Let go and move on. And shut up.

Today is October 4th. The day my father passed away 4 years ago. As the years pass by, I find it easier to deal with my loss but I still struggle on and around this day. I become cranky, withdrawn and introspective. I try to find a connection with my dad by doing a "havan" on the morning of October 4th, and by making his favorite food for dinner. I try not to miss him, his soft laugh and rough touch. I try to remember what he taught me and how much he loved me. I try to bring up a picture of him in my mind – that disarming smile, thick black/grey hair, broad forehead. Sometimes, instead, I see the image of him standing next to my mom, withered and tired – this was when he visited me for the first time after he had just recovered from a stroke. My mind wanders on to the painful fact that I listened to him and did not go to India when he was hospitalized for his surgery. I could at least have met him, touched him, and talked to him one last time. He told me to stay home because M needed me. That he will be fine and back home in no time. I was a fool to listen to him.

This is also the day when I feel the loneliest on the planet even though I have J with me and he stays home to do the havan with me. Human mind is such that it always craves the unattainable. That "unattainable" thing for me is a phone call from my family to let me know that they are thinking of me, even though I am so far from them, while they have all gotten together to pay homage to my dad. I call them on the evening of the 3rd, when it is already the morning of 4th at their end. They are usually getting ready to do a havan themselves - cleaning, getting ready, setting things up. We chat briefly and then hang up amidst promises of them calling me the next morning when it is the 4th at my end.

On the morning of the 4th, J and I get ready, clean out the place where we are going to do the havan (usually the garage because it has been raining on this day for the last three years), drop the girls off at school, come back and get everything ready - all the while keeping an ear open for the phone, hoping that it will ring sometime soon. That it will be my mother or brother calling to let me know that even though I might be physically alone, thousands of miles away from them, they are with me in thought and spirit. The call never comes. That is one thing I can count on – that I will never receive that one call on this particular day, when I need it the most. I must learn to cope on my own.

A few friends, to whom I vented about this, consoled me by saying they perhaps “freeze up” at the thought of making this call, it must hurt so much. I can understand that, and at the same time I don’t. I understand that it can hurt terribly, that their grief probably paralyzes them. But, I can’t understand why someone would not think of a loved one’s hurt and keep his (or her) own hurt aside for a few minutes. Can it be that difficult? If my daughter told me how it hurts that I don’t call her on the one day that she feels utterly lonely, I think I WOULD remember to call her from then on even if my own grief was killing me.

Maybe I am making a big deal out of it unnecessarily. I should count my blessings. My mom loves me dearly, and so does my brother. I have spent the entire day today reminding myself of this. If my mom didn't love me, she wouldn't close down her own home for 4 months to come live with me. If my brother didn't love me, his face wouldn't light up when we meet. People can love you and still be thoughtless sometimes. I have to learn to accept that. I should just let it go and move on. But moving on is such a hard thing to do! There should be an app for that.

Is there an app for that?

You ever been in a situation where grief just piled up inside you and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't find the release button? Where the frustration is so bad you want to cry, and a good cry is exactly what you need, but the tears just won't come?

I'm there.

Ma's birthday is coming up and such occasions just make me miss Pa with an intensity that won't fit any scales. I become a confused jumble of thoughts and emotions. That's where I am. Been trying hard to get away from it. I generally have a hard time crying. And I have a hard time crying in front of others. That has been the main problem so far - I can't find a quiet place to sit with my thoughts and have a good cry. Where does one go for that? Is there an app for that? Let me know.

A decision that I regret to this day

This is difficult to write about, but I think I must - for my own peace of mind. I need to get this load off my mind.

When my father passed away quite unexpectedly a little over two years ago, and I rushed to be by my mother 's side, a little thought loomed large in my mind. I wanted to be as much a part of my father's final rites as my brother would be. I wanted to go to the "shmashan", and not stay at home, like women are supposed to. I wanted to do what girls in our society are not allowed to, normally. I wanted to do at least that much for my dad. I knew I would face comments and resistance from outsiders but I was determined not to pay attention to them. I was determined I will be a part of my father's last rites.

People would have stopped me - but I don't care about them anyway. Their words wouldn't have mattered. My brother didn't mind. His wife, whom I came to love with all my heart during those days, encouraged me and promised me she would defend my right to do so if I wanted to do it. I don't know how my mother would have reacted, because I never asked her. I have a suspicion that my father might have frowned upon it because he was like that - he worried about "society" sometimes. Other family members might have tried to dissuade me from going, but they didn't matter. The only ones who mattered were my brother, his wife and my mother.

When the time came for the funeral procession to proceed, I copped out.

First I said I wanted to be by my mother's side for support. I really did mean it. My brother's wife said she would stay with my mom so I can go. Then I said I didn't want to go because I wouldn't be able to stand seeing my dad going up in flames. Somewhere in my heart, I also dreaded the confrontation that would ensue with all assorted friends and family telling me not to go. They were already trying to dictate what I should or shouldn't do. I was told not to touch anything in the kitchen because I "didn't belong to this family anymore". I was told not to touch the diya that would be lighted in front of my dad's picture in the evening. My sister-in-law stood fast by me and stubbornly had me do everything that I was told not to do. Her point? "No one can ever say that you are not a part of this family. You are as much a part of this family now as you were before you got married". It was then that I truly fell in love with that girl. But that is another post.

Where was I? Ah! Confrontation. Don't get me wrong - I didn't mind the confrontation. I just didn't want to create any more grief for my mother. I was afraid the confrontation would hurt her if she thought I was disrespecting my dad's wishes. My brother and his wife respected my wishes and didn't force me one way or another after that. These days I often wonder if I stayed back because I had a valid reason or because was a chicken. I can't decide. One regret that I do have is that I could have gone with my brother and been a support for him, and I lost that chance. He'd had a knee surgery just days before and could hardly walk, leave alone climb any stairs, which I believe he had to do that day. Our cousins went with him so he wasn't alone. But I still wonder if it would have made any difference for him if I had gone. 

I still regret that decision. It wasn't an earth shattering decision but every time I think about how I have defied the societal norms in many matters, I remember this one occasion when I bowed to them. But I am still confused over whether I should have gone or not. I didn't want to go just to make a point. I am beyond that stage in life where I would want to do something just because society doesn't approve or because I want to show people that women can do whatever they set their minds to. I know I can do whatever I set my mind to and that is enough for me - I don't need to demonstrate that to others.

I made the choice to not go because I had the choice. My brother didn't have a choice. THAT is what bothers me the most. I copped out because I had a choice but I should have sucked it up and been there for my brother who had no choice but to go through the heart wrenching moments on his own. I am sorry for that.

The hurt stays

The pain dulls

Eyes dry up

Your smile comes back,

and the dreams get easier

on your heart too.

You laugh again

and enjoy the festive times.

You forget the what-if's

and even forgive destiny

for taking him away so suddenly,

without giving you a chance to say goodbye.

 You remember him fondly

and recall the funny things he said or did.

You tell your daughters stories

of you and him.

You remember his gentle touch,

rough hands

and the  warm, soft hug,

even the sweet, serene voice.

You take contentment

from the fact that he didn't suffer.

You look at the survivors he left behind -

They seem to be doing fine.

The world is still the same.

People still go to work, children to school

They still eat, laugh, love and have fun.

They still throw parties,

go to the beach, fruit picking and

the movies.

But you have changed.

You might not be sad anymore, the tears have dried up

and the laughter returned.

But the hurt stayed,

and changed you forever.

I still miss you,

I just don't talk so much about missing you any more. It has been 1 year, 5 months, a week and a day. It still hurts but the hurt is a part of me. I don't notice it most times.

I am watching "3 Idiots". I laugh at the jokes. Then I think how you would have loved the movie. I miss you.

I am taking a shower. I have the sniffles. I suddenly remember how you used to scold me for taking showers late at night and then falling sick. My tears blend with the water. I miss you.

I just spoke with a friend who just lost her mother. I am crying for her loss. Suddenly I remember MY loss - you. Now I am crying for my loss. I miss you.

I am entertaining guests at home. We are laughing and joking. Someone praises the rice pulao I have made and I remember how you used to make it much, much better. I miss you.

A friend is talking about the vacation she and her husband took with her parents. I remember how I had thought we would go on a tour of Europe together. I miss you.

I call Ma. My calls to her are twice as frequent and half as long. I miss you.

Another friend talks of her "Baba". I remember I had my "special" name for you - "Pa". Not papa. Not pappa. Pa. Nothing unique, but something I called you. I wish I could call you "Baba" - it sounds so much sweeter. I miss you.

I am driving home. I remember the pride with which I drove you and Ma around town when you both visited us for the first time. I miss you.

I am driving (again). I remember the first time you sat with me in your car while I was driving it. I was new at it. I remember how you didn't say a single discouraging word but clutched the door handle tight until we got home :) I miss you.

You know, Ma bought a new car. Sonu was there when she bought it and they both brought it home. On their way, they stopped at the temple. I know you would have too. Ma - the staunch Arya samaji, who never went to temples of her own accord. Not to worship anyway. Sonu, the staunch atheist. They went to the temple. They miss you too.

I still miss you...

It's been a year, but is there a limit on mourning? Or a way of doing it? I have been quite easy on the mourning rituals. Celebrated some occasions (S' birthday, J's 40th birthday, M's birthday) and didn't celebrate others. I went with what my gut told me - if I felt sad upon thinking of celebrating an occasion, I didn't. Mostly because it was connected to you somehow. Like Diwali and Holi. You enjoyed celebrating them. I didn't feel like celebrating them with you gone. Even now, when the year is up, I am ambiguous about celebrating them. They probably won't be the same now. When you were alive, even with you thousands of miles away, festivals felt like festivals. I have often wondered how, when a loved one leaves us, the whole world seems empty. It didn't matter that you lived thousands of miles away and I got to see you only once every two years. You were here. Now you aren't. And the world seems empty.

On the positive side, I am not so afraid of dying anymore. I believe I will meet you when I do. And any place that you are in, couldn't be scary, right?? So I am not afraid of the other side any more.

I miss you.

All it takes is a few words

She brought up an interesting point in this post. I have been meaning to write along similar lines ever since I lost my dad. This just brought that need to blog about my observations and feelings to the surface.

When Pa died, many friends and family rallied around us to provide support. Even strangers wrote to offer condolences. For that I will be eternally grateful. But many others chose to stay quiet. Many friends and relatives chose not to call me or my mom. Maybe it didn't occur to them, or they didn't know what to say. A childhood friend didn't visit me or mom for days. He came just a couple of days before I was to leave. Only one of J's cousins took the trouble to find my number and call me to offer his condolences. The rest, even though they knew my dad had expired suddenly, kept away. Even some close (so-called) family members haven't said even two words to me about it. Yet. That hurt me deeply. Still does. I have always maintained - don't keep in touch with me during good times, I'll still remember you and be your friend. Avoid calling me during tough times, when you KNOW I am going through them, you lose me. On the other hand - I will forget every wrong you have done me if you extend that helping hand or lend that listening ear in times of need. Selfish, I know. But that is how I am.

I have observed that we Indians (in particular) are experts at avoiding discussions about our loss. I needed to vent my feelings of loss. I needed someone to talk to. I desperately needed to cry and let it all out. But no one would let me. Anyway, thank God for J. He let me do all of the above. When I came back, I noticed that friends always paused for a second if I mentioned anything funny about my dad or the fun times we had when we were little, or even anything about his sudden demise. Maybe they took the time to figure out how to respond - laugh when it is certainly time to grieve?? Will I take an offence? Would they say something inappropriate by mistake? I did appreciate this thoughtfulness on their part but a part of me wanted for someone to come up and share their memories of my father. I wanted to feel that connection. I know it was too much ask of friends who probably had never dealt with this situation ( a friend losing a parent suddenly and tragically).

In the days following immediately after Pa's death, we (Ma, my brother, cousin, assorted uncles and aunts and visiting friends) would frequently bring up fond memories of Pa and laugh about them. Somehow it felt cathartic. It felt like we had lost him but the memories will be ours forever. 

This is something I have noticed - humor makes you heal faster (after a loss). In Jan 2006, when I had to undergo an MTP, I was devastated. I would cry all the way on my drive to office and back. I would cry all day IN office. I would cry myself to sleep oftentimes. I still feel a twinge on or around September 3rd - the would-have-been due date. Even after I have had another baby, I cannot forget the one I lost. I don't think any mother can. But slowly I started making occasional light comments. e.g. I told one friend what a total waste of labor pains it had been when the Tylenol I took didn't work and I could feel every contraction that was being brought on by the drugs given to induce a miscarriage. [Really - the contractions felt like labor pain. The only difference was that they were limited to a very small area compared to a full-term pregnant belly] It is then that I realized that I was getting over that loss a little bit. 

Now, even before MM wrote her post, I had figured out why people behaved the way they did. Loss makes them uncomfortable. It brings them face-to-face with their own possible loss. Or maybe they don't know how to comfort the grieving party. Or they are afraid they'd say or do something to hurt the feelings of the person suffering the loss. I don't always know what to say to the near and dear ones of someone who has passed away. But that doesn't stop me from picking up the phone. I recently lost my Bua. It was tough finding the words to talk to my phupha about it so I just cried with him over the phone. What I mean to say is - if someone you know has lost someone or suffered a misfortune, don't stay away even if you don't know what to say. Just be there. That will be enough. Or say how sorry you are for their loss. Or, if words fail you, send a card or an email. I know emails are considered rude but when I wrote about Pa's death, I received a number of emails from people I didn't even know. They just read my blog and took out the time to write a few lines. That gave me comfort and strength. Made me feel I was not alone. In tough times, I would take an email from you any day over your silence. Anything that shows me that you care.

MM wrote about miscarriages in particular. But her commenters added death of children to that list. And I am adding ANY kind of loss or misfortune. Because I have seen that people do hesitate in discussing loss. The day I announced my pregnancy (at another friend's baby shower - I was showing already) and mentioned that I conceived through IVF, a hush fell over the table. I don't blame anyone for that. People just aren't used to sharing such details. Infertility treatments, I assume, carry a stigma with them (from the way I have seen people react to the mention of them back home). I don't know why. Why anyone would object to, or turn their nose up at, a means of getting that sweet, cuddly baby when all else has failed, is beyond me. Maybe, going through the process has given me the required shamelessness. I still remember the silence at the other end of the line when I told a friend about my pregnancy over the phone and mentioned that the IVF procedure had taken a toll at me mentally and physically. Thankfully no one was insensitive enough to suggest that I hadn't done enough (like stand on my head?) to conceive or that I couldn't conceive because I had delayed getting pregnant. I would have bashed their head in.

When, after the first round of IUI, I conceived we rejoiced. And told our family. And then during the first ultrasound we found no heartbeat. We actually found nothing. There was a black void where the fetus should have been. The gestational sac was a black, disintegrating emptiness instead of being a round gray/black/white image of a peanut pounding away like a horse running on a wooden deck. I remember I had subconsciously realized that things were not right a day before. I woke up and realized, with a start, that I hadn't gotten up even once during the night time to go to the bathroom and that I hadn't been feeling dead tired for the last 2-3 days. My heart sank and then the fears were confirmed in the cold ultrasound room the next day. 

All I remember from those days now is the people who rallied around me. Who provided comfort through their words or actions. The HR Director of the company I used to work for, poked her head into my office one day and said "I admire your courage" (I was trying to work through the labor-like contractions that were induced by the drug for MTP. I took it on a Thursday, expected it to start working on Friday and be done with everything by Sunday. Didn't happen that way - I had to take another dose on Monday). What I mean to say is, the littlest of gestures during some one's tough times goes a long way. So, don't hesitate. Pick up the phone or reach out with that hug. 

When I finally conceived after the second IVF and we had confirmed that the fetus was viable at the 8 week ultrasound, we were still scared to celebrate. We didn't tell anyone for almost three months. But then I realized that even if this pregnancy failed, I would like to have celebrated it while it lasted. Because I WILL mourn it for the rest of my life if it failed. So J and I went out for  a movie and dinner. I wanted to shout out from the rooftops, but I was too superstitious after my previous loss. If I had to do it all over again, I'd tell close friends from the beginning. Because a hard-earned pregnancy, however short lived, deserves to be celebrated.

And remember humor? I used it throughout this pregnancy. It helped keep me sane otherwise I would have died of worry. I told people I had to undergo IVF because we had been diagnosed with idiopathic infertility - that is when idiots (like us) who already have a child, can't conceive (because they forgot what to do!) I demonstrated how I used to take my IVF shots (Close eyes, Point, JAB!) because, even after 300+ IVF shots I gave myself during two IVF cycles, I was (and am) still scared of needles. I used to joke that I would make a lousy junkie. All this (and J and support of friends and family) did help me get through all that. But most of all, through ALL my losses and misfortunes, the thing that has carried me is my friends and their support, J and HIS support and love and support from my family. 

So don't hesitate - do call and say "I am SO sorry for your loss" if a friend needs to hear it. I know, I still hold a grudge against some people who didn't, and then (4 months) later tried to cover it up by saying something lame like "oh yes - I heard about your dad. Sorry, huh?!" in the middle of some other conversation. Or "I would have called you but I didn't have your number". The same person magically found our number two weeks ago when she needed us and called us at midnight. DUDE!! At least show some compassion by either saying it sincerely or keep your trap shut! Oh well. At least they are better than people who didn't call me, not even on Diwali which was SUPER tough for me emotionally, and then complained that I didn't call them on Diwali or Hindu New Year. Yeah riiiiiight!! I am SO sorry for being so rude. NOT! Why am I writing all this here? Because it is my blog? To finally get rid of the hurt that comment caused.

I know I have rambled. I won't apologize for it. I needed all this to come out. I would have loved it if I could make a coherent and sensible post out of it but oh well!!

I am a big girl now

In April '08, I flew to India for my mom's retirement party. All alone. No husband to chaperon me, no children to be chaperoned. A cousin arranged a taxi for me to go to Jaipur (from New Delhi), from where I caught a train to Jodhpur. I had never travelled alone in India so this was a big deal for me. I thought I had finally "grown up". I was a Big girl. It seems I was wrong. Turns out one becomes a Big Girl, or a Big Boy, within moments when one loses a parent.

So, I grew up and became a Big Girl on October 4th, 2008. 11:45 pm IST. Pa was in a hospital (one of the best in the region, by the way), awaiting a bypass surgery which was scheduled for Monday, October 6th, when he experienced a massive heart attack. He was taken to the ICU within three minutes, but nothing could save him. Even in his last moments, he did what he had been doing all his life - worried about his wife, my mother. He told the doctors "Meri wife ka dhyaan rakhna, wo bahut jaldi ghabra jaati hain" [take care of my wife, she gets scared easily] And then he left. Just like that.

He experienced angina pains one morning when he was out on his daily walk. He got chest pains, started sweating and then got nauseous. He rested on a bench for a bit and then walked to a nearby nursing home. There, the doctors administered an ECG and determined he was having angina pains. They had someone drop him off at home with the instructions to rest and see a cardiologist as soon as possible. When he saw one, he was advised to get an angiography done for which he and Ma decided to go to Jaipur. We were all hoping that it would turn out be some minor blockage that could be treated/controlled with medication. But against all hopes, it turned out that he had 90% blockage in three arteries. Bypass surgery was required and one was scheduled as soon as enough blood of his blood group (A-) was secured. This was on Saturday evening. Soon after that he suffered the heart attack.

He was in the hospital (in Jaipur) for 4 days. I spoke to him multiple times every day. Even during all this health scare he was his usual jocular self - he told J that all this was his ploy to get Ma to part with the money she received upon retiring. He told Ma that he was having all the heart trouble due to the stress that was caused by Ma constantly breaking all his records in Mahjong. On the morning of October 4th, he told me he was surprised how much food the hospital gave him - which meant he must have been eating very little earlier (he did lose a few kgs in 15 days).

It is beginning to sink in that I will never see him again. I still remember how his big, rough hands made me feel like a little girl. Even at the age of 38. His awkward hugs made my heart melt. That won't happen again. I will never again hear a message from him saying "Haan Cee, mai bol raha hu.....". I will not hear a "Happy Birthday" or a "Happy New Year" from him ever again. What a price to pay for growing up!!

Grief

It has many faces.

It can be constant crying - punctuated by brief hiccups...

It can be a wail - heart rending, twisting the gut into a tangled ball...

It can be a silence - wrapping one's soul, blocking all external stimuli from coming in...

It can even be hope - that the loved one you have lost is in a better place, maybe reunited with the long-lost mother he never knew and his one and only pet whom he loved just as much as, and sometimes more than, his own daughter...

It can be an ache - that you will never see him again. Or hear him. Or receive emails and birthday e-cards. Or touch him...

It can be a fear - that you will forget him, the sound of his voice, his laugh, his touch...

It can be dry eyes - because you just don't know how to release all those emotions...

It can be a comfort - to know that he didn't suffer. He went just as he had always lived. With dignity...

It can be a puzzle - did he think about you in his final moments? (Yes, I know. A very selfish thought)...

It can be a heartbreak - that you could not do anything even though you COULD have. After all, your blood group was the same as his. He needn't have waited one whole stupid day...

It can be a LOT of memories - of your childhood, of learning from him, of laughing with him, or AT him...

It can be a lesson - to live like he did, love like he did...

It can be a role reversal - comforting others who come from far away to pay their respects...

It can be overwhelming.

I lost my dad, very unexpectedly, on October 4th this year. It is beginning to sink in. And it hurts. A LOT.