Dear Dada...

Dear Dada,
There are many days when I cease to see why you left, or the manner in which you left. There were, there still are so many questions I have to ask you. I should have asked you when I Could, but I didn't because I didn't know how.

Where are you now? Are you happy? Are you being looked after?
You do not know what I would give to spend another day of last summer with you again, to just get to know you again. Sometimes I feel like hitting my head against the wall, sometimes I just want to pull my hair and scream, sometimes I just want to cry. But then I try to remember how that would make you feel. It doesn't really matter anymore. I don't know what to think of you Dada. You fought for 3 and a half years, I told you. I begged you to tell me what was going on. Remember?
I said "Dada, if you need anything or if you are not feeling well, please please tell me. I should know, don't keep me worried."

Funny thing is just 10 days before you left here, I was crying outside of Chilies because one of the girls in my class lost her father in a car accident. And I felt sorry for her, I could empathise. And I cried because I knew that somedays you were so close to leaving as well, and I was always scared that I was going to loose you to the man-eating disease. I was always scared. Just never knew it. I cried a lot Dada. But what is funny is that I didnt even know you were in hospital. I had not a clue, and yet I still cried because I was scared.
Maybe in my heart I knew something was wrong. They say that children are always connected to their parents, so maybe i just knew. No one told me Dada, I had not a clue.

And then I came to visit you in India. And I saw you the first time in the ICU, I couldn't help crying my eyes out - I had never seen you so frail in your 4 years of illness. It was one of the hardest things for me. And then I went home and I cried for hours Dada. For hours and hours, I almost couldn't stop.
Everyone was saying "Its okay, he will be fine" And i believed that too. But then why was I crying?

Then Remember, the Saturday? You asked your mum to send me to the Intensive Care Unit as soon as possible to see you. I saw you at 1pm. And it was hard not keeping the tears in. But I managed. And you held my hand, you held it so tight, as if you would never let go. I can feel it even now. Despite your fragile state you held my hand. I recall telling you something silly about my cat to try and make you laugh, but I knew you wouldn't laugh because you were so weak. And you just smiled vaguely, not being able to laugh.
Even then, Dada, even in your last moments, you were so concerned about everyone esle. You asked about Preethi, you asked about Grandad. I wanted to make you laugh. I couldnt. I wanted to bring you your Ipod so you could listen to it, and think of me. I wanted to bring you your favourite, Tang fruit Juice.
And then you said: "Pat, I can't walk. I can't walk anymore Pat."
And I replied: "It's okay Dada. Your body is a little weak now, but you will be fine in a week or so when you are out of the ICU okay?"
And you just nodded. You didn't believe me.
Then you told me to go, because otherwise the nurses would urge me to leave. I wasn't even supposed to be in the ICU but the Security Guard let me through just because you told him to let me go through.

And then I said: "Ill see you in the evening okay?" And kissed you forehead, and your hand. And let go.
And i said "I love you Dada. I love you." And I turned my back on you and walked out of the ICU, tears falling, on the verge of passing out. Preethi was outside that time you know that? Or i think it was preethi. And I cried a little more but I didn't want Grandma and Grandad to see, so I stopped.

Later on that evening, just before visiting time, you were on the respiratory. Preethi was crying her head off, and I didn't know why. The doctors said that it was just a precautionary measure. Little did I know that the Doctor had said a couple of weeks ago that "If your husband goes on respiratory, you can expect him to die."

I came to see you by the way at that time. Don't think you were alone. Because you weren't. You never were. We were always there, even your brother and sister. They never left, and I didn't except to go home and sleep. I saw you with the mask all over your face, and your hands were tied up to the bed. How cruel. As though you were some animal. You were tossing and turning and desperately trying to get it off you I think. Your sister and preethi were there. Both of them, head against the glass window of the ICU, tears pouring down their cheeks.
At the same time, you had the dialysis machine's long, pointed needle attached to your arm, and you look distraught. It was the day before you left. Remember. The Saturday? The last time I saw you alive.

Is that when you gave up? Is that when you decided it was all over, and that you couldn't face it anymore Dada? Why did you leave Dada? Was it too much? Why didn't you tell me how you felt?

One thing I want you to know is that I will always love you. No matter what fights I have with your family, your wife or no matter who marries Ma. You were my dad. You are my dad. You will always be my one, and my only, Dada.
I love you Dada.

Love, Pat.

For some reason I decided to go on the "Kidney Disease, Dialysis, and Transplant" group on facebook.

I haven't been on there for a while. It's mainly a support group for the people going under dialysis treatment or transplants and their families. There are a lot of caring and up beat messages wishing everyone well. It's actually quite sweet.

I was reading about Hemodialysis patients and their side effects when suddenly I got taken back to images of my father coming back from his dialysis sessions - each time was slightly different. It's worth remembering that he had dialysis in the hospital every other day - so averaging 3.5 times a week for over 3 years.

Some days he would come back and he would be in an elated mood - upbeat, happy, full of hope. This was usually the days when he felt like he knew he would get better and everything would be okay.

Other days he would come back and just feel physically terrible, shouting in pain. He would have cramps all night because of the loss of fluids or he would be itchy all night - and it wasn't just a bit of a scratch, it was a proper sensation that occurs under the skin. There was nothing you could do about it, except scratch his back or his arm to provide him some relief. Sometimes it would be so bad that he would make himself bleed with how violently he was scratching himself.
It was hard to watch.

However, there were days he came back quiet. Now those days were the worst.
He would come back and be very quiet and pensive. If you asked him what was wrong or how he was he would have very little to say.  For a long time I wondered why that was the case. Why would he come back feeling terrible some days? Over the course of the several weeks that I spent with him in the Summer of 2007 it became more evident that there was generally always a reason why he was that way.
Although he wouldn't say anything immediately, slowly through the day he might casually slip something into conversation about how something might have happened in the hospital. I can clearly remembering that one day he came back and didn't really say much all day. He just spent the day watching TV. Eventually, as I was sitting next to him, he said to me "Pat, there was a young boy who used to come to dialysis. I used to see him at least once every week - you know his parents are not very well off. They can just about read but that was it. This boy was on the list for a transplant and he's been waiting for years. But today, he didn't come to dialysis."

I asked him "Why not? What happened? Did he finally get the transplant?"

He replied: "No, he didn't get the transplant. He was 12 years old. He died last weekend from multiple organ failure."

All I could say was "Aw Dada, I'm so sorry. You know that won't happen to you - you'll be fine!"

He then said "But it's just not fair. He was so young, why him? It could be next, who knows?"

As time went on, I realised that all the people he had constantly been having dialysis with for the past three years were slowly disappearing - some disappeared because they had finally gotten the transplant they needed. But most disappeared because they couldn't win the battle and their bodies gave up. People dropped like flies and he had watched it happen time and time again with one patient after another for three years. He was the only one who stuck around - he must have been wondering when he would be next.


It's only really as I got older that I understood how he must have been feeling. Feeling alone. Not knowing what would happen.