In Loving Memory
How I learned to keep one’s spirit alive through embracing memories of them
My memories hold a significant role in my life, but I’ve found that memories from my early years had the most value — maybe it’s because I’m quite a sentimental person.
Growing up, a lot of my happy memories were with my dad. I remember the days when he taught me how to read and count at home, or how we used to spend Saturdays together at my favorite restaurant and everyone thought I was his granddaughter, or how we could spend hours at Clarke Quay every time we visited just going through his favorite food stops, which ended up being my favorite food stops.
Then teenage years arrived. I was doing my best to not only be obedient but also do everything I expected of myself in order to succeed, because everything was an intense all-or-nothing situation for me. The pressure I set myself, mainly on having good grades and getting into a good university, was high. Meanwhile, my parents were much more relaxed about all that than I was. In retrospect, I really didn’t understand why I trapped myself in a self-imposed prison, but the budding pressure and anxiety made me emotionally turbulent and oftentimes rebelled in small ways. Minuscule acts of rebellion such as coming home past my curfew or going out with friends my parents didn’t like made me feel like maybe I don’t have control issues. It definitely put a strain in our relationship for a couple of years.
One day, we had a long talk. Something he said was: “I know you’ll make your own way in the world, but in order to do that you need to do things because it leads to something bigger that will genuinely make you happy and not because you think it’s expected of you.”
I think that put a lot of things into perspective for me. And while I still deal with control issues especially when it comes to my future, those words serve as a great reminder to this day. It was at that moment that I realized he was making an effort to understand me and be the father he needed to be. I think it was mainly why things got better.
But then his sickness got worse. I have juggled the role between daughter, student, and caretaker since I was probably 11 years old; but ever since I started university, the juggling became much heavier. I felt burdened and selfish for even feeling burdened to begin with. It was really bad for a while, then somehow things slowed down. That was when I felt like I was learning about my dad all over again.
They say when your parents grow older, they become more like a child. It was one of the things I noticed as my dad entered his sixties. He grew a love — nearing obsession, really — for boba tea, craved for ice cream in the middle of the night (which we would often secretly order at 3 in the morning while my mother was asleep), loved to watch baby orangutans on Youtube when he was feeling down. His mannerisms became less of the disciplined but compassionate father I’d witnessed all these years and more of an old man who tried to indulge in the things he didn’t get to when he was younger. It was endearing as much as it was heartbreaking, because the more his childlike tendencies appear, the sicker he was. But we managed, and even then we had a lot of memories and celebrations; starting from the time he managed to walk around the house without an oxygen tank, the time I texted him to ask how I can escape a tinder date gone wrong (not my best moment, I must admit), and every small victories we could celebrate. Because every small win meant he lived another day. And despite how hard it could be, I was grateful.
Two weeks after I turned 21, my father passed away in his sleep. I had only just celebrated my supposed rite of passage into adulthood and was excited for what was to come. I was doing so well in law school, my friendships were thriving, I was overcoming clinical depression and never felt happier. When he died, I felt like my life descended into chaos. Every memory I once cherished became a reminder that he was gone. But what made things worse was the realization that he would never witness me getting my law degree, and how he could never be my wali¹ at my wedding, and how we’d never get to drink boba tea or eat ice cream together in the middle of the night as we talked about our day and pretty much everything. Any memory that passed by my head made me feel so down. It was hard. The first week since his passing felt like one whole year.
Throughout my process of grieving, I found this band called BTS. It was barely a week or two after my dad had just passed away and their latest album, Love Yourself: Answer, just came out. Out of curiosity, I watched their IDOL music video, and I immediately went down the BTS rabbit hole. Weeks after, I finally watched the music video of Spring Day with the captions on. Then these lyrics came on:
Snowflakes fall down and get away little by little
I miss you
How long do I have to wait and how many sleepless nights do I have to spend
To see you, to meet you
Passing by the edge of the cold winter
Until the days of the spring
Until the days of the flower blossoms
Please stay a little longer
This song about longing to see a dear friend, to me, perfectly described how I felt about the loss of my own dad.
I cried for about two hours that day. It was saddening, but as silly as it might sound, it was also the first time I felt like he was with me since he passed away. It felt like I was being given a nudge and he was saying, “Hey, it’s me.”
It was then that I started to shift my perspective little by little. What was a memory that would send me into deep sadness, became one that gave me nostalgia. It’s a process, and even after three years I still struggle with the loss. Some days I look at our old pictures and laugh, some days I look at his wallet and cry for hours. What I’ve come to realize throughout these years was that I was so stuck on the notion of physical death being the end of someone’s presence, when presence itself is indicated way more than just being physically present. In my case, the memories I shared with my father was what made our relationship great and a source of my happiness. When I order ice cream at 3 AM, or get my favorite hazelnut chocolate milk with boba, or visit and eat at the old restaurant we used to go to — when I embrace and cherish those memories — I am keeping him alive. When I think about it that way, it doesn’t feel like I lost my father. It just feels like one of those days when I was a young child and I’d say goodbye to him as he leaves for work. The waiting time is unpredictable, but the assurance that we will meet again is certain. After all, he never really left.
Footnote
¹In the context of a Muslim wedding, a wali is the bride’s guardian (usually a role assigned to the father) who ‘gives the bride away’.
