My father passed three months shy of his 78th birthday.
He would've been 80 today.
There's a little thing we do on each other's birthday: we'd call each other at exactly the time we were born. I was born at 1:24pm (you should know my birthday by now), and him at 10:10am. We never wished each other anything earlier than those times. He never did that anyone else, just with me.
Yes, I was his favourite.
Was. You never realise the impact of the word until you have to continuously use it when you want to talk about someone whom you can't reach out to, try as you might.
I'd be lying if I said I don't miss him, or if I no longer felt the grief of losing him. And we all know I'm not a very good liar. It still hurts on some days, but you learn to live with it.
Some days, I tear up and think "why didn't you wait for me?!", but then I realised that him living as 10% of the person he used to be is just making him him suffer even more. Redha, that's the word my mother and I used to say.
There were days I felt so much guilt for leaving him when I knew he needed me most, I felt selfish and I had to punished for it. The punishment? Not being able to see him take his last breath, and cry alone in a foreign country in the middle of a worldwide pandemic. You know that scene in Avengers: Age of Ultron where Wanda falls to her knees when she felt Pietro get shot? That was how I felt when my mother delivered the news. It was my punishment that I needed to bear alone.
Many people said they dreamt of him a few days or months after he passed, but he didn't appear in mine. He did, once, but he turned his back to me, refusing to talk to me. I never told anyone this because, again, I felt that it was my punishment and I needed to go through it alone. I deserved it.
My mental health took a severe blow. I had to take time away from people to be okay, I had to go on radio silence for a long while to focus on myself. I cut off some people from my life, lost some friends along the way. It's okay, I probably deserved to lose them too. "My punishment".
Until one day in April last year, he appeared in my dream. We talked, we went out together and did all the things we used to do together. He told his silly "how tall are you?" joke (to be honest, it's not even funny) and we laughed. He held me and I leaned my head on his shoulder and he told me "it's okay" and he hugged me. I woke up at 4am feeling very confused, and then I remembered it was the release of BTS' new song 'Film out'. Someone very close to me told me to only listen to it when I was ready. In true Roxy fashion, I never listen to anything anyone says, so I listened to the song.
Big mistake. I cried even harder because the song really put into words how I felt about losing my father. There is really no surprise why Film out was my most played song on Spotify in 2021.
Even before his cognitive abilities deteriorated, he would always put me first. I never understood why, to be honest. I wasn't the smartest, nor was I the best in anything; but he held me in the highest regard to everyone. His friends always said that he really loved me, and that they were surprised that he quit smoking for me. "If I can live with the fact that you're staying in the UK, I can live without my cigarettes". His friends tried to snap him out of it, but that man, stubborn as he is, refused to budge.
There were days he let his temper control him, and he would not talk to anyone. I could sense when he was in one of those moods (he had his tells), and I'd let him cool down before attempting to talk to him. By the third day, he would be the first one to break the silence.
"I bought you mutton briyani, go eat"
"I bought laksa for you. Only you"
"Going to Mani's shop. You want to come with me? We can have sup kambing"
His love languages were acts of service and food. He loved food so much, he'd always take me out to eat. It's part of the reason why I love food. He would just buy the food I liked and tell me very quietly that he bought an extra packet for me. He would buy two portions of food just to share with me (or more like "you need to eat more food, I'll take a quarter and you finish the rest" haha). He would go all out whenever I had friends over for any celebrations, and order the best food.
He always helped everyone around him, especially if they were mistreated. He used to help this Bangladeshi worker (who has now become our family friend for nearly 25 years) whenever he had problems. He drove me and my best friends to our tuition classes. He would help me with my Kemahiran Hidup woodwork assignments. Anytime I had a work event where I was part of the committee, he would help to tap some of his friends to help out (and get good prices) and help me carry all the items too.
My father was the kind of person who would fight for the right things. When I was bullied in school by a teacher, he had wanted to take the matter to the State Education Department. I was a scared 16-year-old girl, I didn't want to get into trouble with anyone at the time, so I told him to drop it and let me leave school quietly. He was angry about it for months, but eventually he understood why I had acted that way.
If there's one thing that surprised me about my old man, is how he remembers the smallest acts of kindness. When I was 7, there was a jumble sale at school and I saw a pair of shorts and I thought "oh this would look nice on Papa!" because he wore shorts all the time at home. So I used whatever money I had as a seven-year-old girl (read: not a lot) and bought those shorts, and excitedly gave it to him. He didn't have the heart to tell me that the shorts I had bought were for women, so he took it and thanked me profusely for it. Somewhere in 2016/2017 while we had some relatives over, he had brought out those shorts and told them the story about how much he appreciated the thoughtfulness of a seven-year-old girl that he kept it as reminder for him that I had a good bone in me (not really, I was too young to understand how clothes worked because I had a couple of hand-me-downs from my brother so, yeah, for me fashion works for everyone).
Every morning after he sent my mum to work, he would always take the longer route to go home just so we could stop at someone's house in Taman Dato' Senu just so I could gush over the little bunnies they had. He'd let me coo and cry over them for a good 15 minutes or until I said I was satisfied. It's probably why I get so excited seeing people's dogs and cry very loudly in public about them (if you've seen this in person, sorry not sorry).
Any time we went shopping, he would know the shops I frequent: music, books, clothes. He would patiently wait until I got what I wanted. Sometimes, he would see a nice outfit and tell me to try it on. If it was nice, he'd get it for me. If it was so-so, he'd just go "oh we can KIV this first, we'll go around, and if we still feel this one is the best, we'll go back and get it, yea?". I can't imagine finding someone who'd be this patient with me and my indecisiveness (I like to keep my options open, thank you very much).
He never liked my favourite football team, but would stay up with me and keep me company to watch the matches (and watch me mope when we lose). He would put up with my team the same way I would put up with his.
He'd always send me anywhere I needed to go (he never trusted me with taking public transportation alone...oh, if he could see me now), so much that my friends could tell when his car is outside the building (my father's old car was VERY loud). I loved that car so much, no matter how old it was.
When I continued my Masters in 2010, I had a panic attack on the plane and I couldn't eat. I think it hit me that I was going to be away from my family for the first time in a foreign country and I had to be independent. I always had their support so it was weird not having someone tell you where to go if you had stomach cramps or ear infections. I just cried and he just said "it's okay" and held my hand. I calmed down after a bit and we went on with life. Two days before they were due to fly back to Malaysia, I had another panic attack and called my mum and just sobbed "I don't want to do this any more! I don't think I can do it!" over and over again. My mum couldn't handle me crying (ever since that day, we have a rule that we can't cry during our calls), so she passed the phone to my father. All he said was "It's okay, forget about everything. You have an open return ticket. You could fly with us home too. If you feel you're not ready to do this, it's fine. It's okay". He handled it in a way I never thought he would: very gentle and patient. All he wanted was for me to be happiness. He said "it's okay" a few times until I had calmed down. Eventually, I apologised for having a meltdown and told them I'd sleep over it before making any decisions. (no surprise what happened here)
My father was the kind of person who is loud when he needs to be, and soft when he needs to be. His stubbornness and sternness was something I aspire to have (but I'm too soft-hearted sometimes). He loved with his entire being and would dote on those he loved the most. Some days, I wish I was half the person he is but I don't think I'm anywhere near there.
I went home in April 2022 and I finally got to see him and tell him many things. My spring day finally came.
Out of habit, I kept looking into his room expecting him to be reading the newspaper at midnight. I hoped he'd look up and smile at me before pulling me into a hug, just like he used to. Hope is a lovely thing to have, but hope is also pretty dangerous. But it's nice to imagine once in a while.
I felt lighter when I went home. I feel even lighter putting my thoughts into words now.
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Happy birthday, pa. I love you. As per tradition, I will celebrate you by doing the things you love.
From all the memories stored in my heart
I gather up the ones of you, link them together
Gazing at them projected across the room
I feel you with every burst of pain
