My Weekly Anchor
It has been 5 years since I lost my Dad. I wish I got to know him in an unadulterated way-- not as my Dad but a human being doing what he could and still managed to give me the biggest gift a daughter could wish for (need another blog on this). Only... it took me a while and a loss to investigate and begin to understand things I did not have the capacity for prior.
Maybe witnessing mortality this close is necessary. Standing by your Dad’s side, watching each breath, waiting for the next one to come, watch his chest rise, thanking God he was breathing. But then the gaps between breaths increase and I handed off next shift to my little sister, Seema. It was 2:30 AM and I joined my mom on the bed by my Dad’s. I don’t know when I fell asleep only to be woken up with both my sisters and brother in law towering over me. No words were needed. I was the designated person to call hospice for these kinds of cruel things assigned to me. I was the one in charge of administering morphine into my Dad’s vein after witnessing the pain he was experiencing last night and desperately wanting it to stop.
I was a robot heading to my phone charing by the bed stand. I dialed and let the nurse know. I don’t know what she said. I don’t know what happened after.
That morning of Jan 19, 2017 felt like I was watching the room from some other place. Like this is something happening to someone else. My mom’s cries begging the people not to take my dad away. My sisters swollen eyes. My nephew by the corner.
I grew up in Karachi watching my mom recite a story every Thursday afternoon. It sounded like a fable. She would sit on the floor, her head covered in a dupatta, the smell of jasmine agarbati, some channa/raisin in a small bowl, and a stainless steel glass filled with water-- all this in a steel thali. Eyes closed, tasbeeh in her hand, it looked like she was longing for something and praying hard. She would then come to each one of us and we took a sip of the sacred water. I did it to oblige.
Not one Thursday was missed. It was her thing.
Growing up I had a disdain for rituals. I didn’t understand why people do these things. After all, isn’t God everywhere? Why do they need to do the same standard thing every single week? What is the purpose? It looked like a waste of time to me. After all, looks like you are not getting what you are longing and asking for because you keep doing it. Why aren’t you getting the message?
After moving to US, I thought this would be a thing of the past. Nope. Not for my mom. There hasn’t been a Thursday that she has missed her prayers. Sometimes, my grandmother would join her too. And I did too if I happened to be in Dallas. I would secretly open my eyes and wonder what we were all doing. I felt good but didn’t know why.
Who knew that this would end up as my single biggest anchor now? Losing Papa, we all decided to join mom every Thursday. 5 years and we have not missed one Thursday. One of us (usually Seema) kicks it off a Skype call at 10AM Dallas time / 8a Seattle / 8p Dubai and 9p Karachi. Soon we have Dubai (Seema, Faisal, Gibran), Karachi (Amit), Dallas (Mom, Anita) and I join from Seattle. My calendar is blocked. I do not accept any meetings at this time. Every Thursday, mom recites the same story, followed by all of us doing our thing. We remember Papa, we pray for all those that are in need (close family, friends), asking for healing from those suffering from cancer, pandemic etc. We wrap up with one minute silent prayer for one person most in need and mom ends with her prayers for all of us.
On my hard days, I yearn for Thursdays when I know I will hear the voices of those I love -- it grounds me, and offers nourishment for my soul.
Gone are those days when I mocked rituals. Sometimes, one hour once a week is all you need as your anchor. I still miss Dad but I know Thursday is coming.