2024

As a twenty-two-year-old working in Saudi Arabia as a public health nurse, I was excited to be going back on vacation to India. As I landed in Bombay (now Mumbai), I got stopped by a corrupt customs officer who demanded money. He refused to let me leave and told me that I had to pay 5000 rupees. I was scared and angry but did not speak. He went to talk with his supervisor, who I assumed would be in cahoots with him. Standing there, I prayed to the blessed mother (Mary) and asked for her help.

I was too damn polite. Blame my Midwestern upbringing that hardwired me with nice girl, don’t be pushy settings.

I was too deferential, cautious about antagonizing the mental health professionals I needed as allies. I worried that I’d come across as presumptuous, as difficult if I suggested that I—without benefit of their training, clinical experience, or certifications—saw something they were missing.

Once I looked forward to his visits, but years later I dreaded them. My change of heart began after he was laid off from his janitorial position. He worked diligently, applying desperately for jobs, but the economy was slow, and no one was hiring. The stress of not being able to make ends meet was crushing. His blood pressure rose, and he grew angry and depressed.

An early morning Zoom class, “Dealing with the Inner Critic,” to return my brain to a poetic rather than medical mode. I have several projects simmering, some raw, others partly cooked, but none completely finished, ready for consumption.

I awoke from a deep sleep today—Sunday, June 16—with a sudden urge to call my dad, nearly 10,000 miles away in India, and wish him Happy Father’s Day. A second later, I remembered that he’d passed away almost 15 years ago.

Was he in a “better place,” as everyone assured me he was when he died at age 69 of metastatic prostate cancer? Could I call him there, as I’d done for years after I left India in my early 20s?