My (step)dad who raised me died in January from multiple myeloma, a blood cancer. I wanted to put together a timeline for myself so I can have everything that happened from the time of his diagnosis to his death all in one place. This is the second post in the series.

Oct. 4, 2025 – My parents tell me that my dad has had what they call a relapse so has to undergo new chemo. Apparently, this is a pretty common occurrence in multiple myeloma patients, but that doesn’t make it any less scary. They won’t know exactly what the treatment will be until they get his test results and PET scan on Oct. 20.

Oct. 21, 2025 – My dad was admitted to the hospital the other day because his kidneys were shutting down. However, the docs all said that it was good he got there when he did. He is currently undergoing dialysis (3-4 rounds to kickstart his kidneys and remind them what they need to do—so far, they are responding to the treatment). He also starts chemo today (see previous post re: his cancer being in relapse).

He and my mom are both in good spirits, though he is in quite a bit of pain.

Oct. 27, 2025 – My dad is okay.

The kidney issue was caused by the cancer. Apparently, the myeloma caused a build up of toxins in the blood that the kidneys were unable to filter and that overworked the kidneys, causing them to shut down. He is currently undergoing both chemotherapy (to kill the cancer) and dialysis (to help his kidneys filter the toxins). They thought he would need continuous dialysis but his levels improved, so he is back on intermittent. Currently, the plan is for him to remain in the hospital for treatment until Nov. 1.

Nov. 2, 2025 – My dad is better (he’s gained weight for one), but he has to stay in the hospital indefinitely while they monitor the cancer/kidney situation.

Nov. 9, 2025 – My dad is home from the hospital. He is still on dialysis and doing chemo, but, obviously, feeling much better and happy to be home.

Dec. 10, 2025 – Dad went back to the hospital for a blood transfusion.

Dec. 28, 2025 – From personal journal entry. a week and a half after visiting my parents: I’m going to write something here that I won’t say out loud to anyone but–I don’t think my dad is going to make it past February. Just a gut feeling I got. He’ll definitely make it through the holidays. I sincerely hope I’m wrong, but he does not look well.

Jan. 2, 2026 – From personal journal entry: My mom got bad news from the doctor re: my dad but she won’t tell me what it is, saying we’ll talk about it when I get there. I asked why she wouldn’t tell me and she said because she didn’t want to talk about it right then and we’ll talk about it when I get there.

Jan. 7, 2026 – My dad has been in and out of the hospital the past few weeks for blood and/or platelet transfusions. He hasn’t been able to get full chemo because he has to keep getting transfusions which means the transfusions aren’t lasting as long as they should be/his blood isn’t responding.

(He would have dialysis on Monday, go to the cancer center on Tuesday. They would say his platelets were too low, then he would go to the hospital for a transfusion, and have chemo again on Friday.

The hardest part about that cycle is that dialysis took so much out of him. He would sleep pretty much all day Monday, start feeling better/like himself on Tuesday night, then have to go through it all again. On the weeks he missed dialysis on Wednesday because he needed a transfusion, he would be fully himself Thursday and then the cycle would repeat on Friday.)

So they suggested he consult with hospice to see what his options are IF it gets to the point where the transfusions are not working at all. He’s going to the consultation so he can have full information about his options, but both of my parents said he’s going to continue treatment as long as he can because as he said, “You fight until you can’t fight.”

So he is NOT entering hospice care–he is just learning about what it is and how it works.

All of us have been (justifiably) freaked out by this as hospice is a v. scary word, but my daughter and I visited him this week, and he is in good spirits. He has lost weight but is still himself and moving around, doing things, etc. He and my mom said at the last visit to the cancer center, the doctor said the same thing (treatment until/unless it stops working, manage his pain with meds the way he has been, do the consultation just to understand what hospice care is and how it works), so they’re feeling a lot better because it means they’re all on the same page.

Jan. 14, 2026 – From personal journal entry: My dad has largely stopped responding to treatment and may die soon. He’s having another transfusion, this time to stop him from “bleeding out,” and my mom said he had to stop and think about whether or not he wanted the transfusion. So he’s getting close to being over it. That doesn’t mean something can’t change for the better, but also.

Jan. 15, 2026 – My mom was right (of course) about the difference with my dad on dialysis v. non-dialysis days. Yesterday morning, I was convinced he was actively dying. Last night, he was up bopping around, eating, doing laundry, etc. And I was like, oh, he’ll be fine.

Of course, the platelets tell a different story. Low platelets = bleed out because platelets are responsible for clotting. No clots = blood just keeps flowing. They want him to have at least 30. Normal range is 200(!).

Hospice visit today was good. He’s not signing up for hospice care anytime soon so she just clarified what the process was and what would happen if he did go. The goal would be to keep him home and comfortable, not move him into a facility. My mom wants to sign him up for palliative care. Palliative means treating the person and not the illness, so making sure someone checks in to see how he’s doing not just how his symptoms are being managed. Everything would stay the same but a nurse would visit the house to check on him.

He’s lost 100 lbs since his diagnosis (or relapse? My notes aren’t clear here).

Jan. 18, 2026 – It won’t be long before my dad dies. He has been shaking and scratching nonstop, and yesterday he told my mom that he knows the end is near. Today, my mom said he’s suffering. I hope he can hold out until his siblings come on Thursday/Friday. I would like him to have that moment of reunion, especially since he had to miss his mom’s funeral.

My daughter visited today. On the drive back to where we were staying, she said, “I can’t believe Pop Pop is really dying.”

Jan. 19, 2026 – We went to see my dad’s primary care physician, and it’s basically a matter of when, not if now. He is in end stage kidney failure. All of his blood levels are low and because the cancer has gotten into his bone marrow, his body is no longer producing new cells. They’ve also stopped all chemotherapy.

Finally, I asked the doctor point blank what he suggested, and he said end of life care.

Electrolytes are off, platelets are too low (if he gets cut, it’s a wrap), kidneys don’t work, magnesium and sodium are too low, etc. He’s constantly itchy because of the toxins in his blood, it takes him longer to process info, my mom basically has to force him to eat. My mom said it’s what they already knew, but I said I appreciated that the doctor laid it out so clearly and plainly exactly what was happening.

We’re hoping they prescribe him medical marijuana tomorrow (it’s not legal in FL yet), but I did some research and it can take up to ten days for the card to get here.

So it’s all about how much more he wants to endure and what he wants the quality of his end of life to be. If he enters hospice care, they stop all transfusions and dialysis, and that’s what’s keeping him alive right now.

At the end of the appointment, my mom asked him if he had any questions. He said no. He gets it. He’s just wasting everybody’s time and money. As we left the building, my mom said she could tell he was done talking about it now.

Jan. 20, 2026 – I go to Pilates. I get to my parents’ house. My dad is in the living room armchair recliner with his eyes closed. My mom is in the office.

My mom tells me he decided to enter hospice care. The worker is coming today. No cancer appt, no medical marijuana. He said he’s done. He’s not leaving his house again.

My mom says he’ll probably make it to Friday since that’s the longest he’s gone without dialysis before (Mon-Fri). Today is Tuesday.

The hospice visit is weird because they prepare you for long-term care, but we know since the transfusions and dialysis are what’s keeping him alive, it’s not going to get to a few months from now.

Jan. 21, 2026 – My mom just reminded me that my dad never wanted dialysis. He only did it because it was supposed to be temporary when he first went into the hospital. He actually signed the paper saying so back when he signed his first DNR.

Jan. 23, 2026 – Friday. I get to my parents’ house. It’s full of people (including my aunt, uncle, and cousin). My dad doesn’t have his mask on. This is a man who wore his mask EVERYwhere and even in the house when people came over.

By the end of the day, he’s shaking so hard that he spills water on himself. He takes a picture with his siblings/nephew, and I have to yell at him to look at the camera and not the TV.

Before I leave, my mom says she thinks Sunday will be the day.

Jan. 24, 2026 – My mom calls me around 7:15 a.m. The nurse needs to know how many milligrams the Excedrin is because my dad spiked a fever. I think I should probably get in the shower but don’t in case my mom needs to ask me more questions.

My mom calls back at 7:56 a.m. The nurse is on his way. They’re going to move him to the hospice care center because he’s having trouble breathing, and they want to give him morphine to manage his pain.

I get in the shower. I tell my daughter I’m going to the hospice center, ask if she wants to come. She gets in the shower.

My mom calls me at 8:44 a.m. “He’s gone,” she says. “He passed.”

He died at home, the way he wanted. He went very peacefully, according to my mom. One minute he was there, and she went into their room to prep for him to go to the care center, and the next he was gone. When we got there, my mom said, “That man said he was never leaving this house again, and he meant it.”

Me: “He heard care center, waited for you to leave the room, and was like, ‘Alright, God, let’s do it now before she comes back. You got me messed up if you think I’m going to some care center. I’m out.'”

Basically, it looked like he had just fallen asleep in the chair except you could tell that his spirit was gone.