#11 Coming to terms with life after loss
On "pitying the living" and remembering our loved ones in small ways
In today’s letter, I reflect on coming to terms with life after loss, inspired by my Dad’s birthday this week. Significant dates and special events are hard for us grievers. No matter how much time passes, they remind us that our lives have changed forever. We don’t have to sugar coat it — grief just plain sucks. Those of us left behind in the wake of death must pick up the pieces of our broken lives; faced with enduring the rest of our lives without someone we love so dearly.
But, through the darkness, maybe we can find some sliver of hope, a small fragment of light and love, to hold onto? By remembering our loved ones in small ways, we keep them close to our hearts. In no way does this make up for losing them, or make grief suck less. But maybe that’s how we get through life without them by our side.
I’d love to hear from you! When you’re done reading, click the comment button and share with us:
What are some of the small ways you remember a loved one who’s passed?
Hi there, I’m Ruhie! A writer, doctor, mum, second-generation Indian-Australian, and a daughter who lost her dad to a terminal illness.
Welcome to FROM THE HEART TO BEYOND, where I share life-affirming personal stories and reflections on grief, healing & family – the three big pillars in my life that have fundamentally shaped who I am and how I see the world.
I’m writing and sharing my story to:
Help others feel seen and less alone in their experiences – I want to be part of a bigger movement to normalise grief and open up these important conversations
Share far and wide the invaluable lessons I’ve learnt from losing a loved one and raising young kids – to stop taking life for granted, to live with intention and in the moment, and to make the most of the time we are given.
Keep my Dad’s memory alive.
Thank you so much for joining me on this journey. I truly hope that something in my story and my words connects with you, your life, and your story.
Dear Dad,
It was your birthday on Tuesday. You would have been 66. Instead, you will be forever 60.
Milestone events are especially hard for those of us grieving. Significant dates like birthdays, anniversaries and death-days. More widely-recognised celebrations like Fathers Day, Mothers day and Grandparents Day, among others. And with the holiday season approaching, I’m reminded of how difficult special occasions can be when we are missing someone – a piece of our family, our hearts and our lives.
They remind us not only who we are missing, but what we miss out on as well. When we lose someone we love, we mourn not only the life we shared with them and the role they played; we also grieve a future without them in it.
We are left with the harrowing realisation that every milestone, every special occasion, every moment of joy (no matter how big or small) will forever be tinged with sadness that you are not here to celebrate with us. You haven’t seen Az grow up and you weren’t there for the birth of Riz and Zaz. You’ve missed first smiles, first words, first teeth, first steps, first days of school and childcare. You weren’t here for Sonal’s wedding earlier this year. Your youngest daughter got married, and every step of the way, we recalled how heavily involved you were at the time of my wedding ten years ago. While we of course felt unbelievable love and joy at all these happy moments and many more in the years since you passed, we also deeply missed your presence. Do you know how heartbreaking it is to realise we may never feel full, complete, unadulterated happiness again – because every time we do, we’ll remember you’re not here to share it with us?
I am left to explain to my kids why I don’t have a Dad. Where did you go? Why can’t you just come down from ‘Heaven’ and take them to the park? Are you “extinct” like dinosaurs? Did your body “evaporate” when you died? Why are we singing happy birthday to someone who is not even here? These are literal questions they’ve asked, leaving me floundering for explanations suitable for their young ears and sensitive minds. I am left with the pain of knowing that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I talk about you to my kids, they can never fully be connected to you because they don’t know you.
Those of us left behind after death live every day with a hole in our hearts the shape of our loved one that can never be filled, no matter how much time passes. We didn’t sign up for this. No one prepares you for the devastation grief wreaks on your life, and the ripple effects that last forever. Grief is not a club anyone wants to be a part of, yet here we are.
I can’t help but think about the wise words of the beloved, revered, and entirely fictitious Professor Albus Dumbledore (remember how you loved coming up with silly mispronunciations of his name like “Alboos”, “Doombelldoor” and “Dumblydoor”?):
“Do not pity the dead. Pity the living.”
Don’t get me wrong. Those who die of course pay the ultimate price. They are robbed of their life and future. And so are we. Yes, there is no doubt the dead suffer the worst. But the living suffer too, in a different way. We are the ones left to deal with the fallout from death.
But, wait. I can hear Harry Potter fans yelling at me…
There’s more to that quote:
“Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love.”
Those who live without love. Why does this matter? Because death cannot erase the love we have for those we’ve lost. Yes our pain persists, but so too does our love for them. We feel this love every time we think and talk about them, and in all the small ways we are reminded of them in our day-to-day lives.
Every time I see Az’s dimples that are exactly like yours. When he smiles, and especially when he laughs in that mischievous way you both share, I can’t help but feel your familiar presence.
Whenever Riz asks to add ‘red powder’ to his meals (your favourite chilli powder) just like you did. One time he even asked for it with peanut butter and I literally had chills because I’ve never seen anyone else besides you eat such a strange combination.
Every time I catch a glimpse of Zaz’s mad scientist hair, unlike anyone else in the family. She gets that from you.
Anytime I have tech issues (often) and remember how overly passionate you were about all things IT and tech.
Whenever someone tells a lame ‘Dad’ joke or wears an outlandish shirt you would have loved, I think of you too.
And every time we come across a milestone related to you – whether it’s Fathers Day, the anniversary of your passing, or your birthday like this week – we remember and celebrate you with some of your favourites.
One dollar coffee from 7/11 (being the stereotypical cheap India, you refused to pay more for outside coffee. You’d be horrified to know that thanks to inflation, the price has gone up to $1.50 now!)
Birthday cake (you LOVED sweets. You’d probably prefer we celebrate with your most-loved Indian sweet, ladoos, but sorry, that’s not happening)
And a big plate of nachos, arranged to precision with the perfect ratio of toppings, just the way you liked.
There is a certain beauty and joy in remembering our loved ones in these small ways. By no means do these things make up for losing you. But, I like to think they are little pieces of you we carry with us in this thing we call life, as we navigate it without you in it.
Miss you every day, Dad. Love you always. Until next time 💌
Ruhie
I’d love to hear from you!
What are some of the small ways you remember a loved one who’s passed?
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This was so beautifully written Ruhie, and deeply moving. You’ve articulated such raw and profound emotions, and the way you’ve expressed it shows such courage and vulnerability.
This is such a beautiful letter to your father - and all of us. Thank you for sharing this on his birthday. I am touched by the way you continue to keep his memory alive. I also love your opening line "grief just plain sucks" so true. Hallmark needs to put that on the front of a card!