It’s probably not a coincidence that the date of my birth is only six days away from the date of my father’s death.
Because I have no power to change the finality of these events, they linger in my subconscious all the time—raising questions for which I have no answers.
Daddy loved birthdays—his, mine, or anybody else’s for that matter. He liked to make a big deal out of them and forever wanted to add an element of surprise (which I loved). He threw surprise parties, surprise dinners, surprise cruises—on my 21st birthday he flew from Abu Dhabi to Chicago, and I came home from class to find him sitting in my living room, casually flipping through a magazine.
He thought birthdays were special days, a day on which you felt blessed—for being alive, for being loved, for being happy. On his own birthday, although he tried to contain his childlike excitement, it would squeal out of him in moments of spontaneity. For his 55th we had dinner with some friends at an Indian restaurant. When the waiter brought out a cake with candles, he teased my father and said the right way to celebrate would be to stand up on his chair while everybody sang. It took less than a second for my father to jump up onto his chair, wobbling to keep balance, while the rest of the dinner guests took in the delight of a middle-aged man’s burst of excitement! I looked up to him in that moment (literally) in a way I never had before.
It’s so easy to lose our impulsiveness, more so if we’re past half a century old. But my father didn’t really care much for age. I don’t know if it was because of his heart condition that he treasured his moments so; but as far back as I can remember he was always filled with an infectious positive spirit.
Some words from Steve Jobs come to mind. “Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure—these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”
And following your heart could be jumping onto a chair, trekking up the Himalayas (which Daddy did for one birthday), or overeating your favorite sweet.
This year was my first birthday without my father, and I struggled with my sadness amidst a desire to celebrate in a way he would have wanted. Never one to dwell in any kind of misery, my father had the ability to see the bigger picture in everything, including life and death.
I walked around, wishing there was some way to fill the void of his absence. There wasn’t.
Six days later, it was a year from the date of his death. Despite calls from loved ones and efforts to comfort, that day felt no different from any other. A year was simply twelve calendar months; for me it felt just like yesterday, and the day before, and every single other day of my life without my father that has to be faced. There’s no way around it.
My father respected death as much as he did birth. He knew that the same way in which we welcome new souls, so we have to say our goodbyes to the old. And were we unable to lose our life, we would never be so lucky to have it.
And so I know that it’s no coincidence the date of my birth is only six days away from the date of his death.
It is his reminder to me that both things are absolutely necessary, and that we must muster the strength to experience both in the same spiritual light. Life recreates—and we may have to shed tears while we blow candles, or fill our day with laughter even though our night brings emptiness.
I think my father would be proud of me, for learning this lesson despite every bone in my body that wants to believe otherwise, that wants to hold on to people forever, that wants to insist loved ones should never be torn apart by time or eternal space.
Perhaps it’s also his way of reminding me that numbers, just like moments, eventually meet. And that maybe our dates are so closely tied because so are the journeys of our souls.
