Things Death Teaches You
Today marks 12 years since my dad passed and I had some thoughts.
1. Take a lot of videos.
Pictures are fantastic, and smartphones have made taking them so easy. But videos—where you can hear voices, see mannerisms, and watch smiles widen—well, they can’t be matched.
I cherish those videos of my dad from Christmas mornings now. He was always the one stuck using scissors and screwdrivers to open boxes and free toys from their impossible packaging. Meanwhile, my kids had torn off the wrapping paper and already moved on to the next box. But he was always there, finishing the job because inevitably, after every box was unwrapped, the kids would come back to retrieve their toys.
Even the videos of him in his hospital bed, imparting some piece of advice, are like little pieces of treasure that I can’t hold on to tightly enough.
He knew he was dying. And maybe he knew these little gems were what would get us through the years after he was gone.
2. Even the most insignificant person has an effect on other people.
Obviously, when my dad died, the people who knew him were sad. His friends, his coworkers, his family. The people who had known him felt the large, gaping hole left by his absence.
But to quote the angel Clarence from my sister’s favorite Christmas movie: “Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?”
I think about the bank clerk who used to comment on my dad’s kind smile when he came in on Fridays to deposit his paycheck, back before the days of direct deposit. She used to say it brightened her day so much.
What happened to her the first Friday my dad didn’t come in?
Or the patient who may have been comforted by him bringing an extra warm blanket to their bed. Do they still remember that small act of kindness? Did it make their time being tested any easier?
After my dad died, I asked our circle of friends not to send flowers, but rather to call their own dads.
Did people do it?
And how did it affect their respective dads when they heard their child’s voice on a random Tuesday night, calling for no reason at all?
My dad affected more people than he ever knew.
3. It’s inevitable and irreversible.
Ben Franklin said, “Nothing is certain but death and taxes.” Well, listen, I’m not even sure how certain taxes are for some people. Ben Franklin didn’t know about offshore accounts and IRS deductions.
But death?
That’s a different story.
It’s inevitable. And the part that always gets me is that it’s irreversible.
You can’t pray it away. You can’t make deals with God—or her counterpart, for that matter.
When 11:11 comes around and it’s time to make a wish, there is no point in death away.
Death will not be deterred.
Nope. When it’s coming, it’s coming.
Even in the darkest times, we are told that it’s always possible to have a glimmer of hope. But when it comes to death, is there hope?
4. Grief is constantly changing.
Most days, I’m okay. Honestly, today I am okay. Twelve years is a long time to have learned to grieve and be okay with my feelings.
But my sister reminded me this morning that I watched the COMEDY Don’t Say Good Luck and sobbed (partial spoiler).
Listening to the Hindi song Chitthi Aai Hai (translation: “the letter has come”) can still turn me into a mess. The song carries me back to a moment when my parents would open the blue aerograms from their families in India with such excitement and longing.
One of my first reminders that even parents are human and have feelings. And one of many times I would see my dad cry.
So yes, I am okay.
And there are moments when I am not okay.
There are moments when I cry so hard it feels like that first day without him. There are days I curse him because he left when I wasn’t ready.
And there are lighter times, like this morning, when my sister, my husband, and I reminisced about his quirkiest moments.
I’ve learned that grief doesn’t disappear.
It changes. It hides. It surprises you.
Sometimes it waits in the shadows and then shows up because of a movie, a song, or a rainy morning.
5. Be more present in the moment.
I wrote about this a few weeks ago (https://www.rx4trauma.com/post/the-way-i-survived). One of my biggest regrets was not being emotionally present when my dad was sick.
I was present. Just not in the way I wished I had been.
Granted, I know that was my method of survival and probably the only way I got through those months of chemotherapy, hospital visits and pain management. It was much easier to focus on medical solutions, contingency plans, and what we were going to do next.
But I wish I had more moments where I was simply sitting with him.
I wish I had held his hand more.
I wish I had leaned into the crook of his arm.
He was so small, and yet his embraces felt so big.
I wish I had asked for more hugs.
And I would hope that, in the last twelve years, I have learned to be more emotionally present. Not all the time. Sometimes life just sweeps you by the legs and carries you away.
But the memories of my dad keep me anchored in the here and now.
6. Empathy grows out of death.
If you have lost a parent, you are one of my people. Always.
I know a piece of your grief. Not all of it. I would never assume that. Everyone’s grief is different.
But I know a small piece of it, and for that, we are bonded into a group that neither of us ever asked to be a part of.
Grief is hard.
But grief can also breed connection.
And that is something.
Something good that comes out of one of the worst days of our lives.
7. Rainy days are good for grief.
My dad sent some rain today.
Not because he wanted me to spend all day mourning him.
No.
He did it so I would slow down today.
Maybe get a Starbucks chai to match the weather outside. Lay under a blanket. Maybe watch a TV show.
And just be.
I know he would tell me not to be sad. And I know he would know that I am still going to be sad.
But given how he was always working quietly in the background of my life, he somehow created the perfect setting for today.
So today, I think I’ll let myself be a little sad.
And maybe I’ll have that chai.
Watch a little West Wing.
And pretend he is sitting on the couch next to me.
Comments