Memento mori

I woke up this morning to my sister’s calling me. “How odd”, - I thought. She never called me before that early.

- Папа умер.

As soon as I saw this message, I called her. “How? How is this possible?” I refused to comprehend. He was barely 60. I honestly couldn’t understand what just happened.

“Папа… почему?”

I guess, no one is ever ready for death. Why then, if people wish death to dictators and torturers, they never die?

My father is dead. He died. Short of his 60th birthday, on February 23, 2023, he came home after work and soon felt a heat in this chest, then dropped dead. What a sudden death. The ambulance didn't make it. Was it his second Saturn return? I don’t know. And I am not coming to his funeral tomorrow.

I am not there, with him. I am not mourning alongside my brothers and sister. I am here, in Poland. Alone in my mourn. Am I even capable of sharing and holding this feelings of mourn to myself? Can I look into the mirror right now and not see my father’s face? I have never thought of this before, but now I see him clearly when I look at myself.

He gave me his eyes, his face, his built… And he’s gone now.

He gave me a lot of things, in fact. I know, my mother might disagree, but I am grateful to my father for many things.

First of all, for my life. For my genes, whatever they are, that I inherited from him. “Гены не пропьешь!” he used to say. And indeed, we shared many of similarities in common, apart from appearance. Both of us seemed to be easily irritated - somewhat short-tempered, at a given situation. Both of us would daydream, play with our imagination, and enjoy some (not so healthy) foods. Yet, it was my father who insisted that I eat more vegetables as a child, introduced me to the world of supplements and sport food (and sports), and also introduced me to the magic “cookie + cheese” combo.

He introduced me to cold showers and ice bucket challenge before Wim Hoff method became mainstream.

He would tell me about fasting before it would be promoted alongside keto as a way to lose weight.

He would always asked me if I exercise or go to the gym. I know he did. Himself though, never seemed to keep the fat off. Nevertheless, I loved him.

I love you, father.

You might have been away or absent from a major part of my life, but I always knew that you are. I always knew that I have a father. I always knew that you are as you are, and somewhat, I couldn’t judge you. Even when I missed your attention, or felt abandoned. I still wouldn’t get mad at you. And now you’re gone.

You influenced greatly my music taste, my hobbies, and my storytelling skills. I will cherish the childhood memories of us spending time together; you telling me stories that you just made up - you were brilliant at this, and I couldn’t get enough of your tales. I loved when you sang, even if your voice wasn’t perfect. I loved when you played the guitar, cause in moments like this, I saw you beyond your “father” self. Your soul was singing.

And you got me my first “shitty” guitar to train. I wish we could play guitar together again.

With you, I almost drowned when I was 6 when we went fishing, but you saved me - out of a very shallow lake - and then, I learnt to swim. I got my second scar on my eyes with you, when you were teaching me to ride a bicycle, again, at 17. I dreaded cycling after. And now bicycle is my favourite vehicle, but we never got to ride bikes together. The more I write, the more memories come to surface. You were a great influence on me.

You taught the importance of gratitude at an early age. For anything, you’d teach me to say the magic word “please” and “thank you”, and at a later stage of our lives, gave me relationship advice (that I never asked).

Just make sure you have found your person. Once you’ve found that one person, who feels you, you can go with them through thick and thin.

Oh well. I always smiled at that advice. I guess I was judging you at those moments. But you’re right - it’s important to find the person who’s “yours”.

The person who can love us unconditionally at any time - in the times of joy, and on a day like this, when I am mourning and everything reminds me of you, father.

I used to blame you, specifically, the fact that you divorced with mother, and left us, for all my trouble with men. For my toxic partner choices and “daddy issues”. Will your death change anything? Will I finally move past finger pointing and self-pitying, and become a father to myself? Stand up for myself? Take myself to the next level of my life?

They tell me that I am strong, father. But whenever I hear this, I want to cry. I think every strong person is inherently lonely in their strength, and stressed. We feel responsible to take care of others, and of course, ourselves, while not trusting - or rather, knowing - that there’s no one to take care of us, but ourselves.

You never taught me this, but I learnt this by looking at you. Did that pressure kill you? You always looked strong to me, until I saw you last time. Much, much older...

Forgive me, father, for not calling you often, for not wondering how you felt with all the responsibilities you were dealing with, for being an “absent” daughter. You not being there for me, or rather, me growing up without you, made me strong, self-sufficient, yet, insecure, girl.

Я люблю тебя. Ты всегда со мной. Теперь каждый раз глядя в зеркало, я буду думать о тебе.

I inherited your eyes. They are filled with tears now. A lot of people like them, though. But each time I will see them in the mirror, I will think of you. Memento mori.