It was busy at work and cold outside. I was probably worrying about the weather. Though I wasn't “on call,” I knew there was a chance that I'd have to work late because of the unpredictability of the forecast.

Snow? Sleet? A squall?

My phone was dead, so I had it plugged in to charge. I’ve always had a bad habit of letting my personal cell’s battery run out.

My work phone was next to the mouse. It began to vibrate and rang loudly. It was my sister, Susana.

She knew to never call my work phone, unless it was an emergency.

"Bushra, dad had a massive heart attack", she managed to say through hysterical cries.

I couldn't hear the words after those because it felt like everything had stopped.

There was a ringing in my ears. I asked her which hospital and looked around frantically from my desk to see if I could let someone know I had to leave. A few of my colleagues noticed I was physically distressed, but I didn't see them. I couldn't see anyone. I was shaking and everything looked out of focus. I looked for the staircase and rushed outside. I had one goal in mind and it was to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

Anyone who knows me personally, or has read my content before, knows I've had an estranged relationship with abu for years. The years of abuse, gambling, cheating, and overall lack of parental guidance led to it. But the truth is, I loved him, love him, and have always loved him. That's what makes estranged relationships, especially between parents and children so difficult. We are a part of each other and now that he was in pain, I felt pain too.

In those moments, I didn't think of all that he'd done. I needed to be with him. I needed to be by his side.

Within minutes of getting outside, a few of my close colleagues surrounded me and offered to help. They told me they got me a ride.

Jon* asked me to confirm which hospital abu was in as we got into his car to head towards Queens.

"Flushing."

But which one? There’s Flushing Hospital Medical Center on Parsons and New York Presbyterian (NYP) on Main Street. I called Flushing Hospital Medical Center and he wasn’t there. I called NYP and was quickly connected to one of the doctors who treated him.

“We've been trying to reach you, but your dad said he didn’t want us to call his family. We tried our best and I’m sorry to share that he’s currently brain dead.”

I think that’s what he said verbatim. I don’t know. The ringing came back.

I hung up and started hyperventilating. Jon asked if we should pull over, but I asked him to pick my mom up on the way to the hospital. He tried his best to keep me calm and listened carefully as I went through a rollercoaster of emotions from sadness, anger, and even maniacal laughter.

“He abused us for years,” I cried.

“I love him so much,” I sobbed.

As we were on the highway driving home, I was thinking of Susana, where she was, and how long it would be before I saw her.

I started swaying back and forth to calm down.

I called my mom and told her in my sternest voice to grab her clothes and medications and to come downstairs. “It’s an emergency.”

Bengali mothers do not listen to their children, so she went downstairs in her pajamas and asked me why she needed to come downstairs.

“Ma, ki hoise?” — “Ma, what happened?”

She collapsed in my arms once I told her. I held her up and told her we needed to go to the hospital and she needed to take her anxiety medications before we left.

Mom has suffered from heart disease since 2013. She underwent an aortic valve replacement, but never fully recovered from her procedure.

As I was hugging my mom and calming her down, Susana came through the entrance of our lobby. I don’t know how she knew to come home first, but I’m so glad she did.

“I saw your car zoom past mine. I had a feeling it was you.”

The two of us helped amu into the elevator and grab her things from our apartment.

Ma was suspiciously quiet, and I worried that with her heart problems, she too would have an anxiety attack or worse.

Jon waited for us downstairs this whole time. He drove us to the hospital faster than a cab would have taken.

“Let me know if you need anything. We’re here for you.” We exchanged goodbyes.

We rushed to where he was kept. The ICU? I don’t remember.

When I saw him, I knew he was gone.

There was no soul. His face did not move. His skin looked dull and was cold to the touch. He was attached to a machine with tubes linked to his ears, nose, and mouth. Dry blood crusted the entrance of the tubes into his body.

In those moments, I thought about every good memory we had. The time he waited outside our apartment building with a cane because some neighborhood boys bothered me after school. The times he sang me to sleep. The times he picked us up from P.S 12 and had mini photoshoots before we got home. The times he got us ice cream when mom said no.

Dad and Susana at my 7th birthday at P.S. 12 in Woodside, Queens.

“We’ll need to monitor him for a full 24-hours before you make your decision.”

There was nothing we could do. We knew he was gone, only technically “alive” attached to the machines.

Susana stood on his right side, and me on his left. My mom stood at the foot of the bed.

“Why didn’t he call you?”, my mom asked Susana.

Susana was my dad’s favorite. He talked to her daily and told her never to get married.

The doctor pulled us aside. We spoke to several doctors that day, but this was one of the few who tried to save him in the emergency room. According to him, dad felt unwell and called an ambulance from his apartment in Flushing. He walked into the vehicle, clutching his chest, and walked out of the vehicle into the ER, without assistance.

“He’s very strong, we were very surprised,” the doctor said, “We did an EKG and saw he was having a massive heart attack. He kept trying to stand up and said, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’”

I don’t know why my dad didn’t call Susana or me or my mom that day. He asked the doctors to call his boss at the Taxi and Limousine Commission (TLC), who then called Susana.

Susana, me, and ma sat in the waiting room surrounded by other stressed, and maybe grieving, families. Dad had died, and we needed to start planning his funeral. First came the calls — notifying his friends and our loved ones of what happened. My mom made some calls to her friends and my sister called her best friend, Shyla*. Her father, like ours, is closely connected to other members of the Bangladeshi community. He could help make funeral arrangements.

I made some calls too, but i don’t remember who. I honestly felt useless, because I didn't really know who to call for this. I spent most of that time sitting in the waiting room in shock. I couldn’t believe that any of this is real. I went through waves of sadness, anger, and regret.

Did I try hard enough to be there for him when he was alive?

I called my partner to research burial grounds for Muslims. Abu was agnostic, but we didn’t know how else to bury him. How much does a Muslim funeral cost? Where would his body be kept? This is the first funeral we had to plan. We needed help.

My youngest maternal uncle, Yaqub Mama, booked a flight in from Toronto the next day. Two of my mom's best friends from her Biman days, came to the hospital to offer support.

It was a lot of waiting, a lot of silence, a lot of calls, and a lot of crying.

We went through my dad’s wallet and found a wad of lottery tickets and three faded photos of Susana. We stayed late at the hospital and returned in the morning.

My dad’s wallet and three photos of Susana.

In a lot of ways, the second day felt worse than the first. The initial shock passed and the sadness had time to sink in. January 9th was the day of the heart attack, but the 10th would determine what happened next.

Was there a chance of recovery? Was there a miracle overnight?

My dad had no sign of improvement. His body relied on the machines for his organs to function. He looked the same as the day before. Still, like stone. Gone.

Paperwork, social workers, and more paperwork. My aunties were back. Yaqub Mama was in a cab from John F. Kennedy airport. It was in the afternoon. We made the decision to pull him off life support.

Amu initially wanted to be in the room with us, but I think she was scared. She tried to convince us to let the doctors do it alone, but Susana and I resisted. This was our final goodbye and we needed to be by his side.

I held his left hand and Susana held his right hand. The lead doctor nodded and we nodded back when we were “ready.” The staff members looked away when they shut off the machines. The ringing came back, but this time from the machines. Then, there was silence. It was over.

Losing a parent is a pain I can't explain. Grief comes in stages, This was different. It was sudden and aggressive. I didn’t get a chance to see him one more time. I can’t even remember the last time I told him I loved him. He wasn’t sick and dying. He died suddenly. There was a heavy pain and sunken feeling in my chest, and when I think about now, that emptiness comes back. Every time I read about another loved one lost to COVID-19, I replay what it was like to lose my father again. Aggressively, and quickly. There are, of course, differences in that I didn’t lose my dad to a pandemic. And unlike so many people, we were with him when he passed.

The rest of the day was dedicated to planning his funeral. According to Islam, the dead is to be buried within 24 hours. His janazah was scheduled for the next day, Friday. After jummah namaz, or Friday prayer.

We connected with Ali* from Washington Memorial Memorial Park Cemetery. He would meet us at Bergen Funeral Home in South Ozone Park, drive the body to Jamaica Muslim Center for the janazah, and then drive to the cemetery to complete the burial.

The morning was hectic. Our ride to the funeral home overslept. We took a cab, and after some traffic, we made it. My dad was already washed and cleaned. He was wrapped in a white cloth, placed in the wood coffin, and shrouded with a black shawl with multicolored surrahs over it. I can’t read Arabic, so I don’t know what it said.

He looked at peace. It was calming to see him cleaned up, without the tubes, or the blood, or beeping noises and stress from the hospital. My mom, sister, and I took turns praying for him. In retrospect, I wish that was all we had done.

Ali drove the hearse to Jamaica Muslim Center and we stayed behind to complete additional paperwork. We were running on schedule. When we arrived to the mosque, there were cars double-parked all down the street.

We didn’t know how crowded the mosque would be, especially during jummah. We were overwhelmed. This was our first time at this mosque.

The men were entering it from the front of the building and the women had to enter from the back. My dad’s body was placed behind the mosque, outside, in the cold.

I was overwhelmed by the number of people, the freezing temperatures, but also by the disorganization of everything around me. Why was his body outside? Why couldn't it be inside? Why did I have to enter through a completely different entrance? I thought he would be placed inside, like in the funeral home.

The three of us took off our shoes and went up the long, thin staircase to where the women were praying. I started to pray, but I stopped. I couldn’t focus knowing my father’s body was outside in the cold. Who was watching him? A few friends stood by him, but I knew they wouldn’t be as vigilant as I would be.

I went back downstairs. No jacket, no shoes, and stood at his coffin.

One of his friends kept telling me to go back inside.

“Ma, bhithuri jao. Tanda lagbe.” “Ekhene thakte hoye na, bhithuri jao. Meder upure jethe hobe.”

“Ma, go inside, you’ll get cold.”

“You’re not supposed to stay here, go inside.”

“Girls need to go upstairs.”

A janazah is the name of the prayer performed during a funeral for the deceased. It is led by an imam, surrounded by the men of the family.

Women are excluded from this prayer.

The men outside the mosque were uncomfortable by my presence. I felt completely left out. They didn’t want me to be a part of the janazah. They didn’t want me or Susana to stand by my dad.

I continued to stand my ground by him. My mom stayed upstairs, and Susana went back and forth to check on us both.

My colleagues started arriving in groups. I shared the location of the funeral, but I never imagined so many of them would come. They’d never seen me so vulnerable. It was so comforting to know that so many of my colleagues cared about me. It is a very intimate thing to share such a moment with those you work with. But I wasn’t ashamed. We spend more than 40 hours a week together and I'm thankful to work with so many incredible, caring, and loving people. Even our former commissioner came to pay his respects. I knew the spirit of my father was ecstatic when he saw how many people came out to see him — family, friends, colleagues.

And while I was surrounded by love, there was so much confusion and anger. One of the uncles turned to me and said, “When the imam comes, make sure to cover your face.” I glared at him and did not move.

I was standing between a crowd of uncles, confused by my visible anger and my male colleagues who were all forced to wait outside because there wasn’t enough room to stand on the first floor.

I later found out, after the funeral, that several of my father’s friends gave eulogies on my father’s behalf. No one asked me, my mother, or Susana, to speak. Susana and my mom were upstairs, and I was still outside, shielding my dad from nosy mosque-goers, pleading with them to stop taking pictures of him. My face was red from the cold. My tears felt congealed.

I was angry and livid. This was the worst day of my life and I was being told to cover up, go inside, and stay away. Be voiceless.

I wouldn’t dare. Dad would have hated this.

In a wave, the imam came outside with my dad’s closest friend. Susana marched outside, too. The imam paid us no mind and began the prayer. We stood side by side with the men, just as Abu would have wanted.

Golam Mollick moved to the United States in 1991, shortly after my birth. He was a cab driver for much of his life, but also wrote for both the Weekly Bangalee and Bangla Times. He was closely connected to the Bangladeshi community as a photographer, journalist, and friend. He loved to go out and spend time “adda mara”, talking trash, after chai, but also probably owed you money.

We drove to the ceremony, and helped to bury him. Traditionally, the men in the family are supposed to help bury a loved one. I know it’s clear by now that my family does not abide by these outdated rules.

Susana and I took turns dropping dirt onto his casket. Even before this procession began, we noticed a stranger among us filming. I asked my partner to make him stop before there was another funeral to prepare.

The days that followed were just as busy. In a way, it was relieving to know that his funeral was over and he was buried. But we had guests coming over every day, but only one or two dropped off food. Biryani, daal, bhaat, and I remember some of the best paneer.

We still had to host a milad — another prayer ceremony to add to the myriad of events surrounding death. But we knew this would be different. Susana ordered catering. We invited loved ones who knew us and knew him. People who loved and cared for us.

We had more than 40 people sitting on every possible surface in my two-bedroom apartment. An imam came, who had seen both Susana and me as children. He was kind and ecstatic to see that we were both grown and now even physically bigger than him.

After he recited his prayers, ate, and left, the rooms divided. Some of the men lingered in the living room, aunties in one bedroom, and the “young ones” in our room. I took out the bottle of Jack I’d kept hidden under my bed.

“A toast to my dad.”

I called ma into the room and she gasped when she saw each of our glasses. Mom no longer drinks, but she had to be present for this. And so we all prayed, said bismillah, and took the shot, just as abu would have wanted.

Grief, In Stages

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I took a social media hiatus after the denial passed. I was angry to see my friends enjoying themselves instead of checking up on me and my mental health. I started looking at photos on Instagram and Facebook through a lense of hate.

“This is all fake,” I thought.

I scoffed at every, “Thinking of you,” “You will get through this,” text.

Must be easy to be supportive from far away. I needed help, someone to talk to objectively about what I was going through. I needed a friend to hug.

“Aren’t you happier now, now that he’s gone?” — that was probably the worst text I had received.

It was a hard time. Grief, and understanding how many fairweather friends you truly have.

I stopped drinking for some time. Because every time I did, I would end up crying and heaving on the floor.

Death is ugly.

It took me seven months to find the right therapist who helped me through my grief. But before then, there was still healing to be done.

I stopped going out. I spent all of my time with my loved ones. I also started working more and more. I stayed late often, without anyone asking me to, to finish projects, work on videos, or even do something as trivial as organize my desk.

If I did everything “right” at work, and helped my family, then that’s it right? I’m fine? I’m all better?

Eventually your body catches up to your mental state. I was pushing myself too hard, holding in my grief, and trying my best to serve everyone else except for the most important person in my life — me.

In August of that year, I was admitted to the hospital for an intussusception. A part of my small intestine began to swallow itself. The doctors couldn’t tell me why it happened or explain what the cause was. This is something that typically happens to babies and sorts itself out.

The pain was so bad, the nurses gave me morphine. I can’t imagine how infants deal with this pain.

The hospital stay was the first time I slept for 12 hours straight in months. I wasn’t looking at my phone. I was alone with my thoughts and started breaking down again. It was the wake up call I needed to seek help and find a therapist. I found the “right” one after my dismissal.

In the time that has gone since his passing, I’ve forgiven him. I don’t forgive abu for him or for him to enter “jannat,” but I've forgiven him for myself.

It takes so much out of you to hold on to that sadness and anger. My dad is gone, and all I can do now is think about what would have been, and if things would have gotten better at some point. All I can be thankful for are the good memories and the lessons learned.

Rest in peace, pops.