When I threw a party in Italy to celebrate my 40th birthday, it felt like the start of a new chapter. Watching my dad attempt conversation with my partner’s family across the language barrier, and my nephew playing with his nephew, I felt a joy I hadn’t known since before my mom died.
A year earlier, we’d decided to move to Italy to be near my partner’s parents, who are older than my dad. After years in Spain, where we met, it felt like the responsible choice.
Learning from my mother’s death (I hadn’t seen her for two years when she died because of the pandemic), I encouraged him to spend time with them while he still could. I didn’t think my dad would be the one who needed help first.
My dad was supposed to be the healthy one
Despite having diabetes, my dad’s health had held up well since my mom died, and he loves to joke that he’s indestructible. I know that’s not really true, but he is surprisingly resilient.
There was just one small cause for concern: a persistent shortness of breath that had started about two years earlier. It wasn’t very noticeable at first, but it’s gotten progressively worse. He kept going to his doctor, who kept telling him everything was fine.
Shortly before my birthday, the doctor had even told him the problem could be psychosomatic. My dad has always been a bit dramatic about his health, so I accepted this explanation. After lunch in a picturesque Italian village, we made him climb a steep hill, thinking the fresh air would do him good, despite the fact he’d needed airport assistance on the way over.
My dad was hospitalized, and I couldn’t be with him
After he flew back home, he was hospitalized with a lung infection. A few days later, he was able to go home — in a taxi, because there was no one to pick him up. He was still so weak that when he fell in the garden that week, it took him ten minutes to get up. No neighbors came to help.
I felt desperately sad for him in his house alone, unwell, and unable to take care of himself, but my partner and I were in the middle of moving our entire lives — including our cat — from Spain to Italy, and I couldn’t get on a plane.
My brother flew from Ireland to spend a few days with our dad. Once the move was over, so did I. By then, the hospital had ordered further tests, and he’d finally been referred to a specialist.
The specialist suspects a serious progressive lung condition — one with no cure, although treatment can alleviate symptoms and slow its progression. We’re still waiting for the full diagnosis and treatment plan.
I built my life around a world that no longer exists
The world has changed since I first moved to Europe over a decade ago. Britain left the EU, which means my partner can’t just follow me to England — he’s an EU citizen, we’re not married, and I don’t meet the income requirements to sponsor him.
And the cost of travel has risen significantly: a round trip to where my dad lives easily costs £500 (around $678 USD) now. When I moved abroad, my parents were 60, easyJet flights cost as little as £20 (around $27 USD), and the EU’s freedom of movement made the distance feel almost theoretical. That world doesn’t exist anymore.
Now my dad is 73, alone, and facing a serious diagnosis. My brother and I have encouraged him to get a panic button and even move to Ireland. In the meantime, I’m in a half-furnished flat in a country that doesn’t feel like home, torn between trying to build a new life and a parent who needs me in England.
