I danced to Micheal Jackson's Thriller at my father's memorial … here’s why

A year ago (ironically on Valentines' Day) my father passed away.

It was the culmination of five years of fighting with an intelligence-destroying, strength-draining, dignity-stealing disease that doctors struggled to identify and no medicine (modern, traditional, homeopathic or technological) seemed able to treat.

I watched the most brilliant, most disciplined, strongest, most determined man, I’ve ever known wither away into a shell that was constantly in pain and could not move anything but his eyeballs without help.

Watching that process is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. In my darkest most vulnerable moments I told my closest friends that I was afraid people would think I didn't love him because I didn’t think I would cry at his funeral. I was scared that I’d just be relieved he wasn’t suffering anymore.

I didn’t think anything could hurt me more than watching him slowly and painfully suffer his way to death.

I could not have been more wrong

He died at around 9pm on February 14th in the LASUTH critical care unit, after about a week and millions of Naira of emergency care that week alone. He died hooked up to tubes and wires and a crash cart trying to jump-start his heart.