January still stings 20 years after my dad's death

I laughed the day my father died.

I could barely muster a smile since he had been diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of non-Hodgkin lymphoma more than three months before.

But hours after glimpsing his withered body at the hospital — his name erased from the whiteboard of gravely ill patients needing care — a moment of levity arrived on the porch of the north suburban house I grew up in.

Mistaking mourners for partygoers, an older neighbor likely dealing with an age-related cognitive condition walked through the unlocked doors, eyed the mostly South Asian crowd packed inside and started introducing himself as "Gandhi" Solomon as he nibbled on biryani and cake.

No one had ever met the man before. But we were certain Mr. Solomon didn't share the same name as the prominent Indian anti-colonial nationalist.

"Gandhi" did offer his condolences once he picked up on the somber nature of the gathering he had crashed and made new friends that winter night.

Chuckling, I told my younger sister maybe our father sent the kind, confused stranger to assure us that we'd eventually learn to laugh again.

Twenty years later, as anyone who has lost a loved one knows, there is no moving on from the grief — only soldiering on in spite of it.

January continues to sting. The month, never fully regaining its celebratory status, carries on as a melancholy reminder of my family's parting from the patriarch who mostly wore suits in public before switching into lungis at home, loved "The Three Stooges" and hated injustice as much as salads.

"I didn't come to America just to eat grass," my older sister recently recalled of our father's wry commentary whenever he was offered a plate of greens.

Unable to eat or talk after he was intubated the last month of his life, he'd gesture to us with his sad eyes and scribble notes when he had enough strength to pick up a pen.

"Please have courage," he requested in writing to my brother when my brother slumped his head down in despair, overwhelmed by the trauma of watching a parent suffer.

On another day, my father pulled down my oldest nephew's face mask, intently studying the then 5-year-old's features.

Looking back, I realize my doctor father, equipped with more knowledge about his deteriorating health compared to the average cancer patient, was gently trying to say goodbye while the rest of us struggled to accept reality.

My mother still can't bear to walk up to my father's grave, opting instead to stay in the car whenever we go to Rosehill Cemetery to pay our respects.

As someone who has to be reminded of her children and grandchildren's birthdays, the exact date of her husband's death is the last thing she wants ingrained in her head. But when Jan. 30 nears, my mother reflexively senses the dread the rest of us start bracing against on New Year's Day.

I am now the same age as my mother when she became a widow — a stark reminder of the passage of time, even as many of the memories of the lives we led when my dad was alive remain fresh.

My brother and sister-in-law got married in North Carolina the July before our father died. A walima — the traditional Islamic wedding reception hosted by the groom's family — followed that September in north suburban Niles. A family friend said he never saw my father look so happy.

Over the last few years, our extended family has expanded by six more people. Among those newbies are my husband, twin girls and two boys who have their grandfather's first name — Akhtar — as their middle names.

The grandson, whom my father desperately wanted to see one last time in the intensive care unit, is responsible for bringing in the latest addition to our family: his wife.

Those of us closest to my father, including my oldest niece and brother-in-law, often wonder what he'd be like had he lived beyond his 65 years.

My mom jokingly told my dad, because of his "Archie Bunker" demeanor, he'd only get crankier with age. He guessed he'd become softer.

He never got to find out — he didn't get to grow older.

"I may be just a short-term guest in your lives now," my father told my mom privately after doctors outlined the prognosis of his blood cancer.

I have never stopped wishing he was wrong.

Rummana Hussain is a columnist and leads the opinion coverage at the Sun-Times.