Mom and I miss you dearly. And something you might never have known, and something I’ve never told you, is that none of it was your fault. It never was, and it never would have been. You did your absolute best, and that’s what I always received from you — the best.
These past couple of weeks have been difficult. And it seems it’ll continue to be. Maybe it’s supposed to be. Every nook and corner of this house carries a memory of you that I could never forget… some good, some bad, but tons of memories of you that keep revisiting me. The click of a lighter when someone lights a cigarette, the ringing of the doorbell on late hours of the day, me coming back home from work on weekends, and you getting the door for me, asking us for change to buy yourself cigarettes, these are just a few tiny events that are recurring that keep your memories fresh in my mind.
I think about when you were around, how tough it must have been for you to not be in control of the struggles within you, let alone have people constantly trigger you even when you were being your true self — and yet still find ways to keep working, to keep grinding… even when we kept telling you that you didn’t have to. But you always considerately believed that you should. We know you’d have worked your ass off even if you’d lived to be a hundred.
I think about those days when you’d struggle, and it’d make me anxious before getting home, thinking what state you’d be in. When you were at your calmest, it made me calm. When you were at your darkest, it kept me in darkness. After your diagnosis, I was still anxious, but for a different reason… the “navigating a whole new situation” kind of anxious. I’d come prepared for you — to be there, to be strong enough to take care of you, and to help you stay grounded. In a way, you helped me learn how to put my anxiety aside and step up.
I think about those days when you really enjoyed all that you did. Morning walks, writing, listening to music, reading, smoking, preparing for your next day at work, enjoying eating your favorite food, and attending a family event. Those days were the ones that kept me in my element, at peace and full of joy.
The best that I am, which is not the best yet, is all because of what you gave me. I guess I did pick up quite a lot of your habits. Music, reading, and writing are some of the ones I feel lucky to have inherited from you. And being someone who thinks with their heart at times — which is not always the best way to think — is a good way to live, and you did that better than anyone.
There’s no denying how one feels. And seeing you go through some of those heavier feelings, without people truly understanding you — even some of the people who were supposed to — is something I understand now more than ever. I just wish you didn’t have to carry so much of it alone.
The way you worried about us having to spend money on your diagnosis and treatment tells us everything about how much you cared for us. Any ill wishes you had for anyone came from the demons you were fighting within yourself. Of all the people I’ve known, you were the one most willing to step up for others whenever you could. I only wish more people had stepped up for you when you needed them the most.
This is something I’m still trying to navigate myself. But I guess we were supposed to do what we could regardless of whether others would do the same for us.
The last moments I had with you were special. The short walk we took together. The quick rest on the sidewalk. The fact that instead of asking me for money for a cigarette, you asked me to offer it to the temple. Coming home to rest and eat. Mom making sure you had the best care and the best diet she could give you. You enjoying everyone’s presence around you. I could have had a hundred more days like that with you and still wished for one more.
As of now, Mom and I are doing things to distract ourselves. The house feels empty without you. I keep having dreams about you. This is the heaviest situation I’ve ever had to go through — the not-having-you situation. And I pray every day, with you in my mind, hoping you’re being taken care of the way you should have been all along.
If I could have one more conversation with you, I don’t think I’d ask you any of the questions I’ve spent years wondering about. I’d probably just sit with you, listen to your stories again, hear your laugh, sneak in some cigarettes for you to smoke, change channels on the TV to have you listen to your favorite songs, and tell you that I love you. I’d tell you that despite everything — the good days, the difficult days, the uncertainty — I am grateful that you were my father.
Because of the storms you carried within you, you always kept us guessing.— how would you be today, how would you show up in this moment? And then you did it once again. You kept us guessing. How could you just leave like that? Talking to us one moment, drinking your warm tea the next, and then suddenly, you were gone.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Hamza Ali On Unsplash
