“For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?
But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?
How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time.” – C.S. Lewis
Nine years ago, on March 22, I lost my father. The three weeks leading up to his death were filled with the uncertainty of the certain: labored breath, decreased oxygen levels, shingles, multiple visits by the palliative care doctor, abrupt, intense interruptions in the middle of the night with early morning wake-up calls. His moments became a closed maze of time, day and night indistinguishable from one another since he didn’t have the energy to sit up to drink tea or read the paper or walk to the restroom.
He slept on a hospital bed in my old room. In a brief flash I saw a movie reel of my childhood – a desk where my father often coached me on an algebra problem and the small corner where he told me to keep moving forward after a few friends left me out of plans. We had some knock-out fighting matches in this room too, moments where we sat on opposite ends of the cultural spectrum, my American upbringing and his East Indian roots. The clashes were epic. But I loved this quality about my father. He owned what he said even if no one else agreed with him.
The shift from childhood to adulthood seemed sudden, but of course, it wasn’t. The cliché is true. We don’t pay attention to what we’ve lost until it is gone and hard truths are born in retrospect. Nine years later when I reflect on my father’s final weeks, I remember how the smell of Glade vanilla air freshener took vigil on a nightstand next to his bed. I constantly fluffed his pillow while asking,”Dad, are you ok?”, and when he answered in silence, I rearranged his medications on a dresser. I flitted about the room like a hummingbird, to discover a place to land. I didn’t sit with him because this meant acknowledging the inevitable. Instead, I busied myself, convincing myself that taking care of his practical needs could somehow prevent his fall from the high wire. This, I know now, is denial. I didn’t have the words to console or comfort him in those last days. But how could I? I wasn’t ready to let him go. Even now, it is difficult to comprehend his absence.
I’ve turned my grief inward. I talk less about my dad to others and over the past few years I haven’t written about my grief in this space. There is an irreparable, irrevocable brokenness that arrives when you lose someone you love. This loss becomes a part of you and flows through your marrow.
I haven’t talked to my father in 3,285 days. And now I remember how I didn’t sit with him in those last weeks. So my wish for all that visit this space is to sit with the people you love. That not only know you, but get you. Really sit with them. Listen to what they have to say. Ask questions you want answered. Have difficult conversations, laugh at silly jokes, make fun of one another and tell the people you love of their significance in your life. Do these things as life is happening, not while it is ending.
I miss talking to my father every single day. As C.S. Lewis asks, “How often — will it be for always?”
Yes.
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.
As I think you know, I relate to every word of this. I’m sorry for your loss, and for mine, and that we’re both in this together. It’s a dark wood, but I do keep coming back to how I’m grateful he was my dad. I can tell you feel the same way. xoxo
Thank you, Lindsey. I know you understand. xo
I’m so sorry for the loss of your Dad. Denial is an easier space to live in at the moment for sure. I am inspired to intentionally sit with those I love more often after your writing. Thank you for sharing your heart and truth!
Amy,
Thanks for stopping by and letting me know my words resonated with you.
Many hugs to you, Rudri. This is a beautiful and heart-breaking meditation on your grief.
Luanne,
Thank you.
Can’t wait to catch up with you.
xo
Beautiful. I used to write more about my father and every now and then, it spills out again. I’m glad to honor those feelings in my blog and so glad you do too.
Here’s to really sitting with those that we love. xoxo
I didn’t know how my grief would feel in this 9th year without my Dad, but I gave myself permission to write about it. I am so glad I did. Thank you for your kind words, Tamara. xo
I am so sorry, Rudri. We were blessed to be loved the way they loved us. My thoughts and prayers are with you. Xoxo
Thank you Ayala for your kind words and support as we both work though our grief. xo
I love the honesty with which you write about him, your relationship, and the lessons learned. Holding space for you. xo
Thank you, Kristen. xo
This is a beautiful reminder to sit with those we love. Thank you for this, Rudri. I’m listening.
Thanks for you love and support. And for always listening. xoxo
Oh, Rudri. You know I feel this kind of pain. This is a beautiful and wrenching post. I talk less about my mother, too, but I think about her just as much as I used to, maybe even more. They travel with us, our parent shadows, and every now and then I feel like I almost catch a glimpse. I had a dream about my mom the other night, she was healthy and whole, and she was helping me pay for a hair cut. I thanked her with a hug and we laughed together. Totally mundane, but it felt like such a gift. I’m wishing you dreams about your father where you sit beside him and talk, and talk, and talk. xo
Dana,
Having read your words I feel less alone. That dream you had about your mother brought tears to my eyes. Yes, to more of those dream moments for both of us. Thanks for sharing these thoughtful insights about your grief journey. xo
Rudri,
This piece stopped me today. I have been turning it over in my mind for hours. On the eve of my grandmother’s birthday, I feel her loss as deeply as I did thirty-five years ago. Thank you for continuing to write about the mystery and devastation of grief.
Susan,
Thanks for letting me know that this piece resonated with you. Grief is such a puzzle – the moment you think it is in the rearview mirror, you remember all over again. Sending hugs. xo