Coping with the Loss of my Father

No Matter What Your Age, Losing a Parent Leaves a Lasting Void

MAY 13, 2024

No matter how old you are, you will feel orphaned when you lose one of your parents. One of the most challenging things I have gone through, and still face every day, is the loss of my father.

It was 11 pm on January 8th when I received a phone call from my brother-in-law. He told me that my dad wasn't doing well; he had suffered a brain haemorrhage while in the hospital for some medical tests, and he was undergoing surgery. I quickly packed, booked my ticket, and headed to Beirut the next day.

Walking into the Neuro intensive care unit, I felt like a zombie. Dressed in protective gear, I entered his room. The image of my frail, very sick father, intubated and sedated, is seared into my memory and never leaves me. A week later, the doctors gave us a glimmer of hope; he was doing better. They extubated him, and to our relief, he woke up, recognized all of us, and started talking. Yet, 48 hours later, the grim reality struck again with a phone call at dawn, urging us to hurry to the hospital. His heart had stopped, and he needed immediate medical attention.

The following 100 days were a rollercoaster of events and emotions, with my father confined to his intensive care bed, occasionally conscious, often just staring at the horizon. Ultimately, the only voice that seemed to reach him was my mother's.

Throughout their marriage, and especially during his illness, I watched my mother care for him with a devotion that epitomized unconditional love. Their profound bond demonstrated the depth of commitment and affection, which profoundly shaped my understanding of love.

The pain resurfaces whenever I recall those moments. My father was a man full of life, joy, and love—how could he suddenly become so incapacitated?

Throughout his life, he embodied kindness, grace, and dignity. As my brother remarked, our father was always guided by a solid moral compass, a deep sense of justice, and steadfast faith. Despite growing up in an underprivileged environment and surviving a civil war, he remained at peace with himself and his surroundings.

Reflecting on his life, I am in awe of his natural mindfulness, which many in my generation strive to achieve through self-help books, therapy, and workshops. His connection to his faith and nature gave him an extraordinary calm.

My father passed away around the Dawn morning prayer on April 18th. I got the phone call. I woke Mom up and sent someone to my siblings' homes to wake them up and let them know.

Mom and I were the first to get to the ICU; the door to his room was closed, and they were preparing him. Once they were done, they allowed us in.

And the grieving journey started.

Initially, it was mechanical. We were on autopilot. We needed to inform the rest of the family, prepare for the funeral and relocate to Saida, my hometown, to do all of this.

I am forever thankful to my cousin Ahmad, who suggested that my sister and I participate in the preparation rituals. We were in the room: my brothers, my sister, a couple of my cousins, my dad's trusted bodyguards who have been with him for over 40 years and the funeral experts.

I never thought that such a ritual would give me so much solace. However, rituals can provide profound solace during the tender moments of preparing a loved one for their final journey. Engaging in the ritual of shrouding the deceased and helping wash them can feel like a final act of care and the last moment of physical closeness we crave. It's a deeply personal and sacred time, allowing family and friends to express their love and respect through gentle, deliberate actions. Standing there, each of us had a task to do, and we were all together reciting verses of the Quran and saying prayers—all in one voice, one tone—while practising our tasks. These moments, filled with quiet prayers and soft recitations, can transform the raw edges of grief into a more bearable sorrow, enveloped in the warmth of shared memories and the palpable sense of honouring a cherished life.

As family members come together, taking turns performing the rites or simply being present, there is a comforting solidarity in these shared acts of mourning. Each gesture, each whispered goodbye, serves not only as a tribute to the deceased but also as a bridge, connecting those left behind through their shared loss.

Ultimately, these rituals do more than help us cope with the immediate void left by a loved one's departure; they stitch together the past and present, weaving the essence of the departed into the fabric of the living and turning chaotic emotions into a path towards healing.

Once we were done, we opened the doors for the rest of the family members to say their goodbyes. They came in in files, said their prayers, and kissed him goodbye for the last time. All did it in kindness and lightness, just the way Dad lived.

When it was time for me to kiss him for the last time, I looked at his face and saw him smiling!

After four days of public mourning, I returned to my life in London, beginning a more private journey through grief.

The process is not linear; it is an ebb and flow of emotions—sometimes a gut-wrenching pain, other times a smile at a beautiful memory.

Grief is a challenging and deeply personal journey that can't be neatly mapped out. It ebbs and flows like the ocean's tides- sometimes gentle and peaceful, other times crashing and overwhelming. It can be unpredictable and intense, changing from one moment to the next. During times of grief, the absence of a loved one can feel unbearable, and the world can seem harsh and unfair.

Yet, grief is not just about pain and loss. It can also bring moments of fond reminiscence, where memories of happy times shared with the departed bring a brief respite from sorrow and remind us of our love. The back and forth between grief and solace is a testament to the complex bond we continue to share with our loved ones even after they are gone.

Emotionally, grief is a reflection of love. It's often said that we only grieve because we love; thus, our grief's intensity measures how deeply we care. To love is to open ourselves to the possibility of loss; grief is the price we pay for that love. Despite the pain, most of us still say the love was worth it.

Physically, grief can be exhausting. It can disrupt our sleep, our appetite, and our energy levels. It can feel like a heavy weight on our hearts or a dull body ache. These physical symptoms are a natural response to the intense emotions and stress that come with losing someone we care about deeply.

Spiritually, grief can be transformative. It can make us question our beliefs about life, death, and what comes after. It can shake the foundations of our faith or deepen our spiritual connections. This spiritual upheaval can contribute to the non-linear nature of grief, as everyone must navigate their unique spiritual responses and reconciliations. When we're grieving, it can be hard to know what to do. We feel helpless and out of control as grief unfolds on its schedule and without warning.

There's no right or wrong way to grieve, and healing is a journey that can't be rushed. Accepting our grief and allowing ourselves to feel it fully is a sign of strength, not weakness. It's a way of acknowledging our loss and honouring the love we shared with our loved ones.

While the path of grief may be complex and unpredictable, it's a necessary journey that we all must take at some point in our lives. It's a testament to the enduring impact of love and an opportunity to incorporate the lessons and love of our departed loved ones into the fabric of our lives.

My dad taught me to swim at 2, ride a horse at 3 and a bicycle at 4, and shoot a gun at 5. He showed me how to stand on my own two feet.

A dad's job is to protect his little girl and show her how to defend herself when he is not around one day.

... and that day has come!