My Father’s Daughter

I haven’t been sure I could write this post. I’m still not sure how I’m going to do it, how I’m going to get through it.

But it has to be written.

My father, Kailash Chandra Khemka, passed away on January 15, 2011.

He had suffered two strokes in 24 hours on January 9 and 10. Massive strokes that destroyed any hope for any quality of life other than that of a vegetable. The second stroke happened in the hospital, St. V’s in Indianapolis, and Dr. W came in with the ICU resuscitation team and asked me what my decision was based on what he could tell me of Dad’s condition.

The entire part of his brain that dealt with speech, language, the right side of his body, various bodily functions such as swallowing and controlling bowels, etc. was gone, according to the x-rays. That was what the first stroke had shown. Who knew what the second stroke had done just then. If we put him on life-support, he might regain a kind of consciousness, but he’d never be the man he was.

Flash back four years, a sunny afternoon in our family home living room. Dad and I were talking, just as we had always done, all my life. He said he wasn’t afraid of growing older and sicker, that it was part of life, it was part of the Hindu life cycle that you had to accept. He said he was at peace with it as long as he had his mind.

“Caity,” he said. “My mind is my treasure. If I were to lose that, I would not want to live.”

It was a familiar refrain. For years, he had said that over and over. Mom, too. Their wishes were as clear as if they were flashing before my eyes in neon.

Now, in the hospital room, crowded with heroic medical professional trying to save his life, the neon hurt my eyes, and his words tore out my heart.

But I was my father’s daughter. I had his courage, his strength, his moral surety. I could do what he wanted, no matter the cost to myself. I would take care of Mom. I would make things right in the end. I would honor my father’s wishes.

“No,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “Let him go. No life support. Just palliative care.”

The relief in Dr. W ‘s face was palpable, and he squeezed my shoulder and told me I had made the right decision, a brave decision, one that was best for my dad.

I knew it. I believed it. I understood it.

It doesn’t change the fact that to this day, I am ever so slightly haunted by the sentence that popped into my head just then, “I have just made the choice to kill my father.”

Kill to be kind, to be sure.

Still.

What followed were six days of vigil at his bedside in the hospital. This brilliant, kind, courageous man, replete with human faults and human magnificence, lay there, slowly dying. I pushed for all the painkillers and tranquilizers that we could possibly give him, even when the nurses (their tones heavy with unspoken meaning) told me that more could increase the risk of stopping his heart. They, too, looked relieved when I told them that I understood the risk, welcomed it as an end to his suffering, and to go ahead and give him the meds.

Where he wandered in his mind during those days, I don’t know. I do know that he managed to say goodbye to us.

It was hours after the second stroke. Evening had set in. Mom and I were surrounded by loving friends – family in all truth. Suddenly, Dad opened his eyes wide, and he looked like he was struggling to stay focused. We called his name and jumped to his bedside. He looked at each one of us in turn, then closed his eyes one last time, a tear slipping from underneath his eyelid.

Five days later, when he passed, he was surrounded by all the friends and family who, just a month before, had gathered to celebrate his and Mom’s 50th wedding anniversary. He made a short speech, saying that the people around this table were his dear friends and his family, and that he was so blessed to have them in his life. Those same people had sat with him and me and Mom all those long days and nights, feeding us, bringing us changes of clothing, comforting us. And they all prayed with us, each in their own way, at the end.

It was so very quiet.

I remember reciting Dad’s favorite poem, “Crossing the Bar” by Lord Tennyson, as his pulse began to slow, and Uncle Shahid recited Dad’s other favorite, “Requiem” by Robert Louis Stevenson. I watched as Dad’s pulse in his neck fluttered softly, then finally stopped.

He was gone.

My father was dead.

Even now, I still have trouble building that into part of my day, part of my reality. Even after the heartache of the struggle to get his death certificate, to find the papers we needed for finances, to fix the house that suddenly seemed to fall apart on our hands, to get through the hours at work, to comfort each other…

I have tried very hard to be strong, to be stoic, to be the Rock of Gibraltar for my mother and for others, so that they could have time and space to work through their own grief and feelings without worrying too much about me. But, it has taken its toll on me, and I haven’t been perfect at it as I had hoped.

Spring is here, though, and I’m hoping that with the renewal of life in the earth will come some renewal in my heart. It’s not so much that I miss what Dad and I had. We had that. I’ll never lose that. I miss him “forward.” I miss the things I’ll never be able to tell him…the things he’ll never see like grandchildren (someday) or books I’ll write…the little silly jokes and things we shared…Yes, I will definitely miss him every day for all the days of my life to come.

You remember my post, “Witness” where I talked about my bizarre collection of hospital wristbands from all my hospitalizations (19, so far). Well, I added one to the collection. My dad’s very last one. People thought I was totally strange for taking it, but for me, it was just something I had to have. It’s stained and smudged, and battle-worn. Just as I have his first wristband from 1997, I have his last. I can’t explain why I have to have it, but perhaps you’ll feel, too, an understanding of why, even if you can’t articulate it.

There is so much more, so many more details, bits of memories, moments, and things that I could add in here. I’m not sure I can, though. And I’m not sure it would make a difference. I’m not even sure if there is a point to this post, other than it had to be written at some point, because otherwise, I would drown in it.

I guess the only thing left to say is that my father’s life is a testament to great love, and being my father’s daughter, I say to you: love everyone you can, every day.

Blessings,

Cait

Me and Dad - his favorite picture of us

I have passed the mountain peak

and my soul is soaring in the firmament

of complete and unbounded freedom;

I am in comfort,

I am in peace.

Kahlil Gibran

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