From Him we have come, and to Him we return

It was a Thursday morning. I need not say more. Any working/studying person in the Middle East will know and still not be able to explain the joys of being face-to-face with the weekend (which will no doubt pass by too quickly and we will be back on Sunday complaining that there aren’t enough weekends in a week!). Everybody who walked in, walked in with a smile.

And then we got the news – my supervisor’s father died. She’s trying to get a flight out of here to the U.S. to take care of the final things (funeral arrangements, his house and things, etc.). Apparently they were never close, but this sudden event has definitely shaken her up.

I lost my father almost a year ago (28^th September 2011, 28^th Shawaal). I was very close to him.

It amazed me how in spite of the depth of the relationship or the age of the surviving person (my coordinator is almost twice my age) – a loss is loss. A death is a death. A person gone is a person gone. It seems logical, but when you are in the grieving stage, you feel like you are the only person in the entire world going through this and nobody anywhere in whatever situation can feel the pain you are going through.

What I realized along the way is that time doesn’t actually heal any wounds. Instead, you learn to deal with those wounds – to live with them, to embrace them and to look beyond them. It’s been a year already, but I can still hear my father’s voice. I can feel his happiness and I am afraid to disappoint him. The truth is, my father is living – not in the same world as I, but instead he is in the REAL world. One day when all of our journeys end on this earth, I believe that we shall be rewarded for our deeds and we will be together, as a family once again. I look forward to that day. I actually do. Even if it means having to face one of my fears – death. I saw my father move forward so gracefully, and I hope that when my time comes, I will be able to embrace it and move towards the end of my test.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not living a pointless, life-less life and waiting for my death to come to me. All I mean is that, when it does come (and it will) I want to be able to accept it and be prepared.

Many asked me what we did for his 1^st death anniversary. If we were living in Sri Lanka, we would have had a massive feast and invite the entire family, extended family and non-family over. There would have been recitations followed by some gossiping and an occasional complaint or two about how the food was not up to standards. It would become less about remembering the person lost, and more about the get-together – sort of a celebration that’s not being celebrated. Since we are here in the U.A.E. and do not have many family members with us, we just got together, recited together and spent time remembering him. Together. We were together at that moment. There wasn’t much crying or any depressions. We laughed at the funny memories he left behind and looked forward to achieving the dreams he had for his children. His children. We were the center of his existence.

The truth is we did nothing special for his first year. He isn’t remembered once a year. He is remembered every moment; every second. He is a part of us, just as much as we were a part of him. His departure has left an empty space in our lives and he can NEVER be replaced – not by a husband or children or grandchildren. I intend on giving them all my love, even though none of them exist yet, but they can never take the high place of a father; of my father.

My coordinator is back to her desk now. She seemed alright, yet not alright. A feeling I am familiar with yet cannot completely understand. As the days pass by and people stop asking about her sudden trip and her father, she seems to be getting better. Other issues at work take over and as far as the 9 hours I spend with her, 5 days a week are concerned, she’s okay. She has started to laugh whole heartedly again and throws a few sarcastic (yet non-offensive) jokes around occasionally.

Time won’t heal her wounds. Instead she will learn to deal with those wounds – to live with them, to embrace them and to look beyond them.

Don’t live your present life selfishly and save yourself from a guilt and regret laden future. Prioritize your family and do not take your parents for granted (you may think you don’t, but think again). 

Spread smiles and try to help those around you. No matter how much you feel like you deserve that last tuna cutlet or egg appa, look around and see if someone else deserves it more! What you really leave behind are the loving memories and acts of goodness that people will remember you by.  

From God we have come, and to Him we return. 

I love you Deda! <3