One night, my subconscious decided to play out an unusual scene: there was my father sitting in our house's courtyard during a visit. It was strange seeing him there and not inside where he belonged. Excited yet confused, I rushed to tell my mother and sister about his return. But instead of coming inside as expected in this dream-like reunion, he simply advised me to "be cautious!" His voice echoed in my ears just as vividly as when he was still with us - so real and familiar that it sent shivers down my spine. At that moment, even within the confines of sleep-induced illusions, I found myself asking: "Why does my father's voice still sound so alive?"
It seemed even in dreams, reality has its way of seeping through because there again was the realization - acceptance, really - that he is no longer here with us physically.
I've come to accept that I must trust in God's plan. I've had these lingering questions for a while, given my feelings of vulnerability and self-doubt as a human being: Why did my father have to leave us when I was unable to take care of myself, assuming that God's plan is the best? Why did God bring him back when my brother struggled with his identity? And why did my once energetic mother become frail after my father's passing? Is caring for my ailing father seen as a burden? These questions continue to occupy my thoughts.
I'm curious about the lessons we can take from my father's passing. Is it necessary to go through such a significant loss, losing someone we love dearly, to gain a deeper understanding of life?
Well, as they say, "Only time will tell." Time plays a crucial role in the healing process. It either makes painful memories fade or helps us learn how to live with them. As time passes, we grow mentally and physically stronger and better equipped to handle challenging situations. However, forgetting doesn't fit my case because just thinking about my father still brings tears to my eyes. So, I continue to miss him deeply. It's only when I realized this that time has slowly helped me adapt to life without my father, almost like he's still with us somehow.
Then I think of a few things...
My father was receiving treatment in the same hospital ward as a patient with throat cancer at Adam Malik. I was puzzled by the device implanted in the patient's neck. If I remember correctly, the device occasionally released thick fluid from the patient's throat. They did this sometimes right as we were about to break our fast after a long day of fasting. Picture this: you're about to have your first meal of the day at dusk after not eating or drinking from dawn till evening. Sometimes, we could even see the liquid spurting out of the device.
There were instances when we had to spend the night on the hospital's open terraces. The HDU nurse informed us that my father required adult diapers. One night, as I descended the stairs and went across the street to the convenience store right in front of the hospital, I was only partially awake. I felt puzzled because it usually took me only a short time to cross the street from the hospital. Only when I stopped and found myself in front of the mortuary did I realize I had taken the wrong path? This unexpected sight jolted me awake, and my drowsiness disappeared instantly.
I concluded that the sound of my father's roommate's sticky liquid didn't impact us or our food. The idea of something terrifying lurking behind the door is entirely imaginary. In our lives, what actually happens contributes to just 10% of the total, while the remaining 90% is determined by how we respond to those events.
One week after my father's funeral, I received an unexpected termination letter from one of the institutions where I had been teaching. Initially, my reaction was relatively neutral. I didn't feel angry or disappointed, and I didn't ponder their motives. I consciously decided not to invest my time, effort, or mental energy in a company that didn't seem to value my presence, even though I had given it my all during my tenure there. It made me wonder if I was emotionally detached or inexperienced. After all, is there anything more painful than losing a parent? I couldn't think of anything. So, why should I shed tears over losing a job without guarantees when I had already stopped crying over my father's death?
Despite facing numerous obstacles and challenges, I've become more resilient. I'm the daughter who prayed fervently for her father's recovery, and I'm also the daughter of a woman who did everything she could to support her husband's mental and physical well-being. Allah expressed His love for my father by taking him to be with Him. Despite all my best efforts and countless prayers, I had to come to terms with my father's passing. It's not because God intentionally subjected us to tests and difficulties we couldn't overcome. Instead, it happened because our father's time on Earth with us had ended. If there's a task I can't accomplish, it's not due to a lack of effort or prayer; it's because that particular task wasn't meant for me to complete.
Our sibling bond has been growing stronger. We've realized our shared situation, so we now support and protect each other. The evidence has only reinforced our belief that our mother is the most precious treasure in the world. Were we inconsistent in our relationship from the beginning? I'm still uncertain. This clarity emerged for me after my father's passing. We've evolved into the most patient children as our mother's body and spirit gradually decline. We experienced a brief respite in an unfamiliar hospital setting while accompanying her. Moreover, as our awareness has grown, we've found less time to waste on meaningless drama.
There will inevitably be moments when I deeply miss my father. I often wish he could have been here with me, even if I couldn't return in time, as I walked across the stage in my master's degree ceremony regalia. When I received the news that I had been selected as a candidate for a civil service position, I longed for my father's presence. My sister must have yearned for our father to witness her journey as the mother of two wonderful children. My brother, who had taken on the role of our father, could only wish for his presence as he embarked on his own family life, one of the most significant events in his life. Apart from these joyful moments, no one else can provide us with the same affectionate protection. Despite our human expectations, God has His own plans. How we interpret those plans is entirely up to us.
The turning point in the process of growing up is when you discover the core of strength within you that survives all hurt. - Max Lerner
You can shed tears that he is gone
or smile because he has lived.You can close your eyes and pray that he'll come back,
Or you can open your eyes and see all he's left.
Your heart can be empty because you can't see him,
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember him only that he is gone,
or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.
You can cry, close your mind,
be empty, and turn your back.
Or you can do what he wants:
Smile, open your eyes, love, and go on.
He is Gone - David Harkins
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