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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment