#7 TEN moments
Snapshots of a father-daughter relationship over the years
Today’s newsletter is a series of ten 100-word snapshots that explore my relationship with my Dad over the years — through childhood, adulthood, sickness, death and beyond. It reflects a lifetime of connection, courage, heartbreak & hope; the enduring strength of a father’s devotion and a daughter’s love; and a treasure trove of memories I’ll hold dearly for the rest of my life.
✨ I’d love to hear from you! When you’re done reading, click the comment button below and let me know:
Which of these moments resonates most with you? Feel free to share how it connects with you and your story 💛
Special mentions:
This newsletter is inspired by a recent piece from an incredible writer, author, fellow Lord of the Rings devotee, and I’m honoured to say new Substack friend
. Her seven-part ‘drabble’ series (where each vignette is precisely 100 words in length) is a heartfelt exploration of her father’s battle with cancer, and the profound impact it had (and no doubt continues to have) on her and her family. She does an exceptional job of capturing the ups and downs of the cancer journey, told through the eyes of a loving daughter who is at times scared, at times hopeful, and perpetually trying to keep it together for the sake of those she loves (the latter I relate to deeply). Check out her piece using the link below - it is one of my favourites and absolutely worth a read!
Thank you so much Tiffany for so generously allowing me to use your creative structure as the inspiration behind this piece ❤️
Also inspiring me is
— a wonderful writer, podcast host, and passionate mental health advocate, who is currently running a 100 word a day challenge here on Substack. Her words are always a true inspiration, and her micro-stories lately have been a masterclass in writing flash fiction. I’ve included a link to one below. (Mesa, does this 10-part drabble count as 10 days’ worth of writing? 😆)
Before we get to today’s letter, a quick intro:
Hi there, I’m Ruhie! A writer, doctor, mum & a daughter who lost her Dad to terminal illness.
✨ Have you ever wondered what you would say to a loved one you lost if you could write to them?
💡 Have you ever had a moment where you’re hearing someone else’s story, and a light bulb goes off in your head about your own life?
Well, I have.
Click HERE to read more about me, why I started this journey, and what I’m hoping to build here together.
Dear Dad,
When I am born, I know nothing of the world. It is a scary place of lights and sounds, odd smells and unsettling cold. But I feel safe when I am with you. Two people who are strangers, but not quite because I know you. For nine months I’ve heard your voices. You are my world. You stare at me in wonder, hold me tenderly, shush me to sleep. You waited so long for me. You were starting to lose hope that you’d ever have a child of your own. Here I am. Stay with me. We’re in this together.
When I am four, I yell “I want Mummy!” as you try to tame the knots in my thick long black hair. This is my earliest memory of you. I don’t like it when Daddy combs my hair. You are more gentle than Mummy, but your ponytails are not as comfy. “Mummy is feeding the baby, beta.” You don’t raise your voice or get mad. You don’t seem hurt when I push you away. “I have an idea! Let’s sing Wiggles! Hot potato, hot potato!” I giggle as you sing off-key. I don’t even notice the hair tie going on.
When I am seven, you walk me to school one day. What a treat! Most days you leave early and come home late. You’re at work a lot. Mummy says you work hard for our family. I know that. You work so hard, Daddy. But I still miss you when you are gone. I grip your hand tightly, not wanting to let go. I race through my timetables, wanting so badly to impress you. When I’m done, your face cracks into the biggest smile. You lift me effortlessly in the air and twirl me around. This is the best feeling.
When I am eleven, I struggle to comprehend the cruelty of people I thought were my friends. The girls in my class cornered me in the schoolyard today and taunted me for forty minutes. A relentless stream of all the things they “hate” about me. “Beta, are you okay?” You ask that night. I hoped no one at home would notice. I thought I hid it well. “I’m fine, Daddy!” I don’t want to worry you. Do you see through me? Is that why you take us out for ice cream on a weeknight? Somehow you make me smile again.
When I am eighteen, I am getting ready for a party. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t notice me!” I whine to Mum about the guy I like from medical school. I feel deflated. You stop me before I leave. “You look pretty, beta,” you say with a kind smile and shy earnestness. You never talk about our appearance. Ever. Did you overhear my conversation and think I could use a morale boost? “If that boy doesn’t notice the amazing person you are, it’s his loss!” It’s just about the sweetest thing you could have said to me in this moment.
When I am twenty-four, I see you cry for the second time in my life. First, when I was seven and your mother died. The second is as I’m leaving the wedding hall. I just married “that boy” (he noticed me eventually). You love him like a son. But, today, you are inconsolable. Is it because you and I are kindred spirits, alike in so many ways? Or because the girl’s side always cries at Indian weddings, over symbolically losing a daughter? You will never lose me, Dad. I will always be your little girl. I will always need you.
When I am twenty-six, you come to me for medical advice. It’s the third time this year. First, for cramps in your right hand. Then, difficulty turning the key. Lately, you’ve noticed muscle twitching in the same hand. “Show me,” I say. I see the fasciculations with my own eyes and realise in horror what it means. Cramping + weakness + fasciculations = motor neurone disease. I recall the little we learnt about MND/ALS in medical school. It causes full-body paralysis. There is no cure. It is terminal. “No! Anything but that,” I plead with the universe. “Don’t take him from us.”
When I am twenty-eight, the whole room watches you sing. With your wheelchair reclined to support your paralysed body, you tap your atrophied left hand slowly against the armrest and nod your head clumsily in time with the music. Your disease makes it difficult to project your voice. But this is Antakshari, a singing contest, and you are notoriously competitive. Your body may be weakened, but your fighting spirit is as strong as ever. I am overcome with pride and joy. Surprise, too. How are you so full-of-life when your body is betraying you and you know what lies ahead?
When I am twenty-nine, I see the paramedics huddled around your wheelchair. Mum is next to you, distraught. She called fifteen minutes ago. “He’s asking for you… feeling dizzy... blood pressure 200/100!” “Call an ambulance. We’re on the way.” As soon as I see you, I know it’s too late. Your last words echo in my ears. “Call Ruhie.” You thought I could save you. But I couldn’t. Nothing could. From the moment you were diagnosed, we knew you were going to die someday. But not today. Not like this. “Stay with me, Dad,” I whisper. But you don’t.
When I am thirty-five, they squeal in delight. “Yayy Dada song!!” Yes, we have a song for you. We sing it to your grandchildren every night. It started the day after you died. Rocking Az to sleep, silent tears carving salty trails down my face. The tune “You are my sunshine” sprang to mind, giving life to a family lullaby:
You are my Dada
My special Dada
You make me happy, when skies are grey
I love you Dada
I miss you Dada
You are my hero and my guide.
They will never meet you. But they will know you.
Miss you every day, Dad. Love you always. Until next time 💌
Ruhie
✨ I’d love to hear from you! When you’re done reading, click the comment button below and let me know:
Which of these moments resonates most with you? Feel free to share how it connects with you and your story 💛
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This is so beautiful, Ruhie. Thank you for sharing these snapshots of your life with your dad. The format is so compelling. I’m so glad you’re able to keep his memory alive in this way. ❤️
Beautifully written. These are such precious memories.
There’s one more I’d add of the day Az was born.
He said ‘ this is the best day of my life’.