Maybe the wounds never heal

It all started with a beautiful day in October, 2004. It was evening and I was home alone. I was waiting for my mother and Dadi to get back from an acquaintance’s place. Suddenly, I heard an urgent knock on the door. I went out to see my father there, desperately asking me to open the door. I opened it and he rushed inside, telling me he had severe back pain and that he was going upstairs to his room. I didn’t give it much thought and went back to my own room, since I wasn’t feeling well myself. After 5-10 minutes, I heard a car in the driveway, and went outside to see my mother and Dadi hurrying up towards the house. Apparently, my father called my mother to come home immediately as he wasn’t feeling well.

I followed my mum upstairs, to see my dad in a lot of pain and we couldn’t realize, for the life of us, what had happened to him. My mother called a hospital and got an emergency appointment with the doctor, but even that was after two hours. So, for then, we couldn’t do anything except wait and hope for the situation to get better. My mum asked me to call up my nani, and my two uncles to tell them that my dad is not feeling well and to come to our home. I called my nani, only to find out that she was busy praying. I called one of my uncles, and he was out on a walk. I called my other uncle, and his son told me that he wasn’t home either but that he would deliver my message as soon as he got home. Now after so many years, when I think about it, I realize that this was sign from Allah, no one available, no one picking up, and everything in order for the angels to pick up the one of the handsome souls, and present them to Allah.

My mum was sitting with my dad, who was lying down, and I was outside their room, because I couldn’t see my father with such a painful expression on his face. My mum suddenly started saying the Kalima out loud, in a very desperate voice. I ran to the room, to see tears rolling down my mum’s face, and I could see my dad’s eyes closing by themselves. Suddenly, my mum, noticing me, asked me to get a glass of water for my dad. I rushed to get it for him and slowly, one sip at a time, gave it to him to drink. Momentarily, he felt better, but he kept saying, he felt something felt stuck in his chest, like a huge burp which you can’t get out. Seeing that he was feeling a little better, my mum rushed out of the house and to the nearby market, to get out family doctor. And as usual, I went out of the room, since I couldn’t see the pained face.

By that time, my Dadi had also shown her strength and climbed upstairs and walked into my dad’s room. Within minutes, my mum was back with the doctor and all of us rushed into the room, me standing by the door, while the doctor and my mother rushed near my father, whose eyes were now completely closed. The doctor checked my father’s pulse, looked up, and said in a very grave voice – “There is no pulse. He’s dead.”

I looked at my mother, in disbelief, thinking it might be some sort of sick joke that the doctor was playing on us, or maybe that my father was in on it, too. We kept looking, until we realized that he wasn’t lying. That, my father, had indeed passed away, because of a major heart attack. But how was that possible? My dad had always taken care of his health and cholesterol levels. How was it even possible?

A few days later, I heard someone asking a doctor relative whether my father would have survived had he went straight to the doctor, instead of coming home. The doctor said yes, he might have, because he would have immediately been admitted for treatment. Hearing this, I got even more subdued that I was, even then, and went to a close cousin of mine, telling her everything I’d overheard. She put my head in her lap, and told me that when Allah decides the fate of a person, no matter who he is, it is written. And it is carried out the way Allah wants it to be carried out. That my father could have travelled to the other side of the world, but if Allah decided that my dad is better off in the Heavens above, than no human, place or time can prevent it.

It’s been nine years, nine long years, but to this day, I somehow blame myself. If I had known better, if I had responded quicker, if I had known what to do, maybe my dad would still be with us; maybe I would have gotten more time to spend with him. I know it’s not my fault, it was Allah’s decision. But the heart thinks what the heart thinks.

People say it gets better with time. They say time heals all wounds. They say the wounds heal but the scars remain. But I beg to differ. I think the wounds are as fresh as they were nine years ago. I believe that there are no such scars to speak of, because the wounds have not healed, and I don’t think they ever will. I believe that his memory and the event of his death will be as fresh in my mind as it was on 12^th October, 2004. I also believe that every day, I carry a regret inside me, a guilt of taking him for granted, for not spending enough time with him, for not knowing him as well I should have, for not being able to say goodbye, I love you and I’ll miss you, and a kiss on his cheek, before he left us forever. For just standing in the doorway, unable to move or do anything to save him.

I still have dreams about him. Dreams in which he talks and laughs and we’re all a family again. Dreams in which he advises me on what to do and what not to. Dreams in which he tells me he loves me and he’s watching over me. Dreams, which are actually memories of the past, but they are repeating themselves in my sleep. And then I wake up and the harsh reality starts to sink in. Those days seem to be good and horrible at the same time. Good because I saw my dad in a dream, maybe for a short while, but I was able to picture his face and remember his voice, all the same. Horrible because when I wake up, I realize that it was just a dream, and my dad is gone. Forever. Forever seems long when you measure it that way. I just hope someday I’m able to overcome this pain, this terrible sadness that has become a part of my personality. I hope I’m able to make my father proud. I hope wherever he is, he’s looking down at me and smiling. I hope that he’s still watching over me in spirit like he used to watch over me when I was a kid. I have so much more to say but there’s just one thing I’ll say – I love you, Dad. I miss you from the core of my heart and I hope you’re always happy, no matter what. Love you.