My Dad’s Final Bow
With heightened senses, I keenly observed my sister franticly straightening the thick harness leading up to the wall mounted monitor reading my father’s vital signs. She would squint at the screen, read the blinking digits, then shake her head in discontent like a frustrated lottery player about to discard a losing scratch ticket. She would bend down and push all plugs in their sockets knowing that they were already tightly plugged in. I kept thinking back to the countless times I fiddled with an old black and white TV for good reception; or the times I wiggled a key inside an old clunker in a desperate attempt to get it to crank. “He is clenching his fist” I enthusiastically remarked as she was adjusting the oxygen mask on my father’s sinking face. I was so relieved to see him finally move his limb since my flight landed from JFK airport 24 hours prior. I was excited and ready to answer his usual questions about the kids, work, and flight conditions. “Did you really see him clench his fist?” she asked in apparent anguish. The look on her face did not bode well, and I wished there was a way I could retract my statement. I wanted to doubt my eyes and blame it all on jet lag. My instinct as someone who has dabbled in the profession of medical interpreting kicked in. I knew better than to lie to my sister, a seasoned doctor. The expression on her face was not remotely close to that of one successfully restoring sound and image to an old decrepit TV set. “Yes, I did” I emphatically confirmed. Hoping for better reaction, I had to elaborate. “ It was more like multiple clench and release motion as if he was squeezing a rubber stress ball” I added.
My sister had been caring for my father for nearly a week since she flew from France where she has racked in over 30 years of medical practice under her belt. My mind flashed back to the distant memory of my sister defending her Medical Doctoral thesis. My father was in the audience. My entire family was there. But he stood out like a kid in the candy store. Beaming with pride and on the edge of his seat eager to let everyone know that this was his girl on stage becoming a doctor.
My sister was extremely sleep deprived but the hope to help her father stay alive kept her going. “C’est le cerveau qui soufre” she explains in a soft defeated voice that could only emanate from a broken spirit. Still in denial, I convinced myself that my French was too corroded to understand that my father was pushing his last breath. Reality quickly sank in when my sister ordered my brother to run to the house and get my mother and other siblings to bid my father a final farewell. She then instructed me to call my other brother who was on the train back to Casablanca and fill him in. I watched her remove the oxygen mask from my father’s face and gently rub his cheeks with both hands in an effort to undo the deep red marks left by the hard plastic oxygen mask. She untucked a spiral black spiral cord attached to the pressure cuff on his wrist; undid the Velcro strap, and pulled all the wires connected to the monitor that was showing nothing but flat lines. It was like watching a street performer packing his props at the end of a long exhausting show. It was only then that I came to terms with the reality of my father’s performance on earth coming to an abrupt end. He was 90 years old but, for a son, I felt that he checked out a bit too early. Old age becomes oddly irrelevant when love is a dominant variable. Thoughts and ideas were jostling in my head. My habit of observing my surroundings kept getting in the way of processing grief. Bereaved people tend to sob when struck by tragedy. I didn’t. I was too busy watching my mother and siblings dealing with loss.
Still dazed by the speed at which all of this was unfolding, I knew enough to stand by my father’s head, raised his right index finger, and assist him in voicing a Muslim’s declaration of faith. All I was getting were tics and twitches of the lips. My older brother arrived just in time. Sleeves rolled up and water dripping from his arms and face from having just renewed his ablution. He then joined me reminding my father of the angel of death roaming the room and ready to take his soul at any given moment. I was holding it up much better than he was. In fact, he was a mess. In defiance to cultural norms, his emotions came flooding out with tears streaming down his cheeks. He wasn’t trying to hide it either. It was hard to watch this amazing display of “flagrant cultural disobedience”. Men aren’t supposed to cry. Well, my older brother did, and I felt happy for him. Screw the social norms that frown upon and emasculate men for grieving the most natural way known to humans: weeping.
My entire family arrived to the clinic. I imagined my mother collapsing on the floor. I pictured my sisters screaming at the top of their lungs and eventually passing out. These are the scary images I have gleaned from watching Moroccans mourn their loved ones. I almost didn’t want them to be there reproducing that same embarrassing scene. Much to my surprise and contentment, my family was very civil in expressing its sorrow. The expressions of grief got even tamer when a nurse offered the advice that the deceased is further tortured by the weeping of their family members. She rightly pointed out that crying in the presence of the dead is tantamount to an act of selfishness.
Despite how devastating the situation was, my love of observation and inquisition were ever so strong. I felt like I was conducting an ethnographic study. I was especially interested in observing my mother’s reaction as she entered the room where her husband was surrendering his soul. Despite nursing bad knees, my mother walked around waving her index finger to all of us crowding up the small hospital room. She then addressed my father in a resounding voice: “They are all here. Thank you for making my life such a joy with all these kids” My mother is not new to shocking pronouncements but this one blew me away. My mother raised nine kids who were very close in age. Some of us were barely a year apart. Given the constant toiling that is involved in child care, joy was certainly not a word I expected to hear her use. My parents’ relationship was that of your average Moroccan couple with normal daily shenanigans and turmoil that is ironically a distinguishing characteristic of any healthy and lasting marriage in that part of the world. Blaming him for being too laid-back and for “spoiling” us was an accusation my father was charged with almost daily. Years later as we grew older and had our own families, my mother would explain that she was extremely satisfied with the way we were raised. As demented as this may sound, my mother would later explain that expressing dissatisfaction and constantly berating us was just her “clever” child rearing method meant to keep us in a straight and narrow path; you know…Reverse psychology kind of thing. My mother thumbs her nose at all modern Psychology findings that warn about how destructive this approach is. She deems her twisted Moroccan child rearing ways as tested and highly effective.
My mother sprang into action. And just like an accomplished project manager, she dolled out instructions to each one in the room. She has detailed laundry list of tasks about who to call and how to proceed in preparation of receiving family members from around the country. I still can’t get over how calm and collected she was. In fact, I have never seen her this sad but pragmatic at the same time. This was very jarring to witness as she has never been willing to meet reason halfway. My mother is known for blowing things out of proportion; she is too dramatic and has a penchent for hyperboles. I couldn’t help but recall a faint incident when my mother expressed criminal intent as I walked in the house with my shoes on when the floor was still wet from a fresh mopping. I was basking in the sweetness of what I have just witnessed that I completely forgot that we were dealing with death and its ramifications.
I have since told funny stories about my father to lighten up the mood and to show his side of humor and jest. On the day my younger brother and I were traveling back to Boston, something didn’t feel right. I took a look at my father’s usual seat in the living room “Seddari”. It was eerily unoccupied. This was more devastating to me that his actual death. It was hard to accept not being able to kiss his frail wrinkled hand on the way out the door. It was at that point that felt ready and justified to let it all out. But I wanted to remain stoic for my sisters’ sake. My younger brother must have read the situation the same way I did. He had a different reaction; he wept uncontrollably. I got a bit misty eyed but still managed to console and plead with him to stop. My broken voice was not very convincing. Strange as this may sound but, Out of that whole ordeal, this was the single memory that rips my heart to shreds every time it crosses my mind. Would I ever find closure after all these years? I do find ample closure in divine wisdom pertaining to death and renewal. My father is survived by twenty five adoring grandchildren. That alone is enough source of solace and comfort.
