There we are, ten years ago. Me and Dad, in ash-form. Is this an anniversary of his death? What do they call this? A “Death-day?” If it is the opposite of a “Birthday” then that would make sense. But nothing about death makes sense to me.
For two years straight I was unable to process my emotions, breaking down constantly — if something reminded me of him, I’d cry. If I wasn’t thinking about him and suddenly remembered he no longer existed on this earth, I’d cry. If I was feeling any emotion whatsoever, I’d cry. Because I knew I couldn’t share it with him. This came in handy whenever I did have to cry for a movie (and in the last decade, I’ve cried in plenty) but it wasn’t so helpful whenever I was standing on line at Trader Joe’s, surrounded by strangers, clutching six packages of ginger chews, tears flowing steadily down my face.
And then, around year three of his Death-day, it wasn’t so scary. I still missed him but the sting was gone. I still thought about him every day, but it was cool! My father and I weren’t really that close, and yet, I felt so intimately connected with him after his passing.
Here are 10 ways I cultivated that relationship.
- He became my muse. I wrote about him constantly. I wrote him into I Will Make You Mine and dedicated the entire film to him.
2. I talk about him with my mom and my brother, and others who loved him. The stories aren’t always nice. We like to make fun of him a lot.
3. I cook his favorite meals. Thousands of people have made this dish, and that makes me so happy.
4. I ask him to send me signs. And in the last ten years, he has definitely sent them. In the form of animals, music. Some of it I still can’t quite believe.
5. Here’s some of the songs that remind me of him. He was a true classical geek. Over the years, I have shared this mix with others who have lost someone. It seems to capture the heartbreaking, bittersweet nature of grief.
6. I re-read things he wrote. I actually asked for an electronic copy of his PhD dissertation recently. It was sooooo boring but I love looking at it, knowing he obsessed over those words once.
7. I visit places where it’s easy to feel connected. This can be anywhere from San Gabriel, which is full of elderly folks speaking Chinese to spiritually focused places, like a church or a meditation garden.
8. I meditate, just like he did. This practice took years to develop, but now I do it pretty much every day.
9. I talk to him in my head. Literally: “Hey dad, what’s going on?” *HEARS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING* “Okay, thanks. Byeeeee.”
10. I talk to him through psychics and tarot cards. Stay with me here. Is it real? I’m married to someone very skeptical but he sees how much peace it brings me. So who cares if my Alice in Wonderland deck isn’t actually my father giving me advice.
Maybe I am just obsessed with my dead dad.
I’ve been feeling at peace with our relationship in his afterlife, the unwavering belief that he’s still keeping watch over me. He continually inspires me. He was such a disciplined man and I have followed diligently in his footsteps, creating daily habits and routines that best suit my productivity, health, and overall life balance. But lately, despite all the regimenting and the work — I’ve been losing a grip not only on that faith, but I’ve also been questioning it. And in doing so, I’ve lost myself again. (I literally just cried in H Mart.)
I know there is so much I’ve accomplished in the last ten years that my father would’ve been proud of. But today, it all feels so unimportant. What if there is no meaning to all of this? What if I live a life that will just be forgotten? I don’t have a child to obsess over me when I’m gone. Have I cultivated enough in my relationships to have made a lasting impact? Do I even care if I do? In another three decades, I will have outlived him. I know that’s a long time from now, but maybe it isn’t. The last ten years have just flown by so quickly. Where will I be? Who will I be? What will I have learned?
I recognize these thoughts. They’re fear that come from uncertainty that come from emotional exhaustion that come from grief. I’ll ride the roller coaster again, knowing where to anticipate the drops and the loops. But can I enjoy it this time? I’m not sure. Like it or not, I’m on it. So arms up.
