March 15, 2006
A Time to Grieve
(This column is more for me than my dad. It is about him and about me and my grief. So I ask our readers to please forgive for this outpouring indulge me and allow me to grieve. I love you, Daddy! )
December 2005
I have often written about Christmas because it is a very special time for my family. I am old fashioned, more so my family. I was taught that Christmas was a time for family and friends to come together no matter what. I was taught that sadness at Christmas should not be. Everyone should be happy at Christmas. Some bleeding hearts may say that what about those who donıt have family or are a long way off from them, should they be forced to be happy or be made to feel bad because theyıre not?
My view of this joyı and happiness on Christmas doesnıt stem from family togetherness or friends to share it with, but from the fact that Christmas is in itself a joyfulı time. A baby was born 2000 years ago. "And He shall be called Emmanuel, Prince Peace," so goes the story. Christmas is more than a commemoration, it is a celebration of Jesus Christıs birthday. A celebration of all that is good in the world. This alone is a happyı thought. Itıs not the family and friends who are on hand to give gifts and feast together, itıs the reason for this whole season that matters. Thatıs why I think we should all be happy at Christmas.
We-my family-were given special gifts this Christmas. My father, my dad, was given peace. He is finally pain-free and at peace, in his true home where he can revel in the arms of the Meaning of Christmas. After seven months of suffering from the ravages of pancreatic cancer, his room is empty, the hospital bed has been cleared away, the medicines in the fridge are gone.
January 2006
I had been praying for it not to happen with me away from the family. But as I was getting ready to leave the house that fateful morning, I knew in my gut he was leaving. So I whispered I love youı as my brother held the phone to his ear. I told him not to worry, we would take care of mom. That I would take care of my brothers I asked him to go to Jesus. I asked him not to wait for me because I knew he had to go.
I didnıt think about pleading or begging God for him to stay, not to take him. I knew in my heart it was time. My father had been so selfless and generous in life, how could I be so selfish during his death, his finest hour I think.
Now I find myself staying up late like him. I canıt sleep, Daddy. Iım like you, I have to make sure all the troops are in first and then when I am finally in bed, thatıs when I think about all the stuff I have to, and want to, do.
It is sad to lose a loved one. Devastating to lose a parent or a spouse. I can hardly imagine what this whole year has been like for my mom. I can only pray that she pull through the next one with as much courage and strength as she has shown us so far. For a child to lose a parent is like losing your identity. You grow up all your life hearing that you are so much like your mom or your dad. You may not like it at times but you find comfort in the notion that there are people who are always there for you and whom you mean the whole world to.
When you lose a parent, you lose someone you mean something to. And that alone is enough to shatter your confidence and faith in the world. And for some time, no matter how many people profess their love to you, it is simply not the same as the presence of the one you lost.
What I miss most about my dad is his big hug. Daddy was a big guy with a comfortable girth and wide shoulders. His arms could go all around me no matter how fat I got and his hands were all the reassurance I needed to pull through anything. He would always tell me everything would be alright, whatever the problem was. When he hugged me he didnıt have to say it. It just felt that way in his arms.
February 2006
It is Valentineıs Day and I canıt sleep. Iıve been sleepless the last three nights. I have told my husband that I probably am afraid to go to sleep at this point. I see my father when I close my eyes at night. I see him not as I remember him: smiling or waving at me from the doorway of his home on the ridge. But I see him lying on the hospital bed, lifeless and pale in his blue and white hospital gown.
I am standing at the foot of his bed as I watch disembodied arms clean him up and change his clothes. I can feel a cold chill run through me, even if in my mind I cannot not touch him. And then I see him lying on a gurney at the crematorium in Loyola. Then I end up crying my heart out in the bathroom.
I cry because I miss him. I miss his big hug and his booming voice. I miss him because no one comes to visit me on Sundays at home anymore. I miss him because I miss the joyful peals of laughter from my daughter as she plays coy with her loloı and mercilessly toys with his affections.
I miss him when I walk around the village at night. I miss him when I bake my apple pie and fruitcake. I still keep his text asking me for the fruitcake he ordered when he could still eat.
At times when I think that I am all grown up and am settled with the knowledge that he is where he belongs now - pain-free and at peace - I end up feeling stupid. I am, after all, still a child inside. His eldest child. And no child who has had soooo much love and affection from my dad can make it through the day without missing him.
March 2006
We-my family- are all healing. We still grieve but we are healing. I thought that I was over my grief, but as it turns out, I am the one who hasnıt had the time to grieve. Months after my fatherıs passing - when I can see that my mother, my siblings, my husband and daughter are coping better with our loss - it is finally my turn.
The day my dad had the endoscopy, I knew he had cancer. As we walked through the bazaar at the World Trade Center and tried to reassure ourselves that the biopsy on Monday would be fine, I knew he had cancer. Our doctors had called me on my cell to warn me of what they knew for certain, but refused to confirm until the results of the biopsy came out. I remember my cousin telling me over and over on the phone, "You have to be there for them (my parents), itıs going to be hard but you have to be there." My stomach turned cold as I turned around to produce a smile on my face for mom and dad. It was April 13, 2005.
Over the next several months, that day became a pattern. The doctors would talk to me first, tell me everything in advance before telling my parents. I would be given the awful truth about my dadıs true state - the bottom-line - before the neutral delivery to my parents and siblings. Huddled together in the hospital hallways away from the people I was so desperately trying to protect and prop up, I could only listen in silence, often times just nodding my head or barely managing an audible reply.
My mom may kill me for this, but we had all agreed not to let her bear the full gravity of the situation, just as my father didnıt until almost the end. I know my parents all too well. They love each other so much and have lived for each other for so long that is impossible for them to keep something from the other, much less lie about something like this. The only way to keep my fatherıs hopes up was through mom. My other siblings had a rough idea, but we figured it was of no use to burden them with all that since they were both living at home with my parents. One slip of the tongue and their hopes would be dashed.
The night before dadıs surgery in May, they gave me the low-down again on what they suspected. It was bad but we decided not to say anything to mom and dad. It would be pointless to give our patient bad news before the surgery. A few days before the surgery, I asked my brother to come home ( he lives in Canada). There was no telling what could happen during the surgery and if he would survive it. The odds were stacked against us.
He made it through surgery. But there wasnıt anything the doctors could do. "It was all messed up," said one of them in the stairwell. The tumour was everywhere the pancreas, the billary duct and the stomach.
Again we didnıt tell dad until a week after surgery. We wanted him to recover a little first. But still when the doctor told him, it wasnıt the awful truth that I knew about. The doctor ( bless his heart) wanted to give him some hope, somehow.
I kept up a brave and hopeful front for my family. I didnıt ask to be the one, but it felt like they were all crowding behind me during this time. I would take the hit first and if I got knocked out, we would fall apart. I couldnıt - I wouldnıt - cry in front of them. I donıt know why I didnıt, but I knew in my heart that if I did, if I broke down, they all would. So I willed myself not to cry when I was with them. Not even when my dadıs siblings would call me overseas to ask about him. When they called I would try to sound as medicalı as I could, Like a distant voice unrelated but cool and understanding.
My mom couldnıt bear to talk to them about dadıs illness or to any of their friends for that matter. I was also the gatekeeper to the family. All info and communications went through me, from the doctors to my family, from friends to my family and vice versa. I couldnıt afford emotions at this time. I also didnıt have the freedom of letting go at home. Not in front of my daughter who was trying to grasp the condition and consequences of her loloıs illness; not all the time in front of my husband, who was dealing with his own emotions about my dad. I would walk to the corner of our street and bawl my eyes out or cry in the bathroom at night.
My dad lingered for several months, longer than the surgeon thought he would. While mom was the nurturing and tender one I was the tough one. I love him and I tried to show it as much as I could without breaking down. We got into a few fights, but he knew I loved him and that I pushed only because I loved him so much.
One day in September, we almost lost him. But the doctors brought him back. It still wasnıt his time. He asked about the inevitable end. He got teary eyed when they told him the truth. We prayed with my mom and my brothers for strength and wisdom. Then he whispered to me, "Donıt cry in front of mom." He told me to take care of her and my brothers. I promised him I would.
He passed away in November, but I still could not grieve. There was too much to do and too many people to take care of.
Now finally, maybe I can. But then how do you grieve when the world goes on? Nothing stops to give way to grief or loss.
So far time hasn't made it any easier. Now I feel the void dad left. Now I miss him. Now I can feel. Now I have time for my own grief.
The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of HerWord or BusinessWorld.
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