Published on Kitaab

Living With Grief – Reclaiming and/or Letting Go of My Identity (Part 1)

By Roopa Swaminathan

Author’s Note

Living with Grief is a series of articles on my journey into loss and grief. Life as I knew it upended when I lost two people closest to me in a span of one week in December 2020. As much as those around me – friends and family, art, films, music, and literature – tried to explain the process of grieving, the reality is that the heartbreak I felt was at a level that was/is unimaginable to me.

It was also a time when I had to face some stark realities of life. Time did not lessen my pain. There was/is no end game here – even though many around me want me to ‘suck it up’ and ‘get over it’ and ‘move on’ because my constant grieving affects ‘their mental well-being’. Some 18 months later – I still wake up and go to bed with the same intensity of grief I felt back in December 2020. What has changed, however, is that I’ve learned to live with my loss. I’ve learned to navigate my way through life with grief as a constant.

I wrote this series as a way to handle the many truths that I faced in these past 18 months. I wrote it as a way to heal. But honestly, every single day is still a struggle. But writing has helped. I hope these stark ruminations during the worst week of my life and its aftermath can help you in some small measure.

God Speed.

I’m a daughter. I’m a writer. These are my identities. 

I’m also a woman. I’m an Indian, a doctor (okay…not of medicine and, no, I cannot prescribe meds of any kind – so don’t bother asking!). I’m also a filmmaker, aunt, niece, friend, best friend and so many more.

But…I am a daughter. I’m a writer. These two identities are what I most closely identify with personally. They form the very core of my being.

And these two identities are what I’m grappling with after my parents passed away. These identities are the ones that I have deep conflicts within myself. 

With the first one as a daughter – now that amma and appa are gone – I’m haunted by the thought. What happens to my core identity as a daughter? I’m no longer anyone’s daughter. I apologize to everyone out there who doesn’t have parents. I can’t even begin to understand or imagine what that must feel like. But I was one of the luckiest people on this planet. Every time I whine about something I don’t have – I think about the fact that I had BOTH parents and both of them loved me more than anyone else in the world. To those two people – I WAS ALWAYS NUMBER ONE. Always. 

And now I have neither of them.

What’s even harder to digest is how I lost both of them so close to one another. There are so many who’ve lost both parents. But most often – they lose them one parent at a time. Losing a parent is never easy (our relationship with our parents is the single most important and unique bond we will ever have) and I want that understood. But…losing one parent at a time gives you the strength to deal with loss. Losing one parent at a time gives you time to come to terms with the gaping hole in your life. It allows you the space to come to terms with your identity. And that’s because you have the other parent still with you. They navigate the loss with you, they guide you. And a lot of the time – since they’ve probably lost their own parents – they understand exactly what you’re going through. So, even as they grieve the loss of their own spouse – they’re still alive to hold your hand and walk you through your new life.

But in my case – I lost both parents within a span of 6 days. 

I’ve tried my best to write about my loss in a series of articles called Living with Grief but trust me – when you go from being the luckiest daughter one Tuesday to becoming an adult orphan the next Tuesday – the devastation is profound.

I went from knowing exactly who I was to now not knowing who I am going to be. I need to navigate the world and find a way to make sense of my identity since the one that I wore proudly as a daughter no longer exists. 

I’m constantly told I should not feel as much grief since my parents had lived a long life and a happy life. They lived life to the fullest is most people’s favorite thing to say to me. Oh, the other one is They’re in a better place now, or At least they didn’t suffer anymore. This means – Stop whining and groaning, Roopa, and move the F*$#  on. The takeaway is that their passing was actually a blessing – to them. So quit moaning about how that affects you. 

And that’s so easier said than done. How can I just move on? I’m an orphan now. My entire identity as a daughter is now gone. 

And if that wasn’t hard enough to deal with – I’m questioning my other core identity as well – that of being a writer.

Let me explain…as a writer – language is my biggest tool.

While I’m by no means precious about my writing – I do try to use language to the best of my ability and also to convey exactly what I wish to say. Using the right word is key. I’m too ashamed to admit that I will sometimes have a thesaurus open in another tab as I try to find that perfect word to describe something.

But I found all my meticulousness going for a toss after my parents passed. Even now…I find it beyond difficult to use the one word that does not beat around the bush. The one word that leaves no room for any doubt. The one word that tells you like it is. That one word that tells the world that my parents are gone. 

Something totally weird happened to me a few weeks back and that made me think about this scenario even more. 

So, where I live, we have an on-call taxi that is run by a father and his two sons. They ply their taxis to the outside world but they work predominantly for the condo complex where I live. Over the past decade…the three of them have gotten very close to almost everyone who lives in our condos.

A few days back I walked out to go to the grocery store and I came across the older son. He saw me, waved, and as I walked towards him he said, “Kaise ho, didi?” (How’re you, big sister?) I said I was fine. Then he said, “How’re uncle and aunty?” Meaning…how’re my parents? I was stumped for a second. I thought he’d be aware of what happened back in December 2020. Clearly, he didn’t. I winced and then said gently, “They’re both gone.”

He asked with a smile on his face, “Gone where? To stay with bhaiyya (older brother)? Or have they gone to Chennai?”

I paused for a few seconds and said softly, “Nahi, nahi. Woh chale gaye…upar!” (No, no…they’re both gone. Above) And I gestured to the skies.

He still didn’t get it and looked confused. And that’s when I realized what I’d always known…words matter. The right words get to the core of an issue that nothing else would. I needed to be precise. And I did. Finally. I said, “Sachin, my parents died.”

He was stunned. Sad. Uncomfortable. Sheepish. He then said quietly, “Dono chale gaye?” (They’re both gone?”)

I nodded. And told him I needed to get away. He understood and let me go.

I still went to the grocery store and did my shopping but I was shell-shocked. And after I got back home that evening I started to think…about the word death. 

DEATH.

It’s so brutal. It’s such a harsh word. Any variation of the verb ‘to die’ had always bothered me. There is such a sense of finality. Saying someone ‘passed’ or ‘have gone to be with god’ – doesn’t take away the intrinsic truth of the situation but, yes, it does sugarcoat the reality a little bit. And it lessens the burden, somehow. I don’t know. It probably doesn’t make sense to anyone other than those who’ve suffered from loss. After all – it’s just a word, right? But for me – using the word DEATH was a big moment in my journey of navigating the dual losses in my life.

I realized at that moment that it had now been nine months. And that I cannot kid myself anymore. That I needed to regain my strength, my power, and find that inner resilience starting with claiming the one word that I hadn’t been able to thus far. 

Going forward, if I were to reclaim or let go of my core sense of being and my identity – both as a daughter and as a writer – I need to first own up to one single fact. And that’s my parents did not ‘pass on’ or ‘went to heaven’ or that they’re ‘now with god.’

My parents…died.

And as hard as it is for me, I also am starting to realize that just because they died doesn’t stop me from being their beloved daughter. Not ever.