This is the first post in a six-part series called Life Without Dad, which I’ll be sharing throughout 2012. The remaining posts will be published on Father’s Day, September 4th, Thanksgiving, December 28th, and New Year’s. Losing a parent is never easy. Losing a parent with whom you didn’t always see eye-to-eye but could always talk to is even harder. I want to thank my family, friends, co-workers, and acquaintances for their support during this—the first year of the rest of my life.
A month ago, I sat on the couch with my family, waiting, while my father’s life was quite literally in our hands. My sister, 2,000 miles away in California, couldn’t join us that night due to fully booked flights; she wouldn’t arrive until the following evening. My dad was on life support after suffering cardiorespiratory failure at 4 a.m. on Christmas Eve. I had already come to terms with the grim reality: there was little chance I would ever get my father back the way he was before his surgery on December 9th to remove three abdominal hernias.
As I waited in the hospital on the day of his surgery, I posted this on Facebook:
“Spending time in the hospital waiting for my father to come out of surgery reminds me of reality. I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals throughout my life, mostly with my grandparents, but in recent years, more and more for my father. Sitting here this morning, I realize that, while my responsibilities to my family remain the same, things feel different as I approach my 24th birthday. With age comes expectation. I am proud to be who I am, part of such a loving, caring family, and I cannot wait to see my father in a few hours.”
Dad,
Moments after I posted this, I had flashbacks to our conversations just weeks earlier. I remembered how, after I learned I didn’t get a full-time job I had waited two months to hear back from, you said, “Einstein was a slow starter too.” I thought of the night you discussed possibly visiting Frieda in California and told me, “You’ll be the man of the house. Are you ready for that challenge?”
I also recalled your advice about not letting your health issues stop me from pursuing my career goals: “Don’t let what’s happening with me affect your motivation to take the next step.”
In the last month, I’ve often found myself asking, “What would Dad tell me to do?” For over a decade, whenever I struggled with decisions, you were the one I turned to. Sometimes, I even asked you to make the decisions for me.
You know I returned to my part-time job at Domino’s three months ago after working there during high school. I’ve been questioning this decision, but I keep going, remembering your advice to take things slow, stay busy, and focus on building a portfolio for something bigger. That’s what I’m doing now, and I can only hope it’s not the worst mistake of my life. My goal isn’t just to be part of something great—it’s to make you proud and take care of our family, current and future. That way, when I see you again, you can praise me for taking care of them just as you took care of us for 34 years.
You used to say, “Only you know how you’re really feeling.” Looking back, I realize now that you likely knew better than anyone, even your doctors, that your body was failing. Perhaps you knew there was a strong chance you wouldn’t make it home from surgery.
It breaks my heart to think about everything you’ll miss. Frieda’s graduation with her PsyD in June, my own eventual graduate degree in Computer Science, and maybe even a doctoral degree someday. It saddens me to think you won’t see me succeed, or walk Frieda down the aisle at her wedding. For every life-changing moment Frieda, Masood, Angie, Mom, and I have left, you’ll only be there in spirit. But as painful as it is, this is the reality: life goes on.
Since I turned 16, there were six days every year when I always made time for you: my birthday, Father’s Day, your birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. While I spent plenty of other time with you, these six occasions were non-negotiable. Now, two days before my 24th birthday, I sit here writing this after nearly four months away from my blog (my last post was about the loss of Steve Jobs). For the rest of my life, especially on these six days, I’ll look to the sky and smile, remembering the seemingly cryptic messages you left me.
You were my anchor. You never let me second-guess myself or feel incapable. You always reminded me to stay calm and patient, and you were the only one I could see eye-to-eye with when we disagreed. You instilled in me a deep respect for education, even through my struggles. Without your influence, I’d be lost. Instead, I’m carving out a path in a world of technology.
Thank you for being the role model you were, for teaching me to never give up, and for leaving behind a legacy that continues to guide me every day.
RIP Dad. September 4, 1944 – December 28, 2011.