At 42, I have had my fair share of losses. And the hardest loss of my life was losing my father. For a month he lay in a hospital bed, intubated, on a ventilator, fighting for his life before he was gone, without a goodbye. I had never spoken to him about the life he lived, or the impact he had on me. It took me years to understand what unsettled me so deeply about it. I have come to believe this is one of the hardest things a person can endure, to leave this world without ever knowing what their life meant to the people who loved them. Imagine you are sitting at the edge of your life, wanting to hear that your life mattered, but all you get is silence. My father deserved to go knowing I cared about the life he lived. That I am grateful for what he did for me. And from the helpless desperation in my heart, I hope he felt my love and gratitude. What follows is a letter that I wish I could send to him. “Dear Dad, I am sorry I did not say these things to you in person. I hope this reaches...
Outside the cafe, Bangalore was dissolving in the rain. Through the smeared glass windows, nothing was quite clear. The overhead fan was spinning at its limit. I was still sweating. Years in the Seattle cold had made me a stranger to this air. I knew this place very well. Looking at the brown smudge on the glass I knew it was my mother’s apartment. The neighboring white shape was the hospital. I had spent seven weeks at this very hospital while my dad battled for his life. A battle he fought, but we all lost. I turned away from the window and knew who I would see across from me. The person I had been avoiding for nine years. I had named him 'the martyr' in my journal, a title born of a lifetime bowing to societal expectations. His drooping shoulders carried the weight of several sleepless weeks. He was looking at the hospital. I saw his jaw clench as he turned his gaze towards me. I felt a lump of guilt in my throat and dropped my eyes to my open journal on the table. “Nine yea...