When I read the message, reminiscences came flooding back almost immediately, and multiple feelings began to stir. A shiver ran through my body, a whirlwind of emotions collided in assault, nostalgia, melancholy, and also a lot of sadness. I will share with you, an event that considerably affected my existence, for what it implies and represents.

Precisely in September, but some years ago, I was excited and happy for the arrival of my well-deserved rest, with the opening of a holiday period of about three months. An opportunity was knocking at my door to finally execute plans that had been postponed due to distance and lack of time. There was no argument, I would leave behind the cold phone calls with my parents. I needed to feel again their hugs, the caresses, the cuddles that only come from family, nothing more regenerating than the warmth of home. My being demanded to reconnect with my origins, to interact with the land where I was born and so, with no time to lose, I packed everything, set off on my journey, and went to the beloved and warm Venezuelan plains.

My parents were always that magical, amazing, extraordinary, fairy-tale combination, made for each other, happily ever after, the perfect and ideal combination. My father was the strong one, power and strength in action, health in its splendor. My mother, on the other hand, was a beautiful, delicate woman, though unstable in health, but exquisite, soft, and tender like an angelic caress. The two complemented each other, integrated and perfected each other, without addition or subtraction. But fate, with malice, usually takes care of blurring and scribbling, of disordering and entangling everything, through unexpected twists and turns, altering and breaking the balance.

I was excited to reach my village. Already in front of the door of the house, I heard the happy, high-pitched voices, I knew those footsteps very well. It was the head of the house, my father, coming to greet me. But when I looked at him, my joy faded and a great uneasiness ran through my body. His eyes were dull and lightless, dark and dissipated. To my eyes, he had lost many pounds, and he looked tired. This made me very uneasy. At dinner, I shrewdly made some inquiries and, according to my guesses, there were storms and hard times ahead. That night, alone, I wept as never before, my head throbbed incessantly, my eyelids swelled and my eyes reddened. They were long hours dominated by anguish and anxiety, waiting for the dawn.

Thus began our hasty journey through different medical specialties and various studies, it was an effort against the clock. Studies and assessments came and went. Until we reached the diagnosis I had feared: Dad had cancer, "apparently" confined to his left kidney. In medicine, each day that I go through it more and more confirms to me how uncertain and apparent it tends to be. Nothing is certain and everything can turn upside down in seconds. The established course of action in his case was surgery as soon as possible, removing the affected organ, and then boosting his immune system.

Everything I had experienced, the responsibility of the decisions I had to make, generated a great ethical, family, moral, and personal conflict in me. To tell him or not to tell him about the etiology of his illness. Dad was terrified of the word cancer and all that it entailed. Unfortunately, cancer has been present in our family and the experiences have not been encouraging.

I lost count of the recursion this caused me until I finally decided to omit the truth, disguising it with a lie. I became apprehensive and extremely distrustful, avoiding leaving him alone, taking care that my lie was not discovered, these were overwhelming days. Two days before the surgery, in a control study, most unexpectedly and unavoidably, the doctor, to cheer him up, told him the truth about his condition, that his "cancer" had a very good prognosis and life expectancy.

Immediately, without a word, he turned his gaze to me, looking for answers. I couldn't speak, he couldn't speak, a deep and deafening silence fell over us. I was trembling, I felt so bad, he had broken our trust. I was sure that the news that had finally been revealed would destroy him. My intention with the deception was to avoid his pain at all costs.

And so it happened, we did everything we had to do, but day by day he became exhausted until his light went out. Many times I tried to talk to him, but he avoided me, he didn't speak, everything about him was silent. Despite this, I was reiterative in my love for him and why he did things the way he did. I am sure that the deterioration accelerated when he learned the truth.

His departure from this earthly world and the damage by omission I had caused him, wreaked havoc on my whole being. The feeling of guilt would not leave me alone, I judged myself again and again. My nights were invaded by insomnia and anxiety, which took over my life. The guilt enveloped me until it grew over time and became pathological. I realized I needed professional help and sought it.

Among the therapies, there was one in particular that brought about considerable change. It was the action of forgiving myself, acknowledging the damage I had done by hiding the truth, but at the same time letting go of the grievances, giving me the possibility to forgive myself through understanding, recognizing, and accepting the imperfection I am made of, I am human.

I have been wrong many times and in doing so I have caused harm, in different ways: by omission, by adopting inappropriate gestures, by exercising a maladjusted attitude, or by a wrong decision. They are part of my shadows, but paradoxically they are also part of my lights because they have generated teachings and lessons that have allowed me to learn to live, contributing to tolerance and progress in my defective and imperfect genesis. When I have been aware of the damage, I have almost always been able to find a healthy way out of situations, although it is undeniable that I have experienced the torture of the weight of my error, expressed by guilt, and that it has not been easy to free myself, it is not as simple as turning the page of a book.