The first compass that ever guided me was my father. He held me in his big arms with hands as sturdy as an oak tree and lifted me up to the skies so I could fly. Eventually his arms got tired and it was time for me to soar on my own. The hands that once provided a shelter of safety and warmth were replaced by a cocoon of my own. When I was ready, he helped me crack open out of my mold so my wings could bloom and hold hands with the sun, and the moon and the stars. I long to go back to a time where the warmth of his arms was the only thing I knew but the inevitable paradox of life is that with time, we must grow and with growth, we must let go of our childhoods. Looking back now, I feel like I took every second with him for granted. I always imagined us growing old together making pizza at home and driving to the city to look at all of the places he used to take us when we were young. I remember thinking of course I have all of these years with you, there’s no way you would ever leave us all alone.
We try really hard not to let certain intrusive thoughts get the best of us but there comes a day where we must grapple with the idea that we’ll lose our parents. Even when we find ourselves drifting towards these meddlesome thoughts about how God will snatch away our most favorite people on earth, we say a silent prayer wishing that He will make it painless and quick. We’ll be able to tell people “He passed away in his sleep” when they ask and then others will also sigh in relief that it wasn’t something tragic. But isn’t all death tragic regardless of how the person goes? Is it ever completely painless and quick when the pain is felt insurmountably by the loved ones that are left behind?
Although death comes only once, his is felt everyday. It comes as a sudden blow every time I see his chest rise and fall with each breath but he’s unable to look at me and find me in his memory. The grievance of mourning a father with Alzheimer’s becomes a slow grueling pain that’s strung out over the years. If we look on the bright side, as one must become trained to do so when dealing with death, I’m quite lucky I still get to kiss his forehead and tell him “I love you,” and “I miss you,” and “Today I wore your jacket and it felt like you were holding me again,” and “I look for you in everything I see,” and “The city reminds me of you, I hope to never forget.” He doesn’t give me an indication that he’s heard me but I hope to God that my messages are being delivered in a dream.
Fathers are the first compasses in our lives and the first preachers. The life lessons we learn from them stay in our bones forever so we can pass them on to our own children. My bones have his words written into them and my ears have refused to forget his voice and the way he would greet us every time he came home from work. The mind is a fascinating thing; it remembers some of our most cherished moments but it can also deprive us of these recollections if we neglect to care for it. This obsession with preserving memories and holding onto my childhood for the sake of my father and his condition has led me to reflect on some of the most important principles that I have learned from this experience. If you as a reader needed a sign to write down whatever your parents have taught you before you forget it all, do it now. And if you would like to know what my sweet father has passed down to me and my three siblings, continue reading.
The importance of taking care of our bodies and mental health is something that cannot be stressed enough. We learn at a young age the wonders of maintaining a healthy lifestyle which consists of exercise and a balanced diet, but then why do we find ourselves forgoing all of this in our adult years? Do the everyday stresses of life begin to take priority over our health? Do we think that our bodies can handle the toxic substances and lack of movement over the years? As someone who has prioritized health and fitness in my adult years (probably as a trauma response so what happened to my dad doesn’t happen to me), I understand how hard it is to make time for yourself. It’s not easy getting a workout in right after a 9-5 nor is it easy cooking a meal full of nutrient dense foods. These are things we still must do because we know that this is how we, God willing, ensure longevity. The days that I don’t work out or even do a simple stretch for 15-30 minutes are the days where I feel like I’m not doing my body the honor of worshiping it. When you start to care for yourself as an act of worship, you’re mindful of the physical and psychological harm you cause your body. Once we become acclimated to living a certain type of sedentary lifestyle as we age, it becomes harder and harder to transition into habits that are life-giving rather than life-taking. My father was diagnosed with diabetes and was a chronic drinker who refused to care for either of his ailments, and this led to an early onset of Alzheimer’s. It upsets me to think about his negligence towards his health but I’m eternally grateful for everything he had done for us before he started to lose himself. With all of that said, working out is really hard, eating healthy is really hard, and staying in a routine is really hard. But do you know what’s harder than that? One day you will be 80 years old and you will look back and wish you had done things a little differently. That regret will be the hardest thing to live with and if you have the means now to do things differently, to make a real positive impact on your health, just do it for the future version of yourself.
The ability to foster friendships and build lifelong connections with other likeminded souls has to be one of the greatest gifts we have. I believe that our creator intended for us to live in communities and share food and speak different languages and hold each other when this life gets a little too hard. There’s a certain magic to dialing a friend just to pour your heart out or shooting a quick text to say “hi” to a new acquaintance. Take a moment to think about the beauty of laughing together, crying from different sides of the world, whispering while being inches away, and screaming at each other from rooms apart. This is what my father taught me; the importance of connection. He was the person who could light up a room with his loud voice, big smile, and funny demeanor. He taught me it’s important to be there for a friend even when the person themselves doesn’t know that they need someone. He had friends from near and far and I was continuously amazed by how much people loved him. We were lucky to be the family that he came home to every night and we were blessed to have a father that was loved by the world. He was still very protective and strict, as all fathers are, and a good chunk of my angsty teenage years were spent misunderstanding him. He would lecture everyday about not giving your power away to anyone and how living for the acceptance of others is one of the worst ways to live. Spreading joy, creating laughter, and enjoying every second of this life amongst good honest people is what he championed for. I learned that life isn’t truly lived unless it’s lived for people you love; strong family ties and healthy friendships are absolutely everything.
The common stresses of life that sometimes feel like they have us by the neck quickly begin to dissipate when you think about the frivolities we get to enjoy while we are alive and well. The inconvenience of running late to work and hitting all of the red lights doesn’t hold much weight when you think of the fact that you still get to drive a car, and walk on your own without assistance, and take that first sip of cup of coffee. When you shift your perspective to everything that is going well for you, rather than focusing on what you perceive as bad or annoying, you learn to find grace in difficult circumstances and have a profound sense of awe for the world around you. The last 8 years that my dad has been sick have snuck up on me slowly with this realization and it felt like the world was waiting for me to understand this as an ultimate test of life. I had taken to looking at the world through the lens of “What is this moment teaching me” a while back but I still couldn’t make peace with why God had to take my father from me in such a slow and painful way. The epiphany hit me one day when I was talking to a new friend at a tea tasting and she explained that this life is meant to be hard because we have lessons to learn. God wouldn’t have intended it to be any other way because this is the human condition - the consistent cycle of death and rebirth. It’s omnipresent in every inch of the earth; from the micro where insects and plants must die to feed others and on the macro where wars are waged to make us truly feel the power of what it means to be human. I don’t know why some things have to happen but I have an idea that my father’s loss is meant to teach me just how vital it is to stay alive and well. Every breath I take counts as something and every step I take is taken for those who cannot. We’re all connected by invisible threads and, as one fidgets with the dial of a radio until one station works, once we tune into this secret understanding of the world we see how there is meaning to everything. These precious little lives we are blessed to experience have happy moments that make our hearts burst with joy but then they also have incredibly depressing moments that make us want to melt into the ground. This is the very essence of the human condition and this is what my father taught me, and what he continues to teach me even in his dying days.
My understanding of grief and love changes everyday. I feel a new wave of emotions with every change of the weather that I can’t explain and I relentlessly try to search for meaning in books, quotes and poetry. I’ve come to realize that people have had their own unique experiences living with grief so I’m unable to find a place of reprieve where I can find the exact type of solace I need. Thinking about him and all of the years he had given us while he was in good health helps me melt this glacier that’s made a home on my chest. I think the solace that I’m so desperately searching for in this experience can be found in the notion that anyone who has experienced the loss of a parent can feel the same glacier on their chest and at the end of the day, all of the grief we feel is simply love that we wish to share with the one that’s passed but are simply unable to. With time and patience, this grief will transform into joy and laughter once more. The glacier will completely melt and maybe the tears will continue to be shed but there is certain calm in knowing that some days will be easier than others. The impermanence of human life is felt in the delicate ways we survive sorrow. Somedays we offer it tea and somedays we want to smash a bottle of wine in it’s face. The sorrow still returns, like a dog searching for food after you shun it away, and we’re forced to let it walk through our front door every single time.
I am pleased to, begrudgingly, accept that this despair isn’t new; nor are any of the other feelings that arrive with it. Deep profound sentiments where you feel like your heart is sinking are proof that you’re capable of love. They mean that you once loved something so much you were willing to be destroyed by it. Being held by my father and remembering him cradle me in his arms until I found my place in the world is my greatest blessing and all of this misery being felt is proof that I did not take any of it for granted. It’s an unsaid rule that daughters must lose their fathers rather than fathers lose their daughters. The mountains and the oceans and the forests have been watching this cycle of life and death continue for eons. I guess we all must learn how to make peace with the inevitable that we cannot control. I too must eventually learn that it’s better for me to lose him than for him to lose me.