The Slow Undoing

I watch him breathe.
That’s what it’s come to.
I don’t count days anymore. I count breaths.
Shallow. Shaky. Borrowed.

My father is eighty-three.
GOLD Stage IV COPD.
Palliative.
Not dying fast — dying slow.
Which is worse.

I remember when he filled a room.
Voice booming. Hands sure. Spine straight.
He taught physics. Fixed engines. Ran miles.
Held me when I cried.
When Mum died, he didn’t — but I knew he wanted to.

He smoked. Everyone did, he said.
But not everyone is here now.
Not with a mask strapped to their face.
Not half their size, twice their sorrow.

I saw it first.
The cough. The wheeze. The pause.
The way he avoided stairs.
The faint grey in his skin.

I said:
“Let’s go to the doctor.”
“Just get checked.”
“Please.”

He said:
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t fuss.”
“Old lungs, that’s all.”

He was wrong.
But men like him are never wrong — until they are.
And by then, it’s too late.

Now it’s me who lifts him. Feeds him. Cleans him.
He apologises — not with words, but with eyes.
He’s ashamed, I think.
Not of being sick.
Of being seen.

My brothers don’t come. My sister sends money.
They can’t bear it, they say.
I can’t either. But I do.

Because someone has to be here.
For what’s left of him.
For who he used to be.

He’s not always kind.
He lashes out. Cries when he can’t reach the bedpan.
Sometimes he doesn’t know where he is.
Sometimes he does.
That’s worse.

There’s a smell to dying slow.
Plastic. Sweat. Time.
Regret.

He says now he should’ve listened.
I say nothing. I’ve said enough.
For years, I begged him to listen.

Sub-health, they call it —
that long in-between where you’re not sick enough to act,
but not well enough to ignore.
His body screamed in whispers.
He only heard it when it shouted.

We’re here now, in this room.
And every breath he takes
is one he fought against
by doing nothing.

I love him.
I hate this.
Both can be true.
And both are.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

He didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Lingzhi is a traditional food taken to support general well-being. It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease. For personalised advice, please consult a qualified healthcare practitioner.

#SubHealthStories #HealthIsAHabit #HappyHealthyLingzhi