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Illustration by Catherine Chan
I recently lost my dad.
In four short days, he went from video-calling me about how his legs were regaining strength to dying from apparent septic shock. That’s the long and short of the shocking sequence that unravelled.
I live in Canada; he was in India. When he was moved to the ICU, I braved chaotic Christmastime flight logistics to fly out. I landed in Mumbai at 4 a.m. on Dec. 25. He died at 11:30 the night before. I got the phone call as I landed – stunned in my seat, holding back tears while the pilot made an announcement about the weather outside
Instead of getting home to see my dad or supporting my mum, I walked through the airport to catch my domestic connection and shopped for appropriate funeral clothes and shoes. It felt unreal – operating on autopilot, suspended between tears and phone calls. I have no recollection of who I spoke to during those three hours.
What followed was hugging my brother and mother and wailing at my dad to come back through the crematorium gates.
Long-distance calls with my parents can be about nothing, but they’re also about everything
Culturally, our family observes 13 days of mourning, accompanied by several small and large rituals. But the priest demoted my window of mourning to just three days – because I was married and therefore technically “not family.” It hit differently. I wanted to scream in angst. It felt as though, just because my father had died, I had lost proof of what he meant to me. I wanted to yell at him for leaving. Did it even matter?
Papa was an accomplished doctor, but I never took over his practice. After his death and at all the gatherings that followed, I was subjected to unnecessary – though apparently well-meaning – taunts about how I had failed as a child. That I hadn’t chosen to become a doctor. That I had “ditched my duties” by becoming a long-distance daughter. I knew Papa never felt what they presumed – but the one person who would have defended me without question was gone.
Loss rearranges everyone’s reality. My mom’s eyes sparkle less. She carries a look – trying to be happy, but profoundly sad and tired at the same time. I hate it. My younger brother, always treated as the child of the family, suddenly felt much older – taking on the responsibilities of rituals as the son, along with the endless paperwork that followed. One tragedy, and the course of all our lives shifted permanently. My childhood home, the only place where I slept at peace, now felt ghostly silent. The echoes of my Papa’s memories kept me up for weeks.
Sometimes a little absurdity is just what you need when you’re grieving
Grief now hits at random moments – like staring out of my window at inefficient snow removal and windrows. It’s exactly the kind of thing I would have shown my hyper-curious dad. He would have had so many opinions on how to make it better.
We spoke almost every day. I’d collect anecdotes, stories and incidents just to share with him – political takes, real-life problems or fluffy, scandalous gossip. We’d discuss, debate and often end up laughing over the most inane things. I slept better knowing he knew my life – where I was, what I was doing, where I was headed. The long-distance parenting guilt assuaged.
My brain is still collecting those stories but I don’t know where to put them.
At his funeral, alongside the judgment I felt from family and friends, I also heard countless stories about my dad. Strangers he’d struck up conversations with, patients he helped, friends he supported, relatives he regularly checked in on. His gym buddies told us how he’d make the owner turn off the rock music and switch to traditional ghazal music – and for that hour, the gym became a ghazal space. No one minded. He was friends with everyone, regardless of age.
Dad was my rock – even while battling his own demons through depression and cancer. One of the last conversations I had with him was him asking if I was ever going to write about how awesome he is. So here I am, doing what he asked. There will never be another person who knows my feelings the way he did. The void is soul-crushing, but his larger-than-life legacy, his love and his unconditional belief in me will always be my beautiful northern lights in the dark.
I feel privileged and deeply proud that I was his daughter in this life.
Prarthna Nagar lives in Edmonton.