved one’s death. Yet I felt totally unready when my own dad was dying

As a palliative care doctor, it's Regine Krechowicz's job to help patients make difficult end-of-life decisions . However, when it came to her own dad, she felt completely unprepared. She shares what happened during his final hours, and what she learned as a doctor and a daughter.

Surgery may have prolonged his life, but his time in the kitchen was over. Who was my dad if he couldn’t cook?

Regine Krechowicz · for CBC First Person

· Posted: Nov 02, 2026 4:00 AM EST | Last Updated: 7 hours ago

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This First Person article is the experience of Regine Krechowicz, a palliative care doctor in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

When the surgeon on-call confirmed that my dad would never recover enough independence to cook again, I felt as if all the air was sucked out of the room.  

My dad, whose health had been declining for years, was admitted to hospital a few days earlier after falling at home. While the prognosis from the fall wasn’t good and doctors said he would certainly lose more mobility, my earlier conversations with his doctors had focused on recovery.  

Things took a sharp and unexpected turn when my dad began complaining of severe abdominal pain and an urgent scan revealed he likely had a perforated bowel.  

The surgeon said my dad would die without surgery. Even with surgery, survival was no guarantee. He would almost certainly have major complications. The chance he would ever regain his previous level of independence — and do the things he loved, like cooking — were zero.  

Richard, left, in the kitchen with his grandchildren — Simon Fisher, centre, and Nora Fisher, right — making cookies. (Submitted by Regine Krechowicz)

My dad was unconscious so the decision of whether to do surgery fell to me. As I absorbed the information, I asked myself, who was my dad if he couldn’t cook?

As far back as my memory goes, my dad was always cooking. This was his love language, a legacy of his upbringing by Polish immigrants. 

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Growing up, our house overflowed with pies, homemade pickles, soups and stews. No visitor left without a doggy bag.

Krechowicz says her dad's love language was food, and he always carved the turkey for their family on Thanksgiving. (Submitted by Regine Krechowicz)

Once grandkids came along, his entire reason for living became cooking for them. 

For him, there was no joy sweeter than watching his grandkids, particularly my 10-year-old son who has heart disease and struggles to gain weight, devour his food.

Richard, right, with Krechowicz's son, Simon, when he was three years old. (Submitted by Regine Krechowicz)

When my dad had his dominant hand amputated in 2022 due to cancer, he was already using a wheelchair due to complications from his genetic kidney disease, and we worried his cooking days were over. 

Through sheer grit, he adapted their kitchen and not only got back to making soups and muffins but even managed to carve the turkey the following Thanksgiving.  

Even after his hand was amputated, Regine's dad, Richard, continued to make zurek, his favourite Polish sour rye soup, for Easter. The soup featured kielbasa sausage his own father had been famous for selling at the family deli they used to run in their hometown of Oshawa, Ont. (Submitted by Regine Krechowicz)

Making a decision for dad

As I stood by his hospital bed, struggling to make the decision, I pictured my dad in the kitchen and felt surprisingly unprepared.

I am a palliative care physician, whose job involves supporting patients and families making medical decisions in exactly these types of impossible moments. I help families focus on their loved ones’ values and what makes life worth living.   

But, I didn’t appreciate just how difficult decision-making could be until I was in this position with my dad. 

Before my dad's abdominal pain started, my mom and eldest sister were on a vacation in Central America. They were on a flight home and unreachable when the situation became life threatening for my dad. 

I was finally able to speak with my mom when she landed, but all the critical information I suddenly relayed was overwhelming for her. Her focus became getting back from the Toronto airport to Ottawa in a snowstorm. My middle sister was bedridden with influenza and couldn’t be part of decision-making. 

As a close family, I never imagined facing a difficult decision without my mom and sisters by my side, but there we were.

Krechowicz's dad, Richard, with her daughter, Nora, then aged four months. (Submitted by Regine Krechowicz)

Difficult conversations

I had tried talking to my dad about his wishes many times but he was reluctant. Like many people, he was afraid of dying. 

I learned the most when two years ago, I slyly asked if he would role play as a patient while I “practiced” using a conversation guide about values I use to teach residents. During that conversation, he told me directly he would not want to continue life if it meant losing more independence, particularly if he lost the ability to cook.  

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Despite remembering this conversation, the emotional pull towards trying to keep him alive was incredibly strong. It wasn’t until I said out loud to the surgeon — "for my dad, life without cooking would not be worth living" — that the right decision became heartbreakingly clear.   

The best-case scenario with surgery may have left my dad alive but never again truly living. I struggled through the paralyzing sadness of saying no to surgery.  

Richard, in his wheelchair, cooking next to his daughter, Jill. (Submitted by Regine Krechowicz)

Eleven hours after he started having pain, my dad died, holding on just long enough for my mom and eldest sister to arrive for his last breaths. 

Now, almost a year later, my dad’s legacy for me is not just the mix of joy and sadness I feel whenever I cook. As a doctor and a daughter, I now know first-hand how important it is to have the courage to ask our loved ones about their values and what makes life worth living, and how hard it still is, when the time comes, to respect that. 

I’m so grateful I knew just how important cooking was to my dad and that even when my heart wanted him to stay, I honoured his wishes and let him go.

Krechowicz writes about how, despite working as a palliative care doctor guiding others on end-of-life decisions, when it came to her own dad's final moments, it was harder than she imagined. (Submitted by Regine Krechowicz)

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Regine Krechowicz is a palliative care physician in Ottawa, providing end of life care to patients in the community, hospice and at the Ottawa Hospital.