Oak Tree to Acorn

They say that losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to a person. And I believe them. As a mother, the thought is unfathomable. How do you live with a part of you missing? There are no words to console a grieving parent and there shouldn’t be. Nothing you can say will ever make them feel better, or help deal with the pain. But, that’s not what this piece is about. It’s about losing a parent.

When I was 11, a dear friend lost his father and I could not conceive of a life without mine. I cried my eyes out and all Papa could say was, “But, I’m still here. You still have me”. That made me cry harder. What would I do if he ever left me? As an 11-year-old, I didn’t think I’d survive a day without him. That sentiment remained with me till I was 32. Then he died. He just left. This strong, wise, funny, oak-tree of a man was gone. His wit was legendary. His compassion even more. From 600 kms away, my mother called to tell me he was on the ventilator. But I knew. I knew I’d never hear his baritone and the endearing names he’d make up for me. I knew I’d never walk into my parents’ house again and see him reading a book, dressed impeccably, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, his silver hair gleaming. I held my 3-year-old the entire flight back home, crying. She slept soundly while I wept. I was holding a piece of me in my arms, but I had lost a larger part of me.

The 11-year-old me resurfaced. All my fears about not being able to go on without him were not irrational. The pain of losing him hurt physically. I remember every minute of his funeral. The sheer amount of people in attendance was mind-boggling. It was as if no one could believe he had gone, and they had all turned up to see for themselves. I wasn’t alone in my disbelief. Yet, I was the only one in my consuming grief. My little girl kept asking for her Nanu and I had to make my peace with the fact that she’d have to grow up without his wisdom in her ears. Without his advice. Without him.

Staring at life without Papa and a long-drawn divorce and custody battle, I felt ambushed. It was just round one of the biggest fight of my life and without my greatest supporter. But somehow I found the strength to push back. Years of litigation followed, but I never thought of giving up or backing out. My prayers were punctuated with sobs, and my Bible pages stuck together with the tears that fell on them. I pushed on. He would have wanted me to.

After 6 long years of standing my ground, stubborn like my father, I won. I got my divorce and my child was old enough to understand what it entailed. It was Win-Win. Papa wasn’t physically present to see me win. He wasn’t waiting for me outside the grimy court. He wasn’t there to shake my spectacular lawyer’s hand and thank her. He wasn’t at home expecting me to walk in the door with the best news he’d heard since the birth of my child. But he was there. 1708 days after I lost him, I walked out of that court, victorious. The strength it took to not falter, not waiver, not give in, not yield, could have come only from his testimony. His faith, his trust, his immovable belief that what we ask for we receive, was in me. When we ask of a Living God. He answers.

My oak tree had gone, but he’d left his strength behind for his acorn…

Loss

You will never be "old enough" to handle the loss of a parent. You shouldn't be expected to. How do you cope with the loss of a part of you? How you do come to terms with the realisation that your parent will never see your little daughter grow up?

I lost my father 2 months ago and I haven't grieved for him. Not because I wasn't close to him or being a parent myself, I'm old enough to handle it, but because the minute I break down and sob for him is the moment I will have to let him go. And I'm not ready to do that. Letting him go will be the most difficult thing I will ever do and I know I do not have the strength for that. 

I am the second of two daughters. Indians are largely son-crazy and my father was the happiest man alive with my sister and I. He never desired a son, nor did he rue that one of us wasn't a boy. It's tradition for Indian men to distribute sweets the day they become fathers. Very few do this when they become fathers the second time... to a second girl. He did. 

The loss is unbearable. Like an open wound that will not heal, that will not close, that will not let you forget that that part of you is not whole. There is no how-to for this. No quick fix. No five stages of grief. Nothing. It's sorrow at its darkest and worst. The light in this is the privilege of being the daughter of a man who respected her, loved her, protected her and will not leave her.