Not over him yet
I still think about my father
February 2, 2004
Someone else is dying from a stroke.
Someone whom I know; someone whom
I knew. She was a dignified woman, tall and thin, with a beautiful
raspy voice. She was a kind of a woman I wanted to mother
be friends with me, someone dignified, good looking, opinionated,
Today, I went to her hospital bed. She had a stroke
last week; she went
into a coma last night. When I saw her, her eyes were closed, her
was shaven, and her hands and body were swollen. Before entering
room, her daughter warned me that she does not look good, that
tubes and monitors and this and that. I nodded my head, I knew
I had seen my father in exactly the same condition. I told her
am all too familiar with the scene, been there, done that.
I went into the room and took her hand. She was
calm, her lively eyes
were now closed, shut; she had no reaction to my voice, or my
touch. I caressed her, I kissed her, I held her hands,
and I cried as I
whispered her name. I was hoping that she can hear me at some
wanted to tell her that everything will be all right, but I couldn't.
For I knew better; I knew that everything will not be all right.
We walked back to the waiting room. Her daughters
thanked me for taking
the time, visiting her. I said, I have learned my lesson not
until it's too late; I wanted to see her. I could not bring myself
tell her daughters that I wanted to say goodbye before it was
I told her family of my own experience, of all I
went through, of all the heartbreaks and the pain. I wanted to
stay there. I wanted to be
there, I wanted to stay there, be there and I wanted to cry. Then I
realized, I am not helping by being there and going through my own
grief, they had enough to deal with. So, I left. Once again, I left a
dying person behind, waiting for the phone call.
I still think about my father. When I think about
my father, my thoughts are always sad, they are always filled with
sorrows. I dream about my father too. In my dreams, he is never sick. He is
walking and talking, with a head full of dark hair, which he hasn't
had for a long time; he turned gray some
twenty years ago. When
he died, he had a head full of white, silky hair.
In my dreams, he is
tall and handsome. I find that strange too, since when I am awake all I
can remember of him is when he was sick, in his bed, in his room, with
windows facing his garden.
I am not over him yet, I miss him a lot. I sometimes
cry when I think of him, of his illness and his struggle. Yet,
I miss his physical
presence near me. I know I will always miss him. You never forget your
loss; you just learn to live with it. And, I am learning everyday.
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