A Journey of Pain
Five years ago today, my father passed away. Since then, whenever I talk about him or recall my memories of him, my eyes fill with scalding tears and my heart aches. I can still hear his voice from our last call saying, “I love you.” Honestly, I hesitated before writing about this grieving experience because it’s difficult to find the right words to describe how I feel. However, writing about it is easier than speaking about it. I thought that sharing my emotions with others who are on a similar path, even though everyone’s situation is different, might help me feel connected and understood.
It’s been five years, and I still remember how I received the news and still feel the same pain, as if it never goes away. People say that time heals, but I find this untrue. Time doesn’t heal; it just patches the wounded soul. It never gets easier. When I heard the news of his death, I ran searching for a corner to process it. Then I felt it in my heart and bones. I suffocated and cried. I cried in bed, in the shower, on my way to work, at the gym, and on my way back home. The more I cried, the more I realized that crying was not enough. The pain was so immersive that my thin body couldn’t contain it. The only thing that would have helped was getting out of that body. It felt like my father had been kidnapped. His belongings were exactly where he left them. It still hurts that he spent the last days of his life suffering in the hospital, and I could do nothing for him. I searched inside myself for something to hold on to, but there was nothing except anger.
I became so angry that I feared I would become toxic to others. So I managed to vent my anger through high-energy workouts and writing my thesis. It helped for a while until the day I heard about the death of my advisor. He wasn’t just an advisor; he was my mentor for twelve years, guiding me through my master’s and doctoral degrees, and every stage of my life. The last time we talked, about a month before his death, we agreed on submitting the final version of the dissertation. I was truly honored to have his name on my dissertation. His death freaked me out, and I felt that pain in my heart for the second time. Life became darker. I experienced waves of intense and difficult emotions, ranging from profound sadness, emptiness, and despair to shock and numbness. I resigned myself to the fact that I would never get back on track again. I didn’t want to go on living. I wanted to cut myself off from others and retreat into my shell. But I am blessed with people around me who gave me love and support. They understood my raw emotions and advised me on healthy ways to cope with the anguish and come to terms with grief. So I tried hard to move on and get my degree.
One of the people who kept pushing me forward, without even noticing it, was my father-in-law. At every weekly family meeting, he would ask when I would graduate. He was excited to celebrate my success like any proud father. He had a big plan, and I felt that I wanted to do it for him. I didn’t want to disappoint him. I had lost a father, but I still had another. I was a daughter to him, and I loved him like a father. I felt that I could turn to him for advice and support just as I might have turned to my own father. Two days before my viva, he had a heart attack. I visited him wearing my graduation robe. He was unconscious for two weeks and then he died. I will skip the part of describing how it felt—you can imagine.
I am willing to make peace with death and accept these three tragedies if it stops taking my loved ones. Will it?
