Final Thoughts on My Dad...
August 2024: ...For Now
This turned into a four-part series.
A Man of Many Hats (May 2024)
Father’s Day (June 2024)
Lessons on Grief (July 2024)
Final Thoughts on My Dad... (August 2024)
This is the last long post about my father so just get as far as you can… like we all do in life.
August has always been a big month for my immediate family. My brothers were born in 1980 on the 25th. My parents got married in 1972 on the 26th. I was the only one left out… until Harsha (born my year on the 23rd) and I got married in 2015 on the 1st and had Naveen in 2021 on the 6th. Oh, and I guess India was born in 1947 on the 15th. August is the month of the Cincinnati Open, the tennis tournament that changed all of our lives and the one for which Dad carried the torch, receiving his 30-Year Pin at his funeral earlier this year. So, it’s appropriate I plan to wrap up my Dad Tribute right here, right now.
ICYMI, here are my posts from May, June, and July. And here are 19 final thoughts 14 weeks after he passed.
1.
“Begin with the end in mind.”
— Stephen Covey (my favorite of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People)
I’ve long been blessed with the ability to write endings. I completed both the writing and the improv tracks at UCB (Upright Citizens Brigade) here in LA. For one of our graduation performances (before I ever saw Norm Macdonald roast Courtney Thorne-Smith on Conan O’Brien), the class conjured up this scene on the Venice Boardwalk. The game evolved into watching various people stroll down the lane. It started off funny but got boring, then tedious, then excruciating. Long silence. I then said, “Guess that’s why they call this a Bored-Walk.” Blackout. Huge laughter-and-applause break.
How’s this for an ending? I opened for Hasan Minhaj in Cincinnati on Friday, 27 April. Harsha, Naveen, and I flew back to LA on Saturday, 28 April. That means the very last night Dad spent with his son and his grandson was on the stage where his son performed for 3,000 people. If that isn’t going out with a bang, I don’t know what is.
2.
Is 81 years a good run for Dad? It is. Was there more life to live? That’s hard to say. His own Dad (my grandfather) lived to around 78*. But by most accounts, Dad’s grandparents both lived to be 104.
*Why “around”? Records were not accurately kept in that era. I’ll bet that drove Dad crazy, given how methodical he was with his bookkeeping. After all, he worked for the Income Tax Department in Bombay.
Dad’s approach to life was paradoxical: he was fiercely organized but always rushing around, preaching about how important it was to be on time but usually arriving within minutes of whichever appointment started. His approaches to saving money could be their own art form. And yet, especially in his later years, he spent lavishly on us. When the pandemic wiped out my income, he pulled me aside and told me I’d never have to worry about money. We weren’t super rich but he was “always here.”
3.
How long does the pain last? It’s the same question I asked others after the two huge breakups of my life. I often think of the scene in Swingers when Rob and Mikey have this exchange:
"You're gonna get over it."
"How did you get over it? How long did it take?"
"I don't know. Sometimes it still hurts.
You know how it is, man. It's like...
You wake up every day, it hurts a little bit less,
then you wake up one day and it doesn't hurt at all.
And the funny thing is...
This is kinda weird, but it's like...
you almost miss that pain."
"You miss the pain?"
"Yeah, for the same reason that you miss her.
Because you... you lived with it for so long."Of course, breakups and deaths are different. A relationship lasts for a fixed period of time, even if you die in it. But you don’t know a world without your parents.
Incredible piece of info: Recall from the obituary (and my act) that my parents did not have an arranged marriage. As kids, they were neighbors, so Mom knew Dad since she was four years old. In nearly a literal sense, she didn’t know a world without Dad until a few weeks ago.
My friend Shekhar Chitnis, whom I believe is in his 60s, called me to tell me this:
You and your brothers have lost an umbrella. But your Mom has lost a cane.
That hit me hard. And that’s true. No doubt it’s hardest on the spouse. The only slight pushback I have is that the three of us likely have to live another four decades without Dad.
When they asked Chris Rock how long it took for him to get over the passing of his father, he trotted out this great wisdom:
“You never get over it. You just get used to it.”
4.
Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten used to the very concepts of birth and death. That’s as far as I’ve made it with the human experience and I might not go any further. It’s still mind-blowing to me how we come into this world, and that when we’re gone, we’re gone. I once blurted out…
I was fine before I was born and so I will be fine after I die.
Which school of philosophy is that? I don’t know, but it has given me great comfort. Where was I before and where will I be after? This is such a vast idea that I’m simply able to appreciate its beauty — when I’m not overwhelmed by it.
5.
I did ask the Pundit who conducted our ceremony about whether Dad can see us. He said he can. Surprised, I replied, “I thought Heaven was a Christian thing. I know it’s not linear [due to relativity], but don’t Hindus believe in reincarnation?” Nevertheless, he said Dad can see and hear us. I’m not sure what I believe about that. I’m a bit careful about going there because I live in reality and interact with the corporeal, the material, the tangible. Maybe I’ll walk that path and maybe I won’t. But it’s nice to know it’s always there, since it is, you know, eternal and all.
Last week, I took my first overseas trip without Dad on this Earth; in fact, Dad often traveled with me as my “international manager.” I flew to Bangalore to perform for Deloitte. It was a particularly lonely period, especially since BOTH of my outbound flights were delayed, forcing me to spend oodles of time on my own in Hong Kong. Fortunately, my I AM INDIAN video hit 10 million views. My friend Kristina Cullis pointed out that it was Dad who was making that happen. #GuardianAngel
6.
Though it’s not always a good idea to compare pain as everyone’s journey is different, when I heard about my friend who couldn’t get out of bed for two days after her mother passed, my heart broke for her and I realized all the spiritual work I’ve been doing for a decade is paying dividends. And that work continues: we had four grandparents, so we have three more of these coming. We can’t see the full story yet. With the grace of God, they’ll all be this “easy.” But they may not be and we need to prepare our souls — and Naveen’s soul — for that.
7.
“Grief comes in waves.” - Every griever who’s experienced grief
It’ll hit you at understandable times (when you press the button for cremation) and strange times (when you drive past a random clothes donation box because you placed your Dad’s sweater in another one). But to unpack Life Goes On, it’s important to remember that a day consists of other things.
I’m a griever but I’m not defined by my grief. That’s important. What has probably surprised me the most is “first thought in the morning/last thought at night” didn’t hang around as long as I would’ve thought. That’s when you’re making progress after a breakup: the day she isn’t the initial thing on your mind and/or the person you think about as you fade off to sleep. This happened toward the end of June. I think that goes with the territory of being a parent. It’s hard for Naveen NOT to be the first thought when he literally cries for milk or (in this latest phase) climbs into bed with us.
I am still experiencing joy when Naveen gives me a hug. And I’m experiencing that joy fully. If I weren’t, that’d be a case of depression. No judgment. So many of you are going through that and I truly feel for you. But if you’re not, then keep in mind that sadness is a normal human sensation, so be grateful you can still feel the full spectrum of emotion. (“You miss the pain?”) Even happiness. Even pettiness.
Since my 20s, my guiding principle has been the short poem, Desiderata. And the key line is: "No doubt the Universe is unfolding as it should.” No piece of philosophy has alleviated more pain for me than that one. Even with that in mind, though, I wish I had had Naveen earlier. The Aunties and Uncles are right: kids make you happy. One gargantuan benefit is that your relationship with your parents changes. You realize — truly realize — how much your parents love you.
8.
What’s tough is what I’d written about five days before Dad passed when I covered opening for Hasan Minhaj: “You get so few perfect days in your life.”
And now that ceiling is lower. I’ll likely never hit another peak as high as I did when all five members of my immediate family were alive. It’s akin to declaring I’d probably live to be around 88 or 89, but chills ran down my spine when I realized I’m admitting I’m in the second half of my life. That I’m over the hill and heading downward. Maybe I’ll make it to 104 so 52 is my halfway point. Whether I’m entirely accurate is beside the point. I am approximately right and that makes living a little harder — but also a little easier because it’s yet another illustration to me about how short life is.
That said, I’d discussed in my January newsletter how I was poised to go “on a run,” when things are firing on all cylinders. I’m happy that did happen between the dates of February 17 and April 27. The opening was when my friend Eric indicated in Las Vegas that he’d book me on a gig in Bangalore. The closing was the day after I opened for Hasan Minhaj in Cincinnati. Happy to say that stretch will go down as another chapter of my “good ol’ days.” And to wit…
9.
In my 40s, I’m noticing a lot of my peers go one direction or another. That’s likely true of every decade of life, but it seems more pronounced than in our 20s and 30s. I’ve certainly noticed it with booze, with some going full-blown alcoholics and others full-blown teetotalers. I’ve also observed the same trend with spirituality. Some are becoming more religious, others more atheist. Some more hopeful, others more despairing. My friend, Gita (who has been a great source of strength), lost her Mom when she was much younger. (Friends not in this club can sympathize — and that’s appreciated, but friends in this club can empathize, which is more powerful.)
Her Dad was always religious. (Her name is Gita.) After his wife passed, he became even more Hindu, and that was important for Gita to see. That it wasn’t window dressing. He meant it.
I’m happy to report that my father’s passing has made me turn even sharper into my faith. To me, that’s important, because though I haven’t discussed it much, of course God is my North Star. And it’s nice to know that it’s serving me well as opposed to my throwing my hands up and going, “This was all BS.” Because it’s a real stress test of your belief system.
In a very real way, I feel all of your prayers. Yes, I’m a devoted Hindu, but vibes from all religions have been and continue to be welcome. I’ve had Christian friends pray for us, Muslim friends pray for us, and have heard from so many Jewish friends this one line that has provided the most solace: May his memory be a blessing.
The Jews. They’re God’s chosen people for a reason. Though in their case, naturally, it’s not the vibes. It’s the space lasers.
10.
“Enjoy yourself. If you can’t, enjoy someone else.” — Jack Schaefer
Nothing has made me feel better than doing things for others. It’s no secret that one of the keys to happiness is volunteering our time and our energy. Helping my friends through their challenges cheers me up. It gives me purpose and direction.
11.
“Don’t ask me how I’m feeling since my Dad passed. How do you think I’m feeling?”
- Stupidest post I’ve seen
A Facebook friend once posted that after her father died. While I more than understand everyone processes grief differently, I remember thinking at the time, “What an insanely dumb thing to say.” It has bothered me for years and honestly she’s a bit of a dunce. Now that my father has passed, I feel even more strongly about this. Of course, if someone picks up the phone and hits you with an effusive, “HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY?!” then that’s different. But I didn’t know your father. How you are doing is the only thing I care about. Don’t be obtuse.
As such, it’s been important to pick and choose from where I get my support. It is but natural for friends to share their own harrowing tales. While communication is appreciated, that might not be what I need right now. I’ve certainly had my share of “oversharers.” The deluge of phone calls and text messages can be overwhelming and I’ve needed to take a break from anyone who isn’t helping me.
People have inadvertently said some unhelpful things. One so much so that I won’t even write it out. (Ping me if you wanna know… and I can tell you the other terrible point someone made about aging.)
But one thing I do want to respond to is this: someone told me it doesn’t get better. I can assure you, right now, it absolutely does.
Another thing I can tell you is that it doesn’t help me to “take it one day at a time.” I actually gain strength from strategizing. Those plans might go to Hell in a handbasket, but I find it empowering to think ahead. My overall point? Do what works for you. Throw out the rest. And realize people probably mean well. It’s just that not all advice is for you. And that some people are dunces.
12.
Let me tell you: even in the midst of bereavement, we do remember who got in touch and who didn’t. I grant people a huge amount of grace with this because so many of us don’t know what to say or how to act. I get it. I 100% get it. Text anyway. Even a “I know it’s been a while. Just wanted to say I heard the news and I am sorry for your loss” will suffice. For years, I haven’t wanted to engage with people’s Facebook posts about this topic as it was hitting too close to home. In fact, during this period of outreach, I’ve apologized to anyone in case there was a feeling that I wasn’t there in their time of need. Fortunately, everyone has said that I was. Whew. But it’s never too late. If you haven’t yet emailed, called, or texted, please do so. It’s vital.
13.
“This is a club nobody wants to join.”
I’ve heard a lot of people say that. But here’s the thing: It's a club everybody wants to join, because the alternative is dying before your parents. The world over, that's known as the greatest tragedy. In every religion. In every culture.
This is not a tragedy. It's just really sad. It's a natural part of the human experience for a parent to pass before a child. True throughout the animal kingdom. Probably plants, too. Not sure about fungi, protists, and monera. It’s been a while since biology class.
ANYway, we should all be so lucky. It’s a rite of passage. Honoring our mothers’ and fathers’ legacies is our collective duty. We shouldn’t pray that this won’t happen. We should pray that we have the strength to do this.
14.
I laughed on Day 4. In fact, my brothers, our mother, and I were in our family room, reminiscing, and this gave way to genuinely cracking each other up. If you would’ve told me that any of us could get to a gut laugh — not a chuckle — 96 hours after Dad passed, I never would’ve believed you. These will naturally be accompanied by guilt. And that’s fine. Let it be there. But by the same token, don’t let it dampen your spirits. I would not call this an “emotional roller coaster.” If it is, it’s the worst roller coaster ever, because it’s mostly downhill with very little uphill. (Guess that’d be the best roller coaster ever.) We’re entitled to some light moments in such darkness and heaviness. It’s a gift from God. Accept it — and laugh your ass off.
15.
Exactly a week after Dad passed, I had yet another light moment. Mom asked me to do something and repeated it three more times in rapid succession. Out of her sight, I looked up at the large picture of Dad on the mantle, pointed at Mom with my thumb, and rolled my eyes at her. It was a great little “How’d you live with this chick?” It wasn’t a bit. It wasn’t planned. It happened organically. It helped me realize Dad and I still have a relationship.
Oh, and sorry, Mom.
16.
“It’s like déjà vu all over again.” - Yogi Berra
About seven months before I got the call about Dad, I got a similar call from Mom’s phone, also while I was in Manhattan: in October 2023, it was Mom’s voice, informing me that one of our friends, Miraj Desai, had passed away. Now THAT was a tragedy. He was in his early 40s. As I sat next to my father, the funeral was excruciating, given Miraj’s father had died three years earlier. As such, it’s been brutal on his mother and his brother, my good friend, Neil. But the service was incredible. At the end, a good friend of Miraj’s wife led us all in a group meditation that sent out loving kindness to Miraj, to his family, and to the Universe. It was exactly the right ending note (they can write an ending, too), and I seriously considered closing my own eulogy with something similar. The only thing was that Neil was in the crowd, and being a comedy connoisseur, he might’ve called me out for a stolen bit. Could you imagine? I’m standing at the podium, bawling my eyes out, and one of my best friends heckles from the back, “He lifted that!”
What has stayed with me for over half a year (and probably will forever) is that, though the meditation was cathartic, what made us feel even better were the hilarious stories that Miraj’s childhood neighbor told. Not that I don’t know this as a comedian, but wow, what a reminder that humor is indeed the highest form of therapy. Laughter is the best medicine has become trite but it might be the truest thing there is.
17.
Some have asked if anyone had any premonitions. Perhaps. February through April in LA, we took Dad to the doctor, including the cardiologist, five times. He complained about generally not feeling well. Beyond high BP, though, his vitals all checked out. He was always good about taking his medications. But he felt cold more often. He didn’t eat as much.
After he passed, Rakesh and I talked about how Dad seemed — and we both used this word — “resigned.” In acting class, we learned about “intent.” Every character has it; every human has it. Even if your intent is to sit there and do nothing, that’s still intent. I wouldn’t go so far to say he lost his will to live. It wasn’t that. But you need intent, a driving force that keeps you moving forward. And he didn’t appear to have that anymore. The upside? He was somehow at more peace than we’d seen him. It was like he was right where he wanted to be.
And right before I flew to New York the day before it happened, Naveen kept talking about how he was soon going to go on a plane to Ohio. “No, Naveen. You’re not going on a plane for a few months.” “No, I AM going on a plane. To Ohio.” A few days later, he was on a plane to Ohio. I don’t want to read into this too much, but I have heard that kids are tapped into this sort of thing given they’re at the other end of life. That whole birth and death thing.
Indeed, in July, I recapped the most painful moments of this journey. I omitted one: When Harsha and Naveen made it home to Fairfield, Naveen walked around the house asking, “Where’s Dada?”
Harsha bought a book called Something Very Sad Happened: A Toddler’s Guide to Understanding Death. It told us that it’s OK to cry in front of your kids; just don’t completely go to pieces in front of them. So I went to my room and sobbed. Historically, in acting scenes when I have to portray sadness, I’ve recalled some old black-and-white Indian movie I saw as a child. I don’t remember the title, but the mother hides near some railroad tracks and the baby tries to find her. Well, at some point, she dies. And later, the baby walks around those same tracks and can’t find her. It’s pretty much the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. But now I have something sadder.
Though not quite as sad as my audition track record.
18.
I am grateful Dad went suddenly. It would’ve broken his heart to know he was dying this early, to know he was leaving us behind. Eighty-one isn’t early, but he wanted to make it to 100 (if not 104). He clung to life in a way that I never have or have understood.
I am grateful that we did all we could: we took him to the doctor. We checked in on him. We made life easy for him.
I am grateful for the fact that I didn’t get mad at Dad much in our last years together.
I am grateful our last words were pleasant ones. I am still working on my own anger but this is a huge reward for the work I continue to put in daily (and generally fail weekly).
I am grateful for how proud Dad would be to see his family come together to navigate the funeral, the affairs, and the love we have for one another.
I am grateful for the six years of IVF it took to bring Naveen into the world. If we were normal people, our son would probably be at least eight years old, riding his bike all over the neighborhood. But he’s three, which means my Mom gets to spend so much more time with him. (See, there It is, unfolding as It should.)
I am grateful for that Saturday morning when we were headed to CVG and our Uber canceled last-minute. The other one took nine minutes to arrive. I said to my parents, “Hey, this is nine more minutes we get with you.” Who knew those would be the last nine minutes I’d have in person with Dad?
I am grateful Dad died after April 15th with my parents’ taxes filed for the year.
I am grateful the last long conversation Dad (and Mom) and I had over the course of two nights at the end of April was about their living arrangements. The plan was for them to move in with us within a year. Since the unit we all built for them in the backyard was a bit small, I was going to give up my garage studio for them to use. Dad was touched, asking how I could do that.
I am grateful I said, “I love that studio. But it’s just stuff. You’re people, and specifically, my parents.” I’m glad Dad passed away knowing that was the plan.
I am grateful he also passed knowing we had already chosen an October weekend to celebrate his 80th (82nd) birthday as a family. Yes, that would’ve been a milestone (of sorts), but at least there was nothing right around the corner. What would three or four more years have gotten him or us? Of course more life. Of course there’s always more. Intent is what drives us forward. But this had to happen sometime. And it was as good a time as any. (Mom and I spent every single day together from May 8th to July 11, except May 18 when Uncle Vimal and I traveled to Austin so I could perform). And though she’s in Cincinnati now, she’s already de facto moved in with us in Burbank; we can’t wait to welcome her back in a few weeks.
19.
Dad died in the city he loved, in the suburb he loved, in the house he loved. He and Mom designed the custom layout, moved us in on 12 January 1987, and lived together for over 37 years. There was no long-term care, no hospital stay, and no hospice.
Dad, at the outset, I told them you were always focused on two things (in addition to us, naturally): money and time. You went as cheaply as you could. And given your frugality, I know you’d love that.
And that’s the great thing about being Indian and being late. You’re forever the late Vinay Satyal. And nothing could be more fitting.
Told you I could write an ending.
Rajiv Satyal is a standup comedian. He resides in Burbank, California.
—