Dear readers, it's said Jeffrey Eugenides spent nine years crafting his acclaimed novel, “Middlesex.” In my own journey, it's taken me two decades to truly grasp the magnitude of my father's absence. My writing mentor, Betsy Warland, shared a perspective that has stayed with me: writing often spirals, circling closer and closer to the core of one's intent. My initial attempt at this narrative began in late 2000, and it found a clearer form in 2007. Today's entry is influenced by the time of year—when the anniversary of my father's passing mingles with my own birthday.
The journey began with a walk to the cancer clinic in August, each step echoing uncertainty and hope. The air was thick with the remnants of summer, a cruel irony given the cold reality my father and I, were about to face. Inside, amidst a maze of cold hallways and sterile rooms, we met Judy. She soon became more than just a palliative care nurse; she became a bridge to a world we were just beginning to understand.
In the days that followed, I watched my father, Nicolas, as moments of stillness grew more frequent. Pauses punctuated our conversations, the silence sometimes more telling than the words themselves. From spirited discussions about the garden to simple queries about my day, these pauses began to take centre stage.
His once animated stories became sparse. But every so often, he'd light up, recalling the fig trees in the garden, the sweet scent of his roses in full bloom. Memories of past summers, of life in its fullness, seemed to bring him momentary respite.
Yet, there was a shift in him. His smile, which once had the purpose of bridging or concealing those pauses, began to change. It transformed into something different, more diffuse, a kind of radiance that felt otherworldly.
The books he once loved remained unread. He'd open one, let his finger bookmark a page, but the stories went unnoticed. Each page, left untouched, seemed to mourn its own abandonment.
In the midst of these pauses, questions would arise, sometimes repetitive, sometimes fleeting. “Where were you yesterday, Christina?” he'd ask, and though the answer remained consistent, the need for reassurance was palpable. Through every repeated question, our responses never wavered, always filled with love, always patient.
Three days before he left this world, he gifted me with words that would stay with me forever: “Christina,” he began, “a newborn comes into this world with his fists closed, eager to grasp everything. When an old man dies, he does so with open hands, realizing there's nothing to take with him—only the imprints on his heart.”
In the quiet of that room, as the weight of our reality settled around us, our fingers intertwined. It was a simple, yet sincere gesture, reminding me that our bond would remain unbreakable, even in the face of the inevitable. His face, now radiant and distant, reminded me of a saint lost in contemplation, embodying a peace and understanding beyond this world.
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