The Unsaid Goodbye

"Will you be here when I get back?" Appa asked, during my visit that Tuesday.

"No, I'll be off to pick up Ryan from School and go straight home," I said.

"Okay, then we'll meet later," he said and I heard him roar away on his Thunderbird.

But Appa passed away on Thursday.

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Everything happened so fast - faster than I could breathe. 

Disbelief and a general numbness helped us through the initial hours. Andrew and his parents went into full swing, taking care of everything. The children were taken care of, the house cleaned and made ready, the funeral arrangements made and a thousand other things amma and I did not know about. I stayed completely by my mother's side. 

Trust me, it's a blessing to be able to grieve; to be able to sit down and cry your heart out; to come to terms with your loss, and not having to take care of anything at such times. 

My brother arrived the day after, on the day of the Funeral. 

On a piece of paper, I wrote words I couldn't speak. I signed as Darling, because my father always called and referred to me as 'Da'ling' or 'kutty'. Liana had become his "sel kutty" meaning 'little darling.'  

I wanted everyone to get a glimpse of the appa we knew and loved. So at Appa's Funeral I gave an eulogy. 

I started with how I had marked that day in the calendar a month ago, it being Liana's 6th birthday. 

6 years ago on the same date my father had become a grandfather. Exactly 5 years ago, Liana had been baptized. We had made festive plans for that day as well. But unfortunately...

Behind my father's rough and tough exterior was a soft and caring human being who:

a. took life as it came - it's good and bad.

b. was brutally honest; clear to his conscience.

c. dependable

d. preferred working behind the scenes without publicity. 

My father might not have sat through a Church sermon every week. But he didn't fake it, if he didn't believe in it. He went to any extent to help. He was gentle with animals. He might not be very social and jovial with guests at home, but he didn't talk behind their backs either. 

That way, my father was better, more genuine than most people I know. 

Appa petted amma. He was her confidante. They used to talk all the time. 

He pampered me; He loved his son; He loved his son-in-law like a son. 

I am grateful; I am proud to call him my father. 

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After the memorial service, was the heart wrenching process of cleaning and sorting up appa's things. It was a slow process, with us pausing to smell every shirt, stowing away trinkets and keepsakes. Suddenly every piece of clutter was a treasure. Everything stirred a memory, now made painful by his absence. 

One of my earliest memories is tripping outside the school over a telephone pole stay. The hurt was more to my pride than to my knees. Appa quickly got out of the car, dusted my knees, and stamped the protruding stump flat to the ground. I had felt empowered. 

With a father, brother and a husband to hold my back, mine had indeed been a mighty fortress! And now it was shaken. 

Now on his desk I found an envelope, with "Dear, Darling appa" sprawled in my handwriting. I had given it to appa on his last birthday. Appa had kept it safely in his desk. My appa had always seemed so unsentimental, and I broke down afresh.  

 

We have all been there, where we have held someone's hands, and said, "I understand." But No. We cannot even come close to understanding, until we have actually been through it. 

How can someone so full of life, so strong suddenly stop existing? 

I asked God for a sign that appa was safely with Him in Heaven. 

One day, when I was crying uncontrollably over some memory, Liana came to  me and (seemingly insensitive) asked me to read a story. She refused to leave after I told her off repeatedly. So I gave in and started to read to her. She was showing me a page from her Tamil short story collection. "My Father who is now in Paradise" was the title and I raced through. 

It was about an 8 yr old girl whose father had died from Cancer. She used to cry everyday, and ask God why He had taken her father away. Then one day, she had a dream. She saw her father looking very happy and he was with God, in Paradise. The father told his daughter not to cry, as he was with God in Heaven. And the girl stopped crying and questioning God after that.

I cried again. 

You have to see Liana's massive, almost-always-impossibly-messy bookshelf to realize what a miracle it was for Liana to pick up that book, that story at that time for me to read. 

This was the sign I had been waiting for. 

Appa had lived life, his way. I have never seen my father lie sick in bed. Age had not slowed him. He didn't look his 65 years. He was younger and stronger than almost all his contemporaries. He rode his Thunderbird until the last day. Only the previous week he had carried both the kids on his arms, down the stairs. Appa will forever remain strong, and manly in my memory. 

The next best thing to not letting go, was to let him go this way. 

A tombstone now reads, 

Doting husband; devoted father; adoring grandfather...     

Rest until we meet again,

 - Beloved wife, children and Grandchildren.      

  

Here is what I had written down that day:

Dearest Darling Appa,

 Have I ever told you?

I am who I am, because of you!

You taught me to fly, to love and to hope,

I am still learning, and I still need you...

 

As a Christian, I pleaded for your soul,

As a daughter, I begged for your life.

But perhaps God wanted you more than I!

How could I hope to win that fight?

 

We know you best, we who love you true,

Thank God for memories until paradise...

Where I'll hug you to my heart's desire,

And hold your strong hands once again,

 

Until then, appa...

 

Yours ever,

Darling.

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Wake me up now, and tell me it was a bad dream. I'll believe you. 

Even after 11 months, it still feels like appa is just a phone call away; that I could ring the door bell and he'd open the door. 

He never was one to linger over adieus. And he left without one...