My father's daughter

Dear friends, I received an inspiring story from one of my closest friends last night. She wanted to be known as 'MIGNON'. I've known Mignon for several years and her story always reminded me that my 'suffering' was nothing compared to her great lost. The path to Ph.D is sometimes so narrow that the journey could cruelly suffocates the mind & sense. MIGNON tells us how she dealt with the black chapter in her life...

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2005
"When it's time for you to go, you should go. And when it's time for me to go, I must go too."
That's what Abah; my father, said to me when I told him that I'd won a postgrad scholarship to study in Melbourne, but I was worried about leaving him behind. Abah had only celebrated his 60th birthday in the previous month at that time, but he looked about 20 years older. There was long list of his health problems, most of them long-standing, and his health was the very thing that caused my ambivalence.

Abah said goodbye to me at KLIA sitting on a wheelchair. After I arrived in Melbourne, we'd talk on the phone once in a while, but we trade emails and SMSes often. Abah was quite internet-savvy, given his age. If his prepay mobile account ran out of credit, he'd ring one of my sisters from the home line and ask "Your handphone has credit or not?". If my sis said yes, then he'd say "Please send SMS to your sis in Melbourne, tell her I don't have any credit. When I've topped-up I'll reply".

So, naturally, around mid September, I wondered why he didn't reply to my SMS for 3 days, and neither did any of my sisters sent me an SMS on his behalf. I sent him an SMS on Monday evening, and there was only silence until Thursday when my eldest sister; Kak Long called me with the news - Abah had a stroke on Monday, and he got progressively worse and became unconscious for the past 24 hours.

I flew home that very night and upon arrival in Penang, went straight to the General Hospital. Abah was still oblivious to the world, and the neurologist said if he didn't come out of it in the next 24 hours, he'd most probably stay in that state permanently. Almost as if he was aware of the time frame given, Abah did wake up before the last 24hr ended. My father - ever the fighter. But it was a painful, and painfully slow process for him learning to live with his post-stroke body. With loving care from Mak and help and support from my siblings, he somehow coped with life.

2006
After the stroke, I called home more often since Abah couldn't use the computer as much as he wanted to anymore. His optic blood supply was severely affected by the stroke, greatly impairing his eyesight which was already troubled by cataract. There were many other things which he couldn't do, and the few things that he could, he had to learn to adapt to new ways of doing things. His mood swings were often, and his outbursts were mostly taken in by Mak in silence. Almost a year after his stroke, I converted from Masters to PhD, and rewarded myself with a 5 week break for Eid in 2006 to be with my parents. That was when I really understood what Mak had gone through for almost a year, caring for a stroke survivor. Abah looked happiest during Eid - asking for a formal family photo shot, for some special Eid delicacies to be cooked, for some distant relatives to be invited over - and many other things which we tried as best as possible to fulfill.

Early 2007
It was in January. Kak Long, over the phone, told me that Abah was diagnosed with cancer. About three weeks after that news, his condition got worse, and I was called home. Like a rewound episode of the 2005's stroke, from the airport I went straight to a hospital where the doctors were running tests to find out more of Abah's cancer. And I was told by a doctor -
"Your father's cancer has started from his left kidney. It is now three times the size of the kidney. Now the cancer has gone into his stomach, spine, liver, and quite possible his lungs."
And a nurse said to me -
"Don't worry too much, some of our DILs do survive for a year or two."
"But what is DIL?" I naively asked.
"Death-in-line," she said matter-of-factly.

Abah, whenever anybody asked him how he was feeling - he'd smilingly give the same response in earnest - "I'm feeling good, Praise be with God". He was completely bedridden by now, and shown a lot of out-of-character behaviours.
"Come and hold my hand, would you?" he'd called out to me from his bed.
"Your hands are so warm... I need that warmth," he'd say when I rubbed his large hands between mine.
"Would you give me a hug before you go to sleep tonight?" he'd asked one time.
"I'd give you a hug every hour if you want me to," I'd said, and I did.

When his pain was so great, and even the painkiller couldn't numb the pain, the only word that escaped his lips were "Allah.... Allah... Allah.." with tears running down his face.

He would thank us all every time we helped him with something - from adjusting his pillow, washing him, to feeding him. My sister once said to him "You don't need to thank me, Abah. We're repaying what you've done to us all before". He said in jest "Wrong response. To thanks, you should say, 'you're welcome'."

I stayed and cared for him for a month, and decided to fly back to Melbourne when he looked a bit more stable. Before leaving for KLIA, I sat next to him, held his hands and mustered the courage to tell him that I love him, and asked him to forgive me for all my transgressions, and thanked him for all that he'd provided and done for me. At this point I was already crying, and he asked me to help him to sit up. I asked him why, and he said - "so I can properly hug you".

While hugging me he said more or less the same things. He said he loved me and he was sorry that he sent me to live with another family when I was in primary school. I told him I understood why, and there's nothing to be sorry about. He told me he was proud of me, and I said to him what I am today is mostly thanks to him. I repeated again that I loved him, and I couldn't have asked for a better father than him. I kissed his cheeks over and over and with one final hug to his frail body wrecked with cancer, I left.

That was the last time I saw Abah alive. He passed away peacefully in his sleep on April 8th, 2007.

August 2007
A lot of things in me I'd shared with Abah - or rather, he had instilled them in me. My passion for books, poetry, my seemingly unfazed front when having to speak in public etc. I've also inherited some of his facial expressions and mannerisms, even his quick temper. I am my father's daughter.

And because I am my father's daughter, and because of my very close relationship with him, the loss is amplified. It was extremely difficult for me to go back to the daily grind in the following months after his passing. I often longed to be back in Malaysia, with Mak and the rest of my siblings, so I would keep myself busy taking care of everybody else and wouldn't wallow too much in my loss and self-pity. Sometimes I would think of something funny or weird and said to myself, "I'd call and share this with Abah tonight", and then I'd catch myself, realizing that he wouldn't be there to answer the call. If it wasn't for my close friends, and my supervisors who have been supportive and encouraged me to get help from a grief counsellor - I probably wouldn't be coping at all. My housemate, who witnessed most of my grieving, often just sat and cried together with me. She's very good, my housemate. She really let me cry, and the few soothing words she said, she genuinely meant them. She didn't leave me alone, neither did she try to get me distracted by forcing me to go out when I didn't even feel like seeing the world around me. She understood that I wanted to feel my sadness, to grieve. I needed that more than anything - the quiet understanding from a kind friend like her.

Different people grieve differently. But I guess that's not common knowledge, otherwise I wouldn't have been been told to my face that I couldn't accept that Abah is gone, and that's why I cried so much. That is not the case. The fact that I cry is an outward sign that I grieve, and this is the way that I grieve. Four months down the road, I don't cry - at least not as much or as often. I meet with solace and peace in Al Quran, I have better understanding of myself and my emotions in reading books on grief and grieving. In talking with my counsellor (which I am still seeing once a month) I can honestly and freely express what is on my mind without being judged. In sitting together - in silent tears or in reminiscent mood with my housemate or P; my other close friend - I realize that love comes and greets me in other ways, emanating through different angles, from different people. It doesn't matter when some others can unknowingly say careless things to me (in fairness to them, most people are generally uncomfortable with others in grieve, and often don't know how to react) - because I do have friends who understand. Being this far from all that remains in my family and home, friends like these are all that matters.

Abah would be happy to know that I'm cared and loved by friends. He is gone for sure, but it's only his life that has ended - not my relationship with him. And I'll always be my father's daughter.