‘We shall meet again’: A daughter’s tribute

"Abbu, you must go to the hospital right now and please text me when you reach there!" I have been waiting 12 months for that text from my father—I keep scrolling my phone's message box up and down but there are no texts and there will never be another. These were my last words to my father, Mahfuz Ullah, eminent journalist, environmentalist and political analyst, who died on April 27, 2019.

On April 2, 2019, when I last spoke to my father, he had suddenly become quite unwell overnight and was rushed to the emergency department of Square Hospital in Dhaka with severe breathlessness. From there he was quickly shifted to the ICU and put on ventilator. Till his death, 25 days later, he lay lifeless in the hospital, first in Square hospital and then in Bumrungrad hospital of Bangkok. A man who was always full of words died without saying anything to anyone. Even the night before he fell terminally ill, on April 1, he was on a live talk show in one of the TV channels of Bangladesh where he spoke about the current political crisis of the country. His death came as unexpectedly to him as it did to us. We did not have the time to prepare nor did we have the time to say goodbye. That is why it took me 12 months to write this tribute. This tribute is like a closure, a goodbye, even though I do not think I'm ready to say "goodbye"!

My two siblings are also looking for some closure but are failing every day. The loss of a loved one kicks you off all your complacencies and makes you realise everything in life is transient. The death of a dear one drowns you in an unknown sadness and makes you drift from everyone around you. It is almost like being in exile. My mother is probably the one affected most by our father's death. In the last 12 months, it feels like she has aged at least 5 years. She has always been a strong independent woman but now when I look at her, I see a woman lost and puzzled in her grief. I have a feeling that all she wants is to be with him again.

My parents were married at age 22. My mother knew from very early on that my father's work would always be the first priority in his life. Nevertheless, he loved her dearly, cared for her deeply, laughed with her and shared her grief. He would always say that he would die before our mother, maybe because he could never wish for a life without her.

He was 69 when he died but was young for his age. He worked like a young man and lived like a young man surrounded by friends and well-wishers. He nurtured friendship and loved to laugh with friends, often teasing them but never in malice. He could relate to people from all walks of life and looked for the good in each person. Almost 20 years back, our father survived a massive heart attack and suffered several subsequent complications. I think those early brushes of near-death experiences made him appreciate life and live it to the fullest. Often our father would tell us that he wanted to live 10 more years so that he could finish writing other books, one being his own biography. I do not think he was scared of death, rather immortality through his work was a consolation for death to him.

In family life also, he completed the full circle. He left behind four grandchildren. He would always tell us that "love flows downwards—first you love you partner, then your children fill your heart with love, and finally comes your grandchildren who occupy the whole of your heart." He was their friend. They loved him dearly and he loved them more.

We, three siblings, grew up knowing that our father's work formed a core element in his life; but we never felt any less loved. He was always busy but never too busy for us. Our weekends would be spent with him instilling in us the love for books, classic movies and Rabindra Sangeet. He taught us about life and politics and stressed the importance of education. From very early on, he taught me and my sister to believe that anything is possible, and that we should never accept anything just because we are women. He was our best friend, our rock, our therapist, and our mentor and now that he is gone, I am not sure which I miss more, the father or the friend?

Our father would often tell our mother that in the event of his death, his body should only be buried after his children came back to the country to say goodbye to him. In the end, it never came to that point. Throughout the 25 days before his death that he was in the ICU, we were able to be with him all day, every day, holding his hand and telling him we loved him. Everyday many journalists, several well-wishers, and a great many of his acquaintances would call to check on his condition. Often their voices would be heavy with grief and desperation, longing to hear some good news.

The night before he died, his condition deteriorated drastically. I was up all night sitting beside him, constantly observing his vital signs in the monitor and trying to tame the transition between presence and the void. The beeping sound of the machine felt like a thumping noise in my heart. Next morning at around 10:15 am, the machine went quiet and there was an eerie stillness in the hospital. While he never really regained consciousness in those 25 days, I believe in my heart that he could feel my mother's hand holding his when he took his last breath. Our father was not alone in his death. His two janazas were attended by many people who loved him and mourned his death. He was a people's person and the people of Bangladesh bid him goodbye with due respect. We are ever thankful for that.

My father lost his father at a relatively young age and then subsequently lost his mother who was with him till her last breath. He often expressed his longing to see them again. While saying goodbye to my father was the hardest thing I had to do in this life, I find some solace in knowing that he is up there somewhere, happy, holding the hands of his parents.

Dr Nusrat Homaira, PhD, is Senior Lecturer and Respiratory Researcher, Discipline of Paediatrics, University of New South Wales, Sydney, and Sydney Children's Hospital, Australia.