Grief is a love story

It’s been four months since my dad’s passing. When I think about dad, it’s mostly just a thought of a person and everything else is suppressed. Maybe, my mind has a protective mechanism that locks away all memories about dad in a deep dark compartment. If I choose to go deeper, activating the story of losing my dad makes me feel sad. Why go there?

I’m thankful that my brother called me on the night of dad’s passing and told me a story with an arch — daddy enjoyed a beautiful hike in Christchurch that day, he had difficulty breathing later at night, was sent to the hospital, and after the resuscitation, he wasn’t coming back.

Not coming back? What does that mean? Daddy was dead??

Pressing a palm upon my heart, I was at lost for words. My logical mind responded first. I see. That’s okay. I had recently prepped myself for the loss of a parent due to mummy’s health scare, but it was daddy who left us first. That’s okay, I’m okay.

There weren’t any tears until late at night when the weight of grief finally hit like a tsunami.

What was it like to lose a parent to sudden death?

The days after that call felt like living in a bad dream that I had to constantly remind myself was my reality. I woke up in the mornings, and my first thought was ‘I don’t have my dad anymore’. On the next day, I felt so devastated that I didn’t know what to do. So, I started writing letters to dad late at night after the kids were sleeping, when I finally found myself in silence, stillness, and solitude.

“I miss you so much. I love you so so much…”

These were the words that came up again and again. I thought, maybe, I would write these letters for months to make my way out of grief. However, tears dried up after a few nights, and in less than two weeks, I was done writing. There was nothing new to say anymore.

I remembered on the fifth day, drown in profound sadness, I wondered why do I feel so sad? Where did it come from?

Tracing my thoughts, I noticed that sadness came from thoughts about past memories with dad and all the things that couldn’t be, especially the fact that Travis and Noah will grow up without their grandpa. I realised that I was living the past and the future, when the present moment was perfect as it was, where everything was so alive around me.

I should be here, now. This is not a cure to grieving, but it’s a switch of perception that lightened up my spirit and made space for gratitude to shine.

I’ve always ended my daily journal with “thank you Universe, for everything”. On the night of dad’s passing, I wrote the same and I meant it. I am so grateful that I had my dad for thirty three years, and that I understand his love language, and we got to spend so much time together in these past few years, and I’d witnessed his joy being with his grandkids.

The most important lesson I learned from this seemingly tragic event of life is surprisingly beautiful — understanding unconditional love.

In the very very very end, love is all there is. It doesn’t matter what my dad did or didn’t do, what I wish he had done or hadn’t done, or what I used to blame him for, I just love him with all of my being. There is no good or bad, I love all of him, unconditionally.

In a conversation with my brother about our dad later, I heard myself saying, there’s no fault with daddy. Dr. Gabor Mate’s words rang true at that moment — all parents do the best they can based on what they know. Whatever knot we need to untie is our own work, our own responsibility.

Daddy is gone, and I love him. Nothing else seems to matter anymore.

Daddy’s body arrived home from Christchurch almost three weeks later. I really appreciate this uncommon and weird and perfect situation where we had so much time to process our grief before dealing with funeral arrangements, traditions and people. Not all of these matters, but I really appreciate everyone who rallied around us, the community that embraced our family in a warm bubble.

I feel sorry that mum had to recount the cruelest event of her life so many times to people who came to the wake. And then, everyone needed a story to believe in, to derive meaning out of it, to answer their own ‘why’.

I read long moving Facebook tributes from members of running communities whom lives my dad had touched. I heard people saying that my dad shouldn’t run so much and be so hardcore when he was alive. There were relatives who dwelled upon the cause and the science behind his death.

I too have my own story and I filter out everything else. Growing up, dad was a man of few words who hardly expressed his emotions. Through the haphazard journey of discovering myself in my 20s, even at the rock bottom of my life, and despite our differences, I received nothing but unwavering support and trust from my dad. In an email newsletter blast to my subscribers after self-publishing my first book, I received an unexpected reply from dad that said: I believe in you. Those four words meant the world to me.

I am so proud of my dad for pursuing a life of passion, for all those marathons and ultramarathons that he accomplished. A few years ago, after he completed the 200km ultramarathon that felt impossible to me, I asked my dad, how did you do it?

You just keep going, he said.

That’s the best piece of advice I’d ever got from my dad.

In an ‘Actor on Actor’ interview between Greta Lee and Adam Scott, Adam Scott said, “all stories are love stories.” Really? Greta asked. And after a long pause, yes, all stories are love stories.

Come to think of it, grief is a beautiful love story. There is pain because there is love, and all those precious moments of togetherness we’ve lived through. Life is beautiful in all its turns.