It Can't Be Undone

When I started writing this, the only purpose it held, as far as I was concerned, was an outlet for what I was feeling and couldn’t share with my friends and family. I felt like I was exploding inside and had to get things out, but did not want to burden anyone with my feelings.
It is 2:20 am and I am, once again, unable to sleep. If my sleep deprivation can be divided into two categories, one being insomnia, the worst is the one I am now: Sadness. When you don’t sleep because you just can’t, it’s annoying. But when you can’t sleep because of so many (depressing) thoughts running through your head, your exhaustion just exasperates.
What has happened over the past year has been nothing less than shocking and painful to me; my heart goes out for people who are going through what I am going through – or are about to, or already have – to see that there are other people experiencing the same exact feelings and pain that, with all good intentions, cannot be fathomed by someone “on the outside.”
As for how do I start each day without my dad? Shockingly, I do. I don’t know how. Before he died, and before he was terminal, and before he was even sick, I never thought I’d be able to survive not having my dad around.
There are several stages that individuals who have been diagnosed with a terminal illness go through, and have been extended to include those who have lost loved ones. Wikipedia defines the stage of denial basically as a “this can’t be happening” stage. I actually spent a very long time in that stage – probably around a year, until the cancer reoccurred.
I know he’s gone, I feel he’s gone, I’ve accepted he’s gone – but I haven’t.
I am in denial that I won’t ever see him again. I’m only 26 years old! He was only 58! It’s insane to think that I have decades ahead of me where I won’t get to hear my dad’s voice, or feel his hug (which is clearly unique), or smell his scent, or feel his touch, or hear him say he’s proud of me, or have him at my wedding, or have him when my kids are born, or have him teach me how to be a mother, or have him calm me down when I’m freaking out, or have him advise me what washing machine to buy because ours broke down this weekend, or teach me his amazing recipes, or bring me the sweetest of the melons and mangoes, or have him babysit, or get his advice (because let’s face it, our dads know best), or have him meet The Boy, or tell me that I’m not insane when I feel I am, or see him get old with my mom – or see him get old at all.
I am in extreme denial about all of it, just a different version of denial than is discussed in most literature. It’s probably the kind reserved for my kind of cancer survivor.
Wikipedia defines a cancer survivor as “… an individual with cancer of any type, current or past, who is still living.”
I am pretty sure that the definition should be amended to include those who lost a loved one to cancer. You see, we – my grandmother and brother and mom, and all of my dad’s good friends and family – we are cancer survivors as well. We are the leftovers of my dad’s food-pipe cancer.
We are the ones left with picking up the pieces. My dad is gone, but we’re still here, and so many of our daily activities are constant reminders of his death. Whether it’s celebrating a festival without my dad – and remembering he was at the previous one. We are the ones who are grieving on a daily basis. The ones who need to figure out where we go from here, what changes we need to make.
We are the ones who keep having to tell the story. Every time we run into someone who didn’t know my dad was sick and we have to tell them he died, we are survivors all over again. Even though the process isn’t as painful as it was at first, it still isn’t easy. When I speak of my dad as being dead, I am completely disconnected from the words coming out of my mouth. As far as I’m concerned, I could be talking about the rain in Mumbai. Because that’s my way of surviving.
We are the ones who feel the effects of his death every day, even in stupid things like accidentally saying “My dad would love that!” and then feeling bad for the person who heard it because they don’t know what to say.
We’re the ones who can randomly start crying at any given moment and then have to start explaining why. And, of course, feeling bad.
We are the ones who are labeled. The Ones whose Dad/husband/Child/ Died of Cancer.
We are the ones who are looked upon with pity, both by those who know us and don’t how to talk to us anymore, and those who just find out.
My dad’s cancer affected our life profoundly and forever altered who we are. It has changed us in every possible way, and its devastation is felt almost on a daily basis.
The original definition of “cancer survivor” is a positive one; It is one of triumph, one that shows that even though cancer has attacked, people can survive.
I can only assume, then, that we – the friends and family of those who have died – cannot be included in the official definition because we are the negative side of cancer.
But we are, in fact, cancer survivors as well.
Thankfully, the hard days don’t happen as often as they used to. And when they do, I just try to get through them without hurting the people who care about me. It’s all part of being the other type of cancer survivor.