Remembering Dad • 1944 – 2022

Posted on 16/05/2022 Updated on 17/05/2022

11 May 2022. I found out my dad had passed away. Not like anyone called me or told me that he had. A letter did; one from the Public Trustee Office. And no, the letter didn’t tell me that he had passed on, but only that I needed to submit documents because records showed that I was a child of the deceased. 

That was how I found out, in perhaps the most unceremonious way, that my dad passed on. 

More than 25 years back, dad left home. He took whatever he wanted and left us with a half empty house. He gave me a hug before he left, told me to be a good girl and turned his back – literally. I thought that was when I said my last goodbye to dad. 

But one day, as I was flipping through the papers, I came across the obituary page and figured I wouldn’t want to find out that my dad has passed on through the papers. I thought I should at least be there with him in his dying days. 

And so I began to make contact with dad. He looked happier; lighter; and generally well. He had remarried and briefly introduced his new wife to me – a school teacher. She was pleasant and nothing like my mum. Of course, I am biased as to who I thought looked better. 

Dad would write letters to me initially but this slowly trickled down to cards on my birthday and Christmas. Then it was just my birthday. And when technology took over, WhatsApp became our mode of communication. 

He would send wishes and occasionally one of those forwarded messages about how to live life better. When COVID hit, the forwarded messages became more frequent. I never questioned why he did send me those messages, preferring to assume it was his way of reaching out or showing that he cared. I would reply with a thumbs up or thank you mostly and communication soon became just Happy Birthday messages once a year. I took comfort knowing he was at least alive. 

But last November, I didn’t get the usual Happy Birthday wish from dad. And perhaps I was too busy dealing with the busyness in my life, I had failed to realize that he didn’t – until March this year when I sent him a birthday wish. I thought something was amiss when he didn’t reply, despite the message being blue ticked. 

Just to be sure, I sent another message over Easter. No blue tick this time. 

I contemplated calling him. But what if he was avoiding me? Should I call from a different number? Should I get someone to call on my behalf? What should I say if he picked up? 

I had so many questions and the overthinking made me not do anything. And I continued to live my life. Until that letter came. 

How do you even mourn the death of your dad when you don’t even know when he died, how he died, if there was anyone around him when he died? How do you pay your respects when you don’t even know where his ashes are? 

Why didn’t his wife call me? Why didn’t he call me? Was he sick? 

How do you accept condolences and should you? It is too late to mourn now? Should you?

How do you find closure? Didn’t closure happen when he chose to leave home and when I chose to forgive him from doing so? 

If he had be absent from most of my life for the past many years, then why am I even crying over his death?

How do you tell people your dad has passed on but there will be no wake, no funeral?

I had so many questions. No answers. Google doesn’t tell you these things. And really, is there an answer?  

Maybe finding out about his death through the obituaries would have been better since at least I would have to see him one last time before be left the world. I never imagined that this could be worse.

I felt pain. I felt guilt. I felt shame. I felt a sense of loss and then confusion. What should I be feeling?

I put my emotions aside for a minute and tried to find if there was a way I could at least find out when he died. 

I filed a search with ICA, making a wild guess as to when he might have died, swiftly paid $80 and waited. There is really nothing else I could do. Who do I even tell the odd situation I was in? 

It was late in the night but I texted my boss to tell him I’d be late for work the next day, in anticipation that I would probably need time to make sure mum was doing ok before I headed to work. He asked if I needed the day off and I declined. “Work would be good,” I replied. I figured it would keep my mind off the matter while I waited. 

“Are you ok?” My boss asked me, looking thoroughly concerned, when he saw me at work the next day. I thought I was doing good holding back the tears all these while, or at least to cry when nobody was looking. But I couldn’t control it any longer and tears flooded down my face. Thankfully, the mask soaked up most of the tears and hid whatever emotions I had. 

The past month was one of the best I had experienced for a very long time. I was happy; loving my job, loving the mission and loving the new team I had got acquainted with. It was refreshing. The work was complex, on some days taxing but I loved that it made my brain hurt trying to think of ways to simplify the complexity. I was making headway and even though I wasn’t at the forefront of healthcare, I knew the work I was doing mattered. And I was in some way, thirsting to do more. 

But the news of dad’s passing made me feel beaten; torn; bruised. My spirits felt low and physically, I felt weak – perhaps from not having much of an appetite to eat as well. I may have forgotten to eat dinner the day before. And breakfast after a morning run to try to shake off the grief felt optional. 

“Let’s get down to the work,” I insisted. Pulling the charts I had put together, I led my two bosses into a discussion. For one hour, I put aside what I was feeling inside and just ploughed through. And I felt better. 

Then a call came from ICA. The kind lady on the line referred to my application for a death search. “Sayang, how did you find out your papa passed away?” 

“I got a letter from the Public Trustee Office,” I shared, trying not to cry. 

She didn’t want to say that she had already did the search based on the two months I thought my dad could have passed on and nothing came up. 

“Maybe you can try calling them or the NEA,” she suggested. “We need a more accurate time frame to do the search.”

“NEA?” I was puzzled. I soon learnt that after death matters are managed by the NEA. 

I called the NEA. They asked me to try PTO. I called PTO, explained my situation and perhaps I sounded desperate enough that the kind lady agreed to go into the case file to search. She put me on hold and while waiting, I looked up into the vast sky and whispered a prayer. 

“I found it,” she said. “20 January 2022.”

I thanked her and called the kind lady from ICA back. “I’m going to proceed to process a refund of the search for you and you can then apply for the extract of the death cert,” she offered. Bless her soul for understanding how I felt.

Progress.  

In some way, I felt relieved that dad passed on sometime back. But looking back on the date also meant that whoever blue-ticked my message to him on his birthday could have called me to tell me. Why didn’t he or she? 

More questions. 

I went ahead to apply for the extract for the death certificate. Hopefully it would lend some answers.

The time between questions and answers gives way to imagination, perhaps much more than necessary. 

I imagined how dad’s last hours looked like; how it must have felt like. I imagined him on a bed. I imagined him asleep. I cannot quite picture if he was surrounded by loved ones, or if he was in pain. But I hope he was at peace. 

Dad’s last message to me was in May last year. His last Facebook post was in October. He didn’t send me a message on my birthday so whatever took him, took him quickly. And maybe it was for the better. 

It felt a lot like dad to not hold on. In his life, he lived with a carpe diem mantra, perhaps to his detriment. He loved life. He loved music. He loved dance. And whatever he earned, he spent. For him, life was meant to be enjoyed, soaked in for all its colours and experiences; not to be saved for another day. 

Perhaps it was this view of life that made me quite the opposite. It made me fearful that if I should enjoy life like he did, I could one day be hurting not only myself, but also those around me. 

But as much as I resist it, I know that genetics play a strong part in shaping who I am. My natural inclination to music, my love for travel and to explore the world comes from him. And as much as I hate it, my quest for perfection came from him too – something I am slowly trying to unlearn.

Dad too, was the person who made discipline a part of life. Pretty paradoxical, I thought, for a man who seemed to live life without a plan. Things for him had to be perfect; he made sure all his ducks were lined up in a row, and insisted we did the same. He was particular about the grades I received at school. If I had 98/100, he would ask what made me lose the 2 marks. He was the very opposite of mum who would hug me and applaud me for just giving my best. 

The house had to be spotless for dad. We all had to play a part to clean the house. We had a roster of who would clean what and there was no room for bargain. Respect was expected, and if not shown, the cane would be activated. But despite being from a Peranakan family, dad treated both my bother and me the same. No one got preferential treatment because of their gender. And if anyone should treat me any less than my brother (which happened a few times) they got a earful from him. 

Perhaps it was through him that I learnt that women mattered just as much as men. 

Dad had his faults. But who doesn’t. And perhaps as I remember him, I prefer to choose to remember that one late night when I had a high fever and he sponged my fever down. Or when he proudly attended the prize giving ceremony when I won a book prize in Geography. Or when he commented that I had beautiful handwriting and that I was creative.

I wondered what I would say to him if I were to be by his side. I wondered what he would say to me. I wondered, but the image in my head brought no words. 

Some part of me feels a tinge of guilt, wondering if I were happily enjoying life in his last days. Somehow, it seemed wrong if I were doing so. I scrolled through my photos in my phone. Nothing came up, thankfully. I think I can put that feeling of guilt away.

But just three days before he passed on was when I received that email to ask if I were interested in exploring the job I am loving today. The day after he passed on was when I had my interview. Some part of me just felt that at death, new life is born. Was this dad’s way of telling me to do good with my new life? 

“Did you realise that the date of dad’s passing is your birth time backwards?” Mum asked. I nodded. Could he have chosen a better date? Or was that a divine way of reminding me the day he left the world? 

As the days pass, I am slowly letting go of the fact that I need to know answers. Does it matter now if I know where he died, how he died or who was around him when he did? Would I feel better if I had that clarity, or would it be better if I just imagined how things were? 

The fact is that dad isn’t around anymore; and I wasn’t there when he left this world. What help would it be if I were to know? There is nothing I could have done, and maybe it’s time to let go and close this chapter. 

And so, these days, when I think about how dad left this world, I say a prayer; a Hail Mary. To me, it’s like mailing a prayer to him, whenever he may be, letting him know that I still think of him. 

It took me a while to understand the grief I had and still feel. And then I came across this:

Perhaps I hadn’t realise that there is a place in my heart that still loves him. He is, after all, my dad.

And while I sort out the rest of my feelings, I feel thoroughly blessed by friends who have reached out, who have lent their support, who have in their own way cheered me up or distracted me; who have just sat there and listened as I poured out my feelings in an attempt to figure out how to feel. It must have been equally challenging for them too, to figure out how to navigate my fragile soul and to offer support in this very unconventional moment of loss. 

Despite all dad had done and not done, my mum, brother and I bear no grudge nor hate. He is after all family. And so if you wish to offer a token of condolence, I humbly ask that you say a prayer for his soul, pray the Hail Mary; offer a Mass; light a candle; donate to your favourite charity or just do a good deed to someone you do not know. Dad was always a generous man, sometimes to a fault, and I am sure he would love that. 

How do you mourn the death of someone who left you more than 25 years ago? I’ve learnt that you don’t. You celebrate his life just like you would for anyone else. And that’s what I hope to continue doing in his memory.