Both My Parents Died Living Abroad — Don’t Repeat This One Devastating Mistake

This week’s Second Look revisits the most difficult personal essay I’ve ever written. It was by far our top performing post, getting over 30,000 reads.

Both of my parents died while I was living oceans away. I made it back for some of the hard moments. But not all of them. And even when you do get there in time, the miles still take a toll — in guilt, in grief, in everything you couldn’t be there for.

If you’re building a life far from where you started — and carrying love and loss across borders — this one’s for you.

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The Move to Mexico: A Fresh Start with Hidden Risks

My parents moved down to Mexico in 2010 from their home on Vancouver Island.

Dad, who had been in the fitness industry his whole life, brought his entire personal training gym with him. He planned to open a small personal training gym where he would train a few clients a day. Having been too trusting in business, Dad had been screwed out of a lot of money over the years.

He couldn't afford to retire.

Mom was slightly better off. Having worked a corporate job in the late '90s, Mom got into a car accident that caused her brain to slam into her skull, leading to her getting put on medical leave — but she would receive payments until she turned 65.

Mom and Dad looked after each other and shared household expenses, but ultimately each had their own money. Many relationships are like this these days.

But when Mom told me that Dad had decided to forgo health insurance despite the fact that he would no longer have the safety net of Canada's health care system, I was surprised she was so easy-going about it.

But I had just moved to Bangkok myself and was too busy teetering on high heels at swanky rooftop bars to be overly worried.

When I went to visit, I spoke to him about it.

“Dad, I don't think this is a good idea. What if something happens to you? What if you get sick and need to be hospitalized?”

“Kaila, I don't plan to stick around if I get sick.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't want to be a vegetable. I don't want to be in hospital. I don't want to have to be taken care of. The moment that happens is the moment I check out. Besides, it's out of my price range.”

And we kind of left it at that. I was in my late '20s and not yet mature enough to have the difficult but so important conversations around death with my aging parents.

The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

A couple years later, it happened.

Stage 4 cancer. Two months to live.

Mom still had a couple years left of her mental health coverage, but it was nowhere near enough to cover the costs.

So they took out huge loans, maxed out their lines of credit, borrowed from family, and set up a GoFundMe page.

I knew they went into debt. But it would be years until I would find out just how much — and be forced to witness the devastating effects it had.

I had mixed feelings about it all. On one hand, I was annoyed and frustrated at my dad for not having planned ahead.

On the other hand, it was my daddy. All I wanted was for him to be better again. I couldn't stand the idea of him being in pain for even a minute.

Being the brave nonconformist he was, Dad decided to forgo chemo and radiation and experiment with alternative therapies. Upon reflection, it was probably also because he couldn't afford chemo and radiation — but I like to think it was the former.

He started on medical marijuana paste, and it would end up extending his life far beyond what the doctors predicted. I visited several times but couldn't just “sit around waiting for him to die” as Dad put it bluntly one day.

The Final Decision

Two years later, I got a call from Mom. Dad's condition had worsened, and it was time for me to come home.

The tumour was back. And it was pressing on a part of his brain that affected some important functions. Like balance.

He fell on me when I was walking behind him numerous times (I caught him each time, but just — I was a skinny party girl at the time subsisting on booze, drugs, and the occasional meal).

I remember desperately trying to reassure him that it was absolutely fine, trying to make a joke out of it, trying to make light of it. But I knew deep down that each time it happened, he was getting closer and closer to his final decision.

One morning, Fraser woke me up. He had come to support my mom and me a few weeks earlier.

“Sweetie, your dad has asked me to speak to you about something.”

I rolled over to face him. We were staying in Mom and Dad's room while they stayed in the casita since the bathroom was more accessible for Dad.

“What's that?” I sat up.

“It's time. He wants the doctor to come today.”

Dad had already arranged his own death with a local doctor who would come to give him a lethal dose of morphine.

I protested and cried but eventually, excruciatingly, accepted fate.

It had always been his get-out-of-jail-free card. And being abroad with a terminal illness and no health insurance is a high-security prison.

Mom’s Turn: The Same Mistake, The Same Outcome

After Dad's passing, Mom faced a mountain of debt from Dad’s many surgeries, doctor visits, MRIs and CT scans, and the expensive marijuana paste regime he was on. She used Dad's life insurance to pay it off.

Sadly, it left her with next to nothing.

Years later, I learned something even more terrifying: She had let her own health insurance lapse.

“I couldn't afford the payments anymore,” she explained.

“But Mom, that's really scary. What are we going to do when you get sick?”

“It’s very scary, Kaila. And I don’t like to think about it too much. But there’s nothing I can do now.”

I suggested that she consider going back to Canada, but my suggestions were met with head shakes.

“There's nothing for me there anymore. I couldn't even imagine how I would navigate getting back into the system — it’s just too much for me to even think about.”

And then it happened. Stage 2 colorectal cancer.

The Harsh Reality of Treatment in a Foreign System

The oncologist recommended an intensive course of chemo and radiation 5 days on, 2 days off, for 6 weeks. It was quoted at $20,000 USD — and that didn’t include doctors’ fees, pre-treatment, post-treatment, or any extras.

When Mom and her new husband Michael had explained to the doctor their financial situation, the doctor recommended a government hospital in Guadalajara. It was a fraction of the price, and it specialised in cancer treatment.

The major drawback? Shockingly little contact or communication with doctors and nurses.

Which turned out to be a lethal drawback for Mom.

Because she had so little contact with doctors, she wasn't able to communicate and update them on her condition as often as she should have been.

My friend, whose mom underwent chemo in Canada, said that she was having daily visits with her doctor.

My mom? She saw the oncologist about once a month. And there was absolutely no way to get in touch with them outside of that visit.

Due to the location of her tumour, she was barred from eating fibre. No vegetables, no fruits, no supplements. She was starving.

I suggested wheatgrass shots. No, too much fibre.

I suggested antioxidant teas. Again, no. Every tea was forbidden except for peppermint.

And when I followed up with Mom a week later, she said she had only been drinking it when she was feeling nauseous, since she looked it up and that’s what it said it was for.

“No, Mom,” I explained. “This is to give you some vitamins and minerals that your body desperately needs to get through this treatment. You need to be sipping on it morning, noon, and night.”

But Mom didn’t like to take my advice. She had probably developed an aversion to it in the past when I gave it out more freely, confidently, and assertively. I’ve learned to take a much gentler approach now, but it still didn’t seem to help.

Medical Advice That Sealed Her Fate

Four weeks in to her six-week chemo/radiation course, Mom started fainting.

Finally, she got an appointment with the hospital’s nutritionist. I was so relieved — until she told me after the appointment that the doctor had advised her to put cookies in her morning smoothie.

Twelve sugary cookies, to be precise. I couldn’t believe it.

And she soldiered on. She had one day left of her treatment when things took a turn for the worse.

Mom developed what the doctors would days later incorrectly diagnose as salmonella. She couldn’t keep anything down.

Eventually, her husband took her to the hospital, where she was put on an IV. She insisted on going home a few days later, and they said she could continue the IV there.

When I finally was able to speak to a doctor, it was too late.

Her husband had asked the doctor to make a house call since he thought she was having a stroke.

Turned out to be much worse.

“I give her 72 hours tops,” the doctor told me as I dropped to the floor.

My desperate follow-up questions included asking him how this could have possibly happened.

“When you’re undergoing chemo, your body needs double the nutrition. Your mom wasn’t even getting 50%. Her fate was sealed from the get-go.”

Mom passed away the next morning.

The Devastating Lesson I Learned

This is the first time I’ve shared these stories publicly.

And I did it for a purpose: Because if you live abroad without health insurance, you are gambling with your life.

If my parents had been insured, I believe they would both still be here today.

If You Live Abroad, Do This Now

1. Get health insurance. Not someday. Now.

2. Check your policy limits. Ensure it covers serious illnesses and hospital stays.

3. Plan for worst-case scenarios. Have conversations with your family — early and often.

4. Have a backup plan. If you lose coverage, know your options for returning home.

5. Don’t assume you’ll “figure it out” later. Later comes faster than you think.

And if you read NOTHING else in this post but this, know that:

IF YOU CAN’T AFFORD HEALTH INSURANCE, YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO LIVE ABROAD. SIMPLE.

Stay home and save until you can. Please.

Now, over to you guys. Do you have a story to share about living abroad and health insurance? It would be great to hear other people’s stories — hopefully not as devastating as mine — in the comments below.