“He is set apart like a star forever and that sleeping face
(For whom the heart has cried, for whom the frail hand burns)
Is swung out in the night alone, so luminous and still,
The waking spirit attends, the loving spirit gazes
Without communion, without touch, and comes to know at last
Out of a silence only and never when the body blazes
That love is present, that always burns alone, however steadfast.”—May Sarton, Ode to solitude
It has almost been a year since I wrote anything, I never prepared myself to blog about the passing of my father. The current retrospective state of my mind says I probably started mourning way ahead before his passing that I now no longer feel the pain of his departure, although it is less than a month since his soul departed.
Its a sombre writing this time, I am afraid, rest assured I am in a neutral state of mind that is sane enough to not lament. I am just letting my thoughts out.
My father was aged 75 when he left. He was a normal person health wise, baring age related ailments but, on a fateful weekend before the 19th of Dec 2017, he fell sick with fever symptoms and passed away a day and a half later following a massive heart attack I believe. No long term illness or dragging sickness, no bed sores, no good byes, he just left. The suddenness in which he was ripped away from us left us shattered. My mother was with him during his last moments, just as she had been during the last 37 years and 7 months before. Their togetherness is nothing but a memory now.
Three days before his passing, I sat up in my bed weeping, for no reason, no pain but just an unexplained fear, like a punch in my stomach. I woke my husband up and said something was amiss and I thought it was related to my mother. I didn’t feel right. He said, I am probably tired, and asked me to sleep it off. I slept nevertheless.
I woke up to messages from my mother that he was admitted to a nursing home close to their house in my hometown following symptoms of high fever. I told my husband, that it wasn’t as bad as I felt last night and that it is only a fever. The same night, my husband received news of my father’s passing. My mother was with him but nobody else to comfort her other than hospital staff. She was ridden with the melee of administrative paper work and bills that the fact of him passing hit her only after she spent days and nights alone without him which was weeks after he passed. She is fighting valiantly, not only the trauma of him dying on her but the solitude.
I went home to something I knew was bound to happen but not that day…probably similar to what might have been running in my father’s head before his passing. The airport didn’t have him hollering and waving both his hands at us or bearing his big wide smile. It was a cool morning, the usual hoopla of taxis and people awaiting their customers and loved ones while we trudged along.
There were people outside our apartment. I wondered if I could make it past the hallway without breaking down, but what really broke me was to see my mother. The thought of leaving her alone to deal with his passing created a lump in my throat leaving me rigid and a stony silence enveloped me.
He seemed to be resting, a smile probably, I dont know but certainly no discomfort, at least from where I saw him although I do not know if he could feel anything or what he was thinking. I wanted to ask if he suffered a stroke but I couldn’t bring myself to speak with anyone. I wanted to see his medical records but I couldn’t get around to doing it until someone actually brought it to show his brother who was there to conduct the last rites.
The garlands being arranged and taken off made him shake, under the encased freezer box, as if he shuddered in coldness like he always used to do on December mornings. I had a gnawing feeling to remove the block of ice from under his neck, I could obviously not stir.
My father’s brother’s epiphany – “He lived on his own terms, nobody dictated anything upon him. Now he is gone”. On the contrary, he would never have liked a block of ice under his neck nor the rituals that were being prepared outside but here we are thrusting them upon him, but all I did was just stand there stupefied.
I looked around at all those who were mourning, those who came to pay homage and those who were completing rituals in the absence of anyone else who was not in shock. We all appeared to be stupefied under a spell. I tried to get some space and cry. I dont know why I stopped crying or expressing myself, I went hysteric when my husband first told me, scaring my 14 month old baby boy, but afterwards I dont know what hit me.
It took me a while to process that I probably realised soon enough about what was coming and my conscience knew it more than I physically realised it. The ominous punch in my stomach feeling, was probably my conscience kicking me into reality, telling me the impending doom that I dreaded for these three years was happening at that very moment, thousands of miles away and I didn’t probably realise dad was putting an end to the depressing days I had been through.
I am not depressed. I am questioning my state of mind, what am I mourning?
Why am I sad? what do we miss when someone passes away? besides their physical absence, what is it that makes us miss them? rather, when do we miss a person? is it when we stop reading their horoscope column or when we sip a cup of coffee without them, or hear their voice in your head reminding you of something from the past? I am not sure if this is what it is to miss a person, if so, I think I started missing him the moment I moved out of his house and not his death now.
This thought didn’t console me enough, I continued to question, what caused me to dread his passing? is it that moment he left or the suddenness in which he left or the vacuum of him gone is causing pain? or the mere fact that I am hurting now is causing me pain and not his actual passing itself? There was a point during the last few weeks that I told myself that mourning is an unexplained state, we are in limbo surely, but it is not debilitating and enquiring the process is going to be of no use other than mere brooding yourself over and over meaninglessly.
A person, whom I love is gone. It causes immense pain, but that does not mean he has to be mourned. I learnt to enjoy his memories. I began to feel, truly feel, that his memories always brought me happiness and such memories can never bring me tears of sadness.
What really brought me sadness was, when I apologised to him three years ago for being the person I am. I believe, I began mourning him then.
On his birthday of 2014, I felt a twinge in my heart I had this urge to call him, wish him and also apologise to him, I did so in fear of him passing before I had the opportunity to apologise. He laughed it off. He said, yes I will go, your mother will go, we all go that is why we are here. You should be like the rocks of Gibraltar to live life the way you want.
He is now gone. I realised, my fear is also gone. I have now come to face the fact of him being gone, I no longer fear that moment. His words remain within me, rings in my head whenever I need him, like he always was there when he was alive – at my beck and call.
To me, personally, my father’s life, in retrospect, has taught me / enabled me to live better. He was unfazed by criticism or even competition for that matter. Many a times, I have stood up against him vehemently for not being aspirational (according to me) much later, I realised it is a sort of peace and calm we all crave. He never fought for anything, he took things in his stride, never claimed anything that was not his, never resented anyone and never regretted his decisions. He carried no pride nor ego it was just him living his life and he left that way too. The learning I took was rather late, the person I am didn’t allow me to see what he was made of until I moved out of his house. Truly, he was stronger than he looked or seemed. I fear, not being the person he intended me to be whilst he was alive, but I don’t know what is to become of me, I would await my son to tell that to me someday.
I believe, it takes a personal loss to revive in oneself their true capability, be it of love, or be it of perseverance – in what gets revived is where the departed live eternally. I do not know if any thing that gets revived in me would salvage my father’s soul or if I even stand a chance in doing so, but what I do believe is love is present, that always burns alone, however steadfast. I love you Appa.
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