#43 - In Loving Memory of Aziz Memon

5:20am, the morning after my birthday, I woke to a call from my Mom in a group chat with me and my sister.

“Guys, turn your cameras on. Dad’s in the hospital. He had a heart attack.”

In shock, I began packing my bags to fly back to Toronto.

The weight of the moment hadn’t hit me yet.

5:34am, Mom called again. This time, it’s a front-facing video of my Dad in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors, with a machine aggressively performing CPR on him. Mom wanted to show us what was likely to be his last moments.

It slowly started to hit me.

6:06am, I called an Uber to the airport and woke up the two friends I was living with in Vancouver. As I began to explain the situation, Mom called once more—this time to tell me we’d lost him.

Then it hit me.

“That’s okay! That’s okay!” was all I managed to say, in some haphazard attempt to comfort my Mom and sister.

“I’ll be home soon. And mom. I love you.”

With shaking legs and tears streaming down my face, I turned back to my friends and told them my dad had passed. They hugged me tight. I got in my Uber and headed to the airport, buying a $1,000 ticket to Toronto on the way.

At the airport and on the flight, I texted friends and family, letting them know what had happened. The tears wouldn’t stop coming, and I needed support.

When I landed at Pearson airport, it took me 30 minutes to find the exit. I wandered around in a daze. It felt like a dream. I watched my body move without me controlling it.

When I finally got into another Uber to get back to my family home, I resolved to be strong for my Mom. I wanted to be one less thing for her to worry about. I planned to handle all the affairs, as I thought the freshly-minted “man of the house” should, shielding her from the burden.

When I opened the door, my mom greeted me with a smile and a hug. I immediately crumbled into heaving sobs on her shoulder.

In the hours that followed, the outpouring of love and support that streamed through our home was both amazing and agonizing.

Friends and family piled in with food, flowers, and condolences. Mom’s phone and doorbell rang every 30 seconds.

I wanted to lighten her load, but couldn’t. More than once, I asked her if she wanted to clear everyone out so she could decompress. She said, “Everyone here needs to feel welcome and grieve too.”

She handled it all with such grace, never shedding a tear and patiently retelling the painful events of that morning over and over again for anyone who asked. I was in awe of her strength.

The crowd finally dissipated around 10pm. My aunt, uncle and cousin arrived soon after, with my sister scheduled to arrive the following morning. That was the only collection of people I truly wanted within reach at that moment.

That night, I slept next to my mom for the first time since I was a kid. Before turning off the light, I read a text from my friend Reagan, gently encouraging me to share my grief with my mom instead of trying to be stoic and strong.

I did exactly that.

I told her I loved my Dad and missed him. I told her I felt I'd been a bad son. After the tears subsided, I asked her questions about my Dad—questions I'd planned to ask him someday, but always deferred to later.

For two hours, she shared openly. I learned about my dad’s tragic upbringing as an orphan in India; how badly he'd been treated by the people that were supposed to love him; and how, despite it all, he never had a bad word to say about anyone. Throughout their relationship, he'd often ask my mom, “What do you see in me?” She saw his heart—it was unmatched.

My “brave face” held for the next two days. My Dad’s memorial was the next time it cracked.

It was an open casket—my first time seeing Dad in person since my sister and I flew him out to Boston for a Lakers game. It was hard to see him cold and still. But he looked to be at peace. It was a much better final image of my Dad than him under the CPR machine in the hospital.

Despite only a couple days’ notice, the turnout for the memorial was incredible, which is unsurprising for an incredible man.

I knew half the attendees pretty well, vaguely recognized another quarter, and didn’t know the final quarter at all. But every story each attendee shared with me had the same theme: my dad was one of the kindest people they'd ever known.

After the memorial, we got to work settling Dad’s affairs. And there were plenty.

Packing belongings, selling his car, freezing credit cards, switching subscriptions, notifying the government, backing up passwords, signing countless forms…even now, there’s still lots left to do.

But once the brunt of the work was behind us, true healing began.

By the time my sister left, a couple of days after the memorial, I was still foreboding the future. I was so concerned about how my Mom would hold up without my Dad around.

By the time my aunt, uncle, and cousin left, one week after Dad died, I felt for the first time that we’d all pull through this. That everyone was going to be okay.

And by the time I was ready to fly out a few days after that, leaving my mom alone in the house, I felt happy again. I even found myself excited to see what the next chapter of my Mom’s life would like, after the dust settled.

As I write this, flying back to Vancouver, I’m ready to return to normalcy. Though my routine will look much the same as before, I feel like I’m forever changed in innumerable, wonderful ways.

I learned a lot about myself these past two weeks, but I also learned a lot about my loved ones.

I have one hell of a mother, who was the emotional rock for my sister and I these past two weeks (as she has been for the past three decades).

I have one hell of a sister, who holed up in our basement for 4 days straight, tying up countless loose ends before having to fly back to Seattle for work.

I have one hell of an aunt, uncle and cousin, who flew in and stayed with us for a full week, without needing to be asked. They brought so much life into the house at a time when we really needed it.

I have one hell of a partner, who travelled overnight from LA to Toronto on short-notice to support me and my family. Her nightmare of a flight path deserves its own article.

I have one hell of a group of friends, who delivered meals, sent flowers, drove long distances to attend Dad’s memorial, and checked in on us every day.

And I had one hell of a father, whose name I am so proud to carry. I spent too much of my angsty youth resenting him. Now, I want nothing more than to someday be half the man he was.

I’m 28. My dad should still be here. But losing someone so young teaches you a lesson that you’ve heard a thousand times before but never truly understood:

Tomorrow isn’t promised.

So if you love people, tell them often. If you have a dream, chase it. And look for the joy in every moment of your life.

Love you Dad 🧡 I hope I see you again some day.