Dear Dad,
The other day I wanted to pick up the phone and call you. I dialed the familiar digits of where we lived and then stopped. Even now, almost 5 years later, my footing slips because I forget that I am living in a world without you in it.
There is so much I miss. That part of the grief never goes away. I miss the little things. Calling you and saying hello. Talking politics with you. Arguing with you about the most obscure and unimportant mindless minutiae. Going to Braum’s and watching you eat your favorite ice cream, butterscotch. You loved using catch-phrases like, “You know, something like that, roundabout, and whatever happens, happens.” Remembering some of those quirks saddens me because I will only witness those as a memory.
In the last year, I’ve thought about how you navigated your illness and how alone you probably felt during all of those chemo treatments, radiation, and countless doctor appointments. Although you were physically surrounded by the ones that you loved, no one could really fathom what you were going through. How everyday for over 4 years you faced varying shades of your mortality. You never really talked about dying. We were focused on keeping you alive, despite the pain that followed you before,during, and after the treatments. I know we were all afraid of the inevitable and could not offer you the support that you wanted. But a part of me, asks, how could we know what you were going through? We couldn’t. And you were handicapped in explaining the depths of your battle. The regrets. The missing out of your own living. The witnessing of your loved ones moving forward. There were no choices. You had to go alone. We had to move forward. Even while you were dying, we were all moving forward.
I think so much about those days where your mind, despite the metastasis, remained sharp. You comprehended that we were there to support and comfort you, but as we extended our arms, you kept moving out of our reach. As much as we tried to help, we kept abandoning you over and over again. It was not intentional, but what we were trying to navigate had no defined lines. We all did the best we could.
I miss you so much, Dad. There is a part of me that can never go back to who I was before. I carry this grief. Everyday. It is the only way I know how to accept this version of my life. I keep holding on. To the grief. Your final days. And the fact that everyday, if you have the ability to breathe, walk, eat, and laugh it is a good day. I never knew that goodness before your passing. And for this wisdom, Dad, I thank you.
Love, Rudri
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
This is so sweet and so sad, but why are you holding on to the grief? Let go of the grief and try to hold on to their life and memories. The grieving process takes years and it’s just part of the process – I can’t even imagine what you’re experiencing but hope you find peace one day at a time Rudri. Have a great weekend – Iva
Iva,
Thanks for your wishes. I tend to focus on losing my father, but push my more happier memories of him to the side. Your suggestion is one that I need to work on. I appreciate your candor.
Beautiful!
Thank you, Windy. xoxo
My husband died from cancer this past November. Your words expressed my feelings and those of my children. My tears flowed when I read them. I feel that life goes on and when I feel a wave of grief, I let it come; cry and mourn , and move on. ….kinda like a hot flash, a sudden great idea…whatever. This is life. My husband told me that I must continue to live my life. However, I cherish the time and memories of 54 years of marriage.
Elaine,
I am so sorry for your loss. Your metaphor is apt. Accepting our loss is the anchor in the grieving process. It doesn’t mean that we cannot reshift our gaze to the more happier memories. Wishing you peace and healing, Elaine.
Rudri, I cannot pretend to understand what you are going through, and what you have been going through all these years, but your words teach me something huge every time I read them and they also express so well the thoughts and fears that I do have, about losing my parents one day. Right now we are watching my elderly father-in-law in a state of rapid decline and I wonder how he is grappling with his mortality while watching the rest of his family move in different directions in life. We are so far geographically and much less close emotionally and are not providing nearly the same amount of support that you and your family did for your father. I wonder what this does to him, or how he is processing all of this.
I can appreciate every bit of pain that you are feeling each day, that ache that things will never be the same, and I can relate so well in my own fears. I hope that in time you will be able to find some greater peace. Please keep writing as much as you need to to process your grief.
Cecilia,
Thanks so much for your kind thoughts. You point out something very important. When I lost my father, I struggled with people who did not seem to understand what happened to him and my family. I grappled with his loss; others pushed the mute button. I now realize it wasn’t because they didn’t want to help, but they were trying to process information that they couldn’t fathom because they didn’t experience such a loss. It took me a long time to realize that people cannot comfort if they are unable to relate to the experience, especially those that center around mortality.
I am sorry to hear about your father-in-law. I know that it is tough. My mother and my grandmother were separated by continents and experienced the ax of geography as she heard about her mother’s rapid decline.
Thank you for encouraging me to write out my grief. It certainly helps. xoxo
Rudri, such beautiful and true sentiments that resonate with me. The grief is always with us on some days we feel it sharper and on other days it’s right beneath the surface but it’s always with us. These days when I feel the sharp pain, I try to take a deep breath and as I wipe my tears, I smile. I am grateful for what we had and for what we have. My thoughts are with you. xoxo
Thanks, Ayala, for such a heartfelt and tender message. I know you understand the trials of this kind of grief. Gratitude helps ease some of the discomfort.
Beautiful!
Thank you.
I love how much you love your dad.