Dear Dad, Love Thyda

Dad lifting me up, then and forever

Dear Dad,

I can’t believe it has already been a year, exactly a year ago today when you had the stroke that changed our lives forever. From that moment, I felt you slipping away, slipping further and further no matter how tight I tried to hold on. I wish I could have carried you as you used to with me, but now it is your legacy and light that I carry forward.

I love and miss you so much as I try to re-assimilate to what life was like before that March 31st. Until that day, I knew you were always a phone call away. I’d often call you on my long commutes home from work, or FaceTime you with Mylan during dinner. I knew you and mom were always keeping very busy. Even if you weren’t busy with mom’s packed social calendar, I knew you were perfectly happy relaxing at home, most likely in the sunroom, and I had little to worry about. 

That was until recent years, where I began to worry more. Seeing you slow down, and your progressing memory loss and developing dementia, was difficult. I read (listened to) so many books (audiobooks) and joined support groups to help me navigate it. At first, selfishly, I felt very frustrated. You would repeatedly ask a question or make a comment, not realizing you had just asked that same question or made that same comment only 5 minutes before. But then I got sad. Not only was it a harsh reminder of time never stopping, but I thought how scared and upset you must have been because you were starting to lose something you valued so deeply, your mind. 

Even though your shorter term memory was getting blurry, your long term memory remained sharp. You could still remember the paper I wrote in my Asian American Experience class in college. The assignment was to interview someone who was from an Asian country and immigrated to the United States. I chose you, mainly because you were readily accessible. After I started to ask you questions though, I realized how much I didn’t know about your past. I never asked and you never shared. I learned that because of your father’s work in foreign services, you lived and went to schools all around the world — from Paris to India to New York to Cambodia. I also learned that you had to serve in a para-military for Cambodia. You said it so matter of factly. You would study, and then you would standby guarding with a rifle in hand when you were on duty. 

You also told me your story about coming to America. I always assumed, naively, that you were following the American dream and wanted to live in the land of opportunity. Instead, you shared that you received a scholarship to attend American University in 1975, with a plan to return back to Cambodia after graduation to work and bring your skills to give back to the economy there. But when the Cambodian government fell to the Khmer Rouge, you didn’t have a home or country to go back to. 

It was through this interview that everything clicked for me. You were always so adaptable because you had to be. You were always so open minded because you were a global citizen. Everything you bought and owned — the multiple graduate degrees, multiple homes, multiple cars — you earned by working extremely hard. And most profoundly, I understood the reason you were so hard on me growing up was because you knew that if you were able to build a successful life starting from nothing — a little bit of money and a few suitcases and your wedding photo album — not to mention discriminatory and societal challenges facing your generation of immigrants in America working hard against you — that all you wanted for me was to do better than you because I was starting from something. From A LOT. I had such an easy life compared to you, because of the sacrifices you and mom had to make. 

Then there was our Costa Rica trip. The trip I had originally planned for myself to do some selfish soul searching, alone. But when I told you about it, you said you wanted to join me because you were curious about Costa Rica and had never been to that part of the world. You also had plenty of vacation days, because of course, you never took enough time off, too focused on saving enough for the future. Sometimes I blame your first stroke on this, but now I thank you unequivocally, realizing the discipline you had and choices you made to set mom and us up to continue living life to our fullest even when you are not with us. At the time, I agreed to let you come to Costa Rica because I felt bad saying no, and I got anxious about the type of trip it was turning into. One where I would have to take care of someone else, consider someone else in all my decisions, and not get to go out and have fun. But I could not have been more wrong.

It turned out to be one of the most treasured and enlightening experiences I have ever had. I enrolled in a surf school in the off season so the lesson times were early mornings until the tides got too high by 2pm. I worried about you enjoying a vacation where you had to get up before sunrise, and that it was dark most of the day. Accommodations were modest, and I worried about you feeling comfortable. I worried that you would be bored of watching me take surf lessons, which is almost the only thing we did day in and day out. But you were perfectly happy, cheered me on in my lessons, gave me some pointers based on what you observed, and said you were proud of me for taking on the challenge.One day I remember we took a walk on the beach, and you asked me an uncomfortably personal question about why it didn’t work out with a past boyfriend. It caught me off guard because we only usually talked about business-y stuff, and I also didn’t share a lot about my feelings. You proceeded to surprise me by giving sage advice, and then told me the whole beautiful story about how you met mom, how you chased after her, how you finally won her over, and how she was your one true love.

Finally, the best memory from that trip was the night in town. The surf instructor said Wednesday nights they have karaoke at the local bar and invited us all to go. I thought ‘perfect, my dad will definitely not want to join since he doesn’t drink and that’s not his scene’. Wrong again. You accepted the invitation because you saw it as an opportunity to learn about local culture, and why not? At first when I got there, I was reserved because I felt timid drinking or letting loose in front of you. And then I realized that it was all in my head. I remembered the other surf students grabbed you to sing “I Swear” by All-4-One with them and I was so embarrassed. And then you got up there and had so much fun singing along with the 24 year old guys. You surprised me again by going up to sing a solo, to “House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals. That moment, and that song, will forever be etched in my memory and make me think of you. It made me realize that actually you were cooler than me, and had a self assurance that I admired and was still working toward. The trip ended up being transformational for me to understand and connect with you better, and I did find what I was searching for after all. 

The doctors often asked ‘what do you think Dad would have wanted’. And while no one could know for sure — with the irony being even you could not truly know until you are in the situation, which by that time, it’s too late — I knew. I remembered the person I discovered you were through the paper I wrote and in Costa Rica, and also I remembered vividly what you said to me during one of our chats on my commute home from work. I was giving you a hard time about something inconsequential, and you said to me “of all people, you know me. You should know.” I recalled this many times throughout the 10 months. I knew what you enjoyed and valued most: Your mind. Thinking for yourself. Independence. Mom. Family. Close friends. Community. Eating, especially mom’s cooking. Driving. Mylan. Seeing and learning more about the world. 

In your post-stroke state, you didn’t have control of your mind. You couldn’t enjoy eating. You didn’t have choices. You couldn’t drive. You couldn’t move in your bed. It wasn’t even your bed. The answer seemed obvious. No, you wouldn’t want this. 

But we grappled with this for months and months, because you also valued keeping things simple and could find contentment in any scenario. We thought if you could just open your eyes, hear us, talk to us, interact and be with mom, play chess with Mylan, watch movies and listen to music together — maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. For some people who need more, there would be no question, that is not their definition of a quality life. But for you, who appreciated the simpler things, and probably couldn’t bear to be apart from the love of your life of 51 years, maybe that was enough. 

But as the risk of pain, infections, and a never-ending cycle of suffering increased as months passed by, things became clear. We want peace for you, and we know you would want peace for us. You were so smart and wise, and a very rational, practical person. Anyone would agree that 4 people each at peace is better than 4 people each not at peace, even if those 4 people were together. But we did find comfort in being together for all those months even still. Because that’s what family is.

You were so strong, and always have been, right up until your last moments. You surprised all the doctors and nurses, who said the strength you displayed was a miracle they had not witnessed before. We will continue to find our strength, inspired by you and the life you’ve worked so incredibly hard to provide for us and the values you’ve instilled in us. Through us, as well as through Carrie, Pavan, and Mylan — and anyone who’s ever known you — your soul and spirit will live on for eternity. Thank you Dad. And for a final time in this life, and the first time in your next — Good night good night good night, sweet dreams sweet dreams sweet dreams, I love you I love you I love you. 

Love,

Thyda