Handicapped?After 9 years of living in Jamaica, my parents finally decided we needed a change. We moved halfway across the world. India of all places. Every year, when summer break comes around, we visit Jamaica for the entire two months. It’s home, how could we not? In the back of the dresser in my room — underneath all the crumpled up papers and files, there lies an album of my childhood before we moved. Nine years of memories, each one of them delicate and meaningful. Each time I return home to Jamaica, I immediately go to the dresser. The album stored in that dresser for over half a year, shows pictures of my family and I; daddy, mom, and Prem. The album of photographs from beginning to end, show a change in the strongest person I know: my daddy. If one were to flip through the album very briefly, they would question the change in my father. Daddy with two hands and daddy with one hand, both the same person. One would also be able to see that there is no change in his demeanor. Before the incident — precisely 9 years ago — daddy looks as strong as ever in the pictures; invincible. After what happened to him, he makes it look as if it were nothing, as if almost dying didn’t affect him. There is one distinct page — at the very end of the album — that shows both sides of him. Though he didn’t change after the accident, his beliefs and morals were definitely altered. One with me as a baby, him looking over me overjoyed to have his newborn. Another one with baby Prem; my brother — he looked as happy as ever, even as he was struggling to hold Prem.

My father is a handicapped man. When I first said that aloud to my friends in India, I never realised until then, that daddy was going to be the one comforting me while going through his own pain. Even after going through so much himself.

I could still feel the guilt in my throat — the lump that never went away, even when daddy came back from his operation. Even now, the guilt still lingers. Exactly fourteen days before daddy came back, mom had to leave in a hurry. It was around midnight and my eyes wouldn’t stay shut. Mom’s nightgown was still on when I was sneaking to the kitchen, her tear streaked face looked frantic to leave the house as soon as possible.

Sometimes I still wonder if she would’ve left without even telling me.

Mom warned me to keep the door closed until she came back. “Sneha, I have to go to Kingston, Aunty Sonali will take care of you.” The only thing I hear is that she has to go to Kingston. I thought of daddy and how he still wasn’t back from the airport with uncle. I rubbed my helpless, groggy eyes clean and look back into the room I shared with my one year old brother, I had to take care of him. Instead of going back to sleep, I walked down the hall and knocked on the door. Aunty Sonali immediately opened up and walked into my house. She ushered me inside as if she already knew what happened. After staying with Aunty for a week and a half, I grew impatient and worried. I hadn’t heard from mom or daddy in days. I even wondered what happened to Uncle. We were all supposed to be home and happy. All I got was a phone call, though that was ten days later. It was from mom: “Sneha, how are you, is everything ok?” She said it in a panicked tone, raising my suspicions and telling me that everything was obviously not okay. I wanted to know what happened. I heard shuffling on the other end of the phone and then an old ragged voice, “Hi Sneha baby, it’s daddy. I’m fine, don’t worry. I’ll be back home soon.”

Even today, I can hear the way he cleared his throat to make me think nothing was wrong. I didn’t know the whole story at the time, but daddy came back 4 days later with one hand. Something seemed different about him, he was smiling and happy to see us again, though his eyes lost a spark that I’ve wanted back since that day. Every time I asked him what happened; he spoke like the accident didn’t bother him at all, as if losing his brother and his hand was nothing to him. What he didn’t know, was that on the nights I couldn’t sleep (which was almost everynight after what happened), I could both hear and visualize the sounds of mummy trying to comfort daddy. I knew that daddy wasn’t as strong as he seemed everyday, he still acted though, to make me feel safe.

I wasn’t told all the details until later, when I had the courage to ask. And when daddy showed me that it was okay to ask. The driver was one we had for a very long time. He came out clean; not a single scratch on him. I didn’t think I could ever forgive that man, but I did. That’s how I believe daddy stays so strong. He forgives and forgets without a thought.

Gone?
The first time I saw a dead person, I was 13 years old. I knew my family was going to take a huge hit emotionally. Grandad was the oldest person in our extended family and he was the kind of man that wouldn’t leave a room without catching everyone's attention. When grandad died, I lost the dearest person to me, it broke me and made me stronger at the same time. I was scared, for my daddy and for my family. My family — at the time — were the only people keeping me from completely shattering. I wasn’t ready for grandad to be taken away from this world so quickly.

The first thing that came to my mind, still asleep when mom said “Sneha get up and get ready baba is gone” was unreal. I felt deflated, like I was still in the nightmare I just woke up from, like there was nothing left in my life for me to look forward to. I asked mom again to make sure: “What? What did you say?” Mom’s voice was stern and warning, “Sneha, baba has passed away, get up and get ready, now.” Grandad meant the world to me, and he still does. He gave me hope, always telling me that I will be able to live a happy life with no worries. Though I was old enough to tell he was lying to me, nobody in this world can live a worry free life… at least that’s what he said. Baba (grandad) always taught me to be who I am and never let anybody tell me otherwise. When he left me, I didn’t know who I was, I lost myself for a while.

That morning, it took me at least an hour to try and get my shocked state to a minimum. I couldn’t breath; I got out of bed and began looking in the mirror for myself. I wipe my frantic face of with a wet towel, I couldn’t get it off, no matter what I did.  I didn’t know who I was, or what I was thinking, but I was certainly being selfish. Only while looking at myself in the mirror, did I think of daddy and what he must be feeling after losing his father. I knew that I would have to get ready to walk into the kitchen looking sad and mourning, but I just couldn’t bring myself to cry in front of people, even my own family. I thought of my daddy and what he would do, so I walked into the kitchen and found my parents sitting across from each other talking about grandad. What is going on? Why aren’t they more sad? Why? Why? What I didn’t see immediately, was my dad’s expression. His face looked indifferent, like he was helpless but he wanted to show that he wasn’t, I knew I was the only one who could see that. Daddy and I can read each other, it’s unreal, though very true. I was scared to approach him, treating him as if he were fragile glass, I walked over and sat on his lap. There wasn’t anything else I could do to comfort him at this point, all I did was sit in his lap and hug him for what felt like hours of the day. Daddy has his ways of showing he is the strongest person our family knows, I still believe he is. In that moment, I felt my body violently shaking along with his, I had a sense of love, gratitude, empathy and admiration all at once.

Gratitude. Because I respected that daddy was brave enough to break down in front of his family like this.

Empathy. Because I was feeling exactly the same things he was feeling, though his pain was much greater than mine would ever be.

Love. Because my father was the strongest person I had ever known in that exact moment.

He still is.

On the same morning we left for the funeral, my mind was a tornado of emotions, blocking any clear thoughts. It was only last November, the twelfth to be exact, that I saw the body. The decaying, pale as chalk and deceased body that made my feet freeze to the cold marble floor. Daddy was right in front of me and I wouldn’t move unless he did, I was waiting for him to break, for him to just not be the strongest person all the time. When he did break, it wasn’t in front of me. It wasn’t as if daddy breaking down made him less strong for me, in fact, when he did cry like a baby for the loss of his father, my love for him grew even more…  if possible. Later that evening, it was as if nothing had happened when I walked into the hall filled with my enigmatic family. It made my heart swell to see their laughing faces, but it made my brain question the fact that they were laughing, when only 15 hours ago, did the most important member of our family die. Daddy motioned me from the back of the room to sit with him, and all I see is him in that moment. I see his blood red eyes, like I’ve never seen them before. Not the chatter of my aunts gossiping about the next door neighbors, not the horrendous laughter of my uncles and not the pots and pans that were clanging against each other. All I saw, was my daddy trying to keep himself together for the benefit of everyone.

All I saw was daddy, I don’t understand why he wanted to stay so strong for me, or why he avoided eye contact when he could just say what he was feeling. When I heard from my brother that daddy was crying alone with his sister, I finally allowed myself to cry too… to completely let go. Daddy believes that crying shows your weaknesses, and that being weak doesn’t get you anywhere. That day made me question whether or not you are strong enough to allow the pain to take you over, or if you are too weak to even let your guard down for a matter of minutes. Allowing myself to cry made me stronger; I realised after, because there was so much pain building up inside of me that it all needed to be let go of. Daddy had done the same.

In my 14 years of living, I can’t remember a time where my daddy has not been there for me… just because I love having him there. Just because he teaches me, every single day, how to be the toughest person I can be. I know now how he has stayed so strong all these years. He accepted that it is okay to let your guard down, that it’s okay to be weak for a few moments. After all these years of looking up to my daddy in wonder of how he goes through his life, I know that he openly shows his love for us and in return he gets even more love back. I know that he never wants any of us to lead our lives with sadness and haunting memories. He has taught me to stay strong, but allow heartache, because accepting your weaknesses is the bravest thing you can do in his eyes.