What is today?

How we assign meaning to our days

February 10th will forever be the day that I stayed almost until February 11th, but didn’t. When a person you love breathes out for the last time, you should be there, if you can be there.

My father died on February 11th. I almost had the privilege of being there, but wasn’t. I had gone home having convinced myself that I should sleep in a real bed. I had really convinced myself that the fear of being there alone when it happened meant something as if me being there would mean that I would somehow get sucked away with him.

Less than two hours later, the call came. My phone was on but it was set to accept calls only from my ‘Favourites’ list. My father’s palliative care centre wasn’t on the list, figure that. It should have been on a list of calls I never wanted to take. I missed the call.

The one I did get was from my brother. At 1:43 am, in a fog, I learned my dad was gone. After a quick conversation filled with whatever emotions one can have when you can’t think straight, I went back to sleep. February 11th will forever be the day I didn’t sleep. It will forever be the day that I said goodbye to my dad, that I placed my hands on his dead body, closed my eyes, and couldn’t deal with the shock. It will forever be the day I cracked a joke to the healthcare staff after they gathered around him with my sister-in-law and I and said a few words of remembrance. The day I took an unpaid day off because I was a contractor and didn’t get time off because my father had died, even though my father died from cancer and I worked for a cancer support non-profit. The day that I passed the time by looking for another job.

But February 11th is only a day like its contrived Hallmark follower, Valentine’s Day. A day is a day. How we assign meaning to that day is what matters.