Nearly a month has passed since my dad died and I haven't been "all there" since that day. I've transitioned through the phases of grief, trying to make a sense of it all, and slowly moving on with my life, the latter two of which I go in and out of occasionally. I've been meaning to post about my dad but haven't until now because I didn't feel like my thoughts were properly collected to do such.
My dad, Djauhari Abdoussalaam, was born in Indonesia on September 19, 1944, roughly a year before the country gained its independence from the Netherlands. He wasn't born into an affluent family in the western sense, but my grandparents were somewhat of a tribal royalty linage and gave my father an Indonesian name to reflect that and if my Indonesian were half as good as it should be, I would name it but sadly, my Indonesian is quite horrible.
Sometime in May, my dad was admitted to the hospital for shortness of breath, but we all soon found out that it was more complicated. He had a build up of liquid in his lungs due to a weakened heart after his quadruple bypass surgery a couple years earlier. The build up of liquid in his lungs caused his breathing troubles and after learning of the problem, he was expected to make a recovery and be out of the hospital in no time. Or so it was thought.
My father in San Francisco. Circa 1979
Around 1979, a year after I was born, my father left for America to look for a place to live while my mother and I stayed back since she was pregnant with my brother and couldn't travel. He had just been hired by the Indonesian government to work in the visa section at the Indonesian Consulate in Los Angeles so he went out to look for a new home until after my brother was born in 1980. I'm not quite sure when exactly we all made the move to America but when we did, we stayed at a number of areas from Monterey Park to Alhambra before finally settling in Korea Town in an apartment on Oxford Ave. which I consider our first real home since it's the most I can vividly remember due in large part because as a kid, I was smart enough (read: dumb) to insert a metal fork into a power outlet and electrocuted myself only to wake up later to a crying mother rubbing what could've been butter on my burned hands and Soul Train being shown on the television. It was also the house in which I accidentally ripped off my brother's big toe nail under a door after one of our many brotherly fights.
My father smiling during his stay at Northridge Hospital. Photo: Myra Djauhari
My father always had a positive outlook, even while at the hospital. During the earlier days of his stay at Northridge Hospital, he had a cheerful attitude about it all. Smiling often and joking around here and there. Along with my brother and sister, we never left him alone at the hospital. We co-ordinated with each other to see who can spend the night with him and who was available during the day to keep him company. I'm not all too sure how exactly my brother and sister handled it. We were all stressed for various reasons. Our mother was on the other side of the world battling cancer and our father was in the hospital. Our parents were fighting for their lives so that took a toll on us. For my father, as long as we had faith in God, everything would be ok in the end.
My father playing tennis in Los Angeles. Circa 1982
Of the many qualities that made up my father, one of the things that stand out to me was his love for the game of tennis. My god did he love that sport and it's interesting to me that he loved it so much. Of all the sports out there, American football, basketball, the world sport that is soccer etc., he fell in with tennis.
In his younger years, I remember him going out often on week nights after work and on weekends to play tennis with his co-workers and friends. He took me and my brother along sometimes and as a young kid, I found the game boring. He tried to get me and my brother into the game, trying to teach us how to play, but I was into baseball at the time and every time I would return a volley, I wound up hitting the ball out of the court like a home run.
Later on, in our adolescent years, my father took us to our first tennis game at what was then the Great Western Forum in Inglewood that featured John McEnroe and (if I remember correctly) Andre Agassi as the main event and two very young Williams sisters as the opening. We had nose bleed seats but it didn't matter to me really. It was my first professional sporting event and watching John McEnroe was a treat. Well, not necessarily watching but hearing his various curses was a joy. There were other matches my father took us on in the years to come and all were fun to watch. Watch the game and watching my father enjoy being there.
He used to always stay up to watch the majors such as the French and Australian Opens along with Wimbledon that air live late at night because of the different time zones. Sometimes I would come home late at night to find him asleep with the television left on on the tennis channel. Tennis was almost a religion to him.
My father in his then office at the Indonesian Consulate General of Los Angeles. Circa 1982
My father had a very strong work ethic. When he didn't have tennis appointments during the weekends, he was in the office. Even if he did have a tennis match during the weekend, he would end up being in the office after the match. Everyone in the office, as far as I can remember, loved my dad because he was easy to get along with and tried to make whatever happen for someone, happen. He made many friends and when a person met my father, it was very likely they ended up being friends. He was well known. A lot of that had to do with him being in the office often and I don't remember him ever once complaining about his job as I quite often hear from other people. Even I express my distaste once in a while.
My dynamic with my father as I was growing up wasn't normal in the sense that a father worked during the weekdays and would do stuff on the weekends with his kids, so I never got to toss around a baseball with him or anything like that. As a matter of fact, I would be at the office with him often. I found his job boring but as a kid, most office jobs come off boring anyway. It helped that the kids of my dad's co-workers were there a lot of the times. In hindsight, I wonder what my childhood would've been like had he spent less time in the office on the weekends and we would do fun activities, but I'm not complaining. I gathered and learned a lot from my father while I spent time with him in the office. He taught me a lot about having mutual respect for people as well as being kind and generous. Some of his work ethic rubbed off on me, but I've relegated to my weekends being open and free. At least to a certain degree.
Sleeping in Northridge Hospital. Photo: Myra Djauhari
His hospital stay was nothing short of a rollercoaster ride for the family. In the early weeks, with information coming slowly and ever changing, we had the idea that my dad would be at the hospital for a short time with an expected quick and full recovery. Initially he went in because he had trouble breathing which we found out was a buildup of liquid in his lungs as I said earlier. As the days progressed, we learned of problem after problem and his stay turned to weeks and we would get some hopeful news here and there, but they would be overshadowed by news of further complications.
During my time in the hospital with him, keeping him company, I experienced his deterioration. At first, he would say some one off weird comment that was outside the conversation we were having which caught me off guard but I didn't think much of it. It got worse the longer in to his hospital stay which worried me. I thought he was experiencing some sort of early on set alzheimer or dementia so I did a bit of research on the topic but from all the reading I've done on it, it didn't add up. Alzheimer's affects a person gradually but what I, and my brother and sister experienced was really sudden and pretty much overnight. Before he went into the hospital, my dad showed no signs of Alzheimer's or dementia so this was something else entirely.
One night after work, I was riding the bus home and browsing Digg and they featured an article in the Atlantic about people suffering from delirium after lengthy stays at the hospital and as I read on, it sounded very much like what my father was probably going through. Hospital delirium, it appears, affects the elderly more so than younger people. The thing that struck out the most about the article is that hospital delirium is a common problem and most hospitals either fail to diagnose it or properly treat those affected by it.
Things started to change for my father during the last weeks of his hospital stay. He slowly started improving and the hospital felt he was well enough to be discharged. His kidneys however failed so he had to go through a weekly schedule of dialysis, but he was finally coming home and he was on his way to recovering.
My father with my sister at the Hadley date farm in Cabezon, Ca. Circa 1991
After having 2 boys, my father always wanted a daughter and on Feb. 23, 1990, he got his wish when my sister, Myra, was born. The last of his children, and the only daughter, she was pretty spoiled. The apple of his eye, he lavished her with gifts during her younger years and they were pretty inseparable as my sister grew into her early adult phase. My father would occasionally stop by her work after his shift was over to see her and catch up on their respective lives.
During his hospital stay, his eyes would light up and his mood would change when my sister stopped by and whenever I would leave, he would always ask "When is Myra coming?" They were both each others' best friends.
My father and I in San Francisco. Circa 1984.
The first couple of days my father was out of the hospital and back home, he seemed to be doing ok. His spirits were up and he was walking around to regain his strength with the aid of a walker. The constant dialysis took a toll on him however and each session took a great deal of energy out of him. Things began to degrade rather quickly for my dad however. He started to become lethargic and it was getting harder for us to get him up during the days he had to go through dialysis which worried us so it was decided that we take him back to the hospital and find out what was going on. This all happened in a couple of weeks' time.
He was re-admitted to Northridge Hospital in mid-June. Prior to him being released the first time, his doctors had advised us that we make appointments to see the doctors at USC Keck Hospital in east Lost Angeles after he had recovered because the doctors there were more specialized in what my dad was dealing with. My father spent one day in Northridge Hospital and was transferred to USC Keck. His situation had become dire.
I spent the better part of the day at the hospital the day he died. My sister stayed with him the night before and both her and my brother had work and was unable to keep him company. The nurses and doctors kept a constant watch on him as he was receiving care there, always stopping by and asking how he was doing. Everything seemed fine to me and nothing alarmed me of what was to come later that day for us all.
Around 7pm, I headed out so I can make my buses and trains home. I felt my dad was in good hands and my brother was set to relieve me. Before making it home, I stopped by my sister's work to grab some dinner. I hadn't eaten much that day. Just lunch from the local food trucks outside of the hospital. She asked me how dad was doing and I informed her about my observations during my stay there. After getting dinner, I went went home and as I got off the bus and started my walk, I get a text from my sister telling me that my brother had texted her saying my dad had stopped breathing and she was getting me an Uber to take me back to the hospital shortly before 10pm.
I arrived at the hospital around 11pm and went into the waiting room to see a doctor talking to my sister and brother, updating my dad's situation. They were able to revive him but he was now on life support. The only thing keeping him alive was a machine and they tried their best to explain to us the situation he was in. It didn't look good as the doctor was telling us what our options were. My sister called upon a friend who happened to be a doctor and was my dad's patient advocate and we all had a chance to talk about it all. They were all pretty much preparing us for what was likely to be my father's final moments.
After the phone talk, my brother, sister and I talked about what we were going to do and it was at this point that we decided to pull the plug. We felt that my dad had gone through enough pain and we were going to let him go. We called our mom in Indonesia to inform her of dad's predicament and explain our decision to her. The plan now was to go into ICU, with our mom on the phone, so we could all say goodbye together as a family. Just as we entered the ICU, the line was disconnected. Hospitals are notorious for having bad cell phone reception and it was hard enough to get our mom on the line.
The three of us walked into his room to see a small group of nurses and doctors working on him and it was the first time I saw him since I left hours ago and in such contrast. It was unnatural; seeing him hooked up to a machine that was forcefully pumping oxygen into his body. The way his chest moved with every pump, and the amount of lines attached to his body; was surreal. I was introduced, intimately, to mortality and knew it was the end for him. I was ready to say my peace and goodbyes.
I don't think my brother was ready to however. We had another brief talk with the doctor and he as he was asking his questions, it felt to me that my brother was looking for a little bit of hope that my dad would pull through. The doctor again tried to answer the best he could as to the what ifs while still trying to relay the message of being realistic. As far as the possible best case scenario the doctor gave us, it was good enough for my brother and the three of us talked about it and it was then decided that we would give my dad another day to see if his situation had improved. My sister wanted to stay the night but it was advised that it would be best for us to just go home as there would be a lot going on in his room. So we gave our respective phone numbers to the doctor in case things went downhill and we went home. We instructed the doctors that if they were losing my dad, not to resuscitate. No CPR, no shock. Just let him go. Before leaving, I spent a few minutes with my father. I didn't say my goodbyes there. There was a good number of nurses still setting up the machines and I don't know what else. I just had a feeling that this may be the last time I'd see him...alive. I just held his arm and hoped for a miracle.
My brother with my father. Los Angeles circa 1982
My brother and I were nearing our home when we received a call around midnight from the doctor asking us if we were still in the parking lot. My father's heart rate was dropping so upon hearing the news, I called my sister and we all went back to the hospital.
There was a bit of construction traffic on the way to the hospital. My sister lives in Burbank so she was the first one on to arrive at the hospital. I expected to still see my father, alive, when we arrived but it would not be the case. He died around 1am on June, 26, just shortly before me and my brother arrived. I cried immediately after seeing his lifeless body. I called our mother after I had time to compose myself to break the news to her. It hurt to hear the sound of her crying. My father never made it to a day.
Death was new to my brother, sister and I. I remember my father informing me of my grandfather's passing years ago when I was still in my teens. The news didn't affect me really. I was growing up in the states and although I met him when I visited Indonesia in the mid-90s, I didn't really know him. My father has just died and what was going on in my mind, and I assume my brother and sister's as well was, what do we do now?
The death of a Muslim is different from someone of a different faith, or lack thereof, but it isn't too dissimilar than the Jewish traditions. Upon the death of someone who is Muslim, burial preparations begin immediately and should happen within a matter of days (or ASAP if I'm not mistaken). Among the thoughts that crossed my mind were where were we going to bury him, when will it take place and how were we all going to go about making this happen?
My father wasn't the most devout Muslim in his younger years. He believed, but he wasn't devout in the sense that he prayed five times a day, every day. There was a change in his religious outlook after he went on a pilgrimage to Mecca with my mom and other family friends, a pilgrimage that every Muslim must go through at least once in their life if they are financially and physically able to. My dad tried to explain the whole pilgrimage experience to me but through his words, it would be best understood if I were to actually go and experience it for myself. I noticed the change immediately when he and my mother came back from Mecca. He started praying more and more often. He didn't turn ultra conservative. My dad had always had a moderate political view. He just became devout.
My brother signed all the necessary paper work at the hospital and we all said our final goodbye; a goodbye we were not able to have while he was still alive. Everything was just sinking in and all I could say was "sorry" to him before finally leaving and tackling the finer details of his burial later on that day.
An unidentified woman with my father and the family's first car. Circa 1984
We got home around 2:30am and I tried to get some sleep before we had to go back to the hospital to figure everything else out but I didn't get much sleep and neither did my brother. Before we knew it, the sun was just breaking, daylight was coming in and we were getting ready to go back to the hospital.
It was 8am when we arrived at the hospital and my aunt was there along with some other people from my parents' congregation. We found out to our amazement that the plans for our father's burial were coming together. The ball was rolling to our relief. These generous people stepped up and took a great deal of load off our shoulders in our time of need. It was a blessing. The only detail that needed to be settled was the location of his burial. The two options were somewhere in Palmdale or the Garden Grove/Westminster location. My mother didn't really care where he was buried so long as it happened quickly and we didn't really care either although I didn't want him to be buried in such a hellish (weather wise) place as Palmdale so it was decided that Garden Grove would be our father's final resting place.
Later that day, me, my sister and my brother had a late breakfast and talked about how this all was playing out. We tied up some loose ends, contacting my dad's friends and people who knew him of his passing along with some other stuff. We were going on 24 hours without sleep at this point and I don't think we had a proper time to mourn as so many things were happening all at once. We did manage some much needed rest when we got home. Later that night, we had to go back to Los Angeles and visit my parents' congregation/mosque to pray for our father and have Iftar with them. It was the holy month of Ramadan and our father is to be buried the following day.
I was really nervous to be a part of this funeral. Before the body could be buried, it must first be washed and cleaned by family members of the same sex as the deceased, as well as chosen friends of the deceased. This was the first Islamic funeral I've ever attended and for it being so close to home, it was really stressful. I took photos during this procedure but I will not post them as they were meant for my mother and sister who could not be a part of that ceremony.
I didn't know what to expect of this, and having little knowledge of this process I was afraid my ignorance would hamper the process. One of the main fears was me crying during the event and had my tears fallen on his body at any point, the body had to be washed again and I didn't want that to happen.
The people that were a part of the process was a representative from the mosque, myself and my brother along with three of my dad's friends who were former co-workers of his. I found the whole process to be an intimate one. I thought this particular event would be where I would most likely break down but surprisingly I didn't and neither did my brother and the others in there. The representative from the mosque did most of the work cleaning and washing my father's body while everyone else helped hold, move and shift the body as the washing progressed. I think what also helped in me not breaking down is that as I helped in the washing of my father's body, I was also taking photos here and there, going into photojournalism mode while trying to respect the decency of my father and the private process. It was interesting as someone going through the studies of photojournalism, to tell the story, all the while I was also a part of the story. Trying to take myself out of it was difficult to put it kindly.
After my father's body was bathed and cleaned, his bare body was wrapped in 3 pieces of pure white cotton, as per Islamic ritual, and some non-alcoholic perfume was placed in strategic parts. The sweet smell of jasmine filled the air which complimented his wrapped body. It was simple; beautiful.
Not long after the process was done, and my father's body was rolled into the viewing area, did I then break down in tears and as I walked around the parking lot tying to regain my composure did I notice that I was not alone as I saw everyone that was a part of that process, my brother along with my dad's friends, break down in tears as well. It was bittersweet. I realized how much my father had an impact on people who were close to him. I wondered how difficult it was for them to hold back their tears during the cleaning ritual.
Before my father's body was transported to his final resting place in a cemetery in Garden Grove, Calif., we all went into the mosque and prayed for my father. Non-mourners, people of the area who frequent the mosque, gave their condolences to us after prayers. That support kept me at ease and comforted me.
Many people showed up to the cemetery that day, far more than what I had imagined to be likely to show up which goes to show how well known, liked and respected my father was.
I wondered why some people who were a part of coordinating my father's burial were pressing for his body to be buried in this particular site. As I was there, a friend of the family had asked me if I remembered this person and when I replied yes, he would point to a grave site and informed me the person's body rests there. He asked me if I remembered a couple of other people and then proceeded to point to their graves. My father was in good company.
Of the entire funeral process, I will say that it was really simple and I can't stress that enough. My father didn't have a casket as seen in other funerals. Some Islamic funerals have caskets but they are really simple. If you were to attend an Islamic funeral and the person's body had a casket, it wouldn't look like much. Probably resembling a couple of pieces of plywood you could buy at home depot made into a simple box. It is nowhere near air tight as the fancier caskets out there and it is so because Islamic burial rituals calls for easily allowing the person's former body to decompose naturally. Back to the Earth and back to dust. The process is also super efficient. It was probably the quickest funeral I ever went to.
My uncle, mother and father along with my sister and I after Eid al-Fitr prayers in Los Angeles, Calif. Date Unknown
My father lived a full life. He was able to raise a family of three kids and did anything and everything to support his family. He died during the holy month of Ramadan which is believed to be a blessing. I'm not all too sure as I'm not knowledgable in those traditions but he was a good person and he believed and practiced Islam the best he could and I believe he is in a better place. Insha'Allah; God willing.
The death of my father shook the family to put it simply. He was the rock; patriarch of the family. We're all trying to pick up the pieces and move on, some better than others, but we're trying. I'm not sure of what the future holds for us all but I'm optimistic, or at least I'm trying to hold on to that view when pessimism can be powerful in such circumstances.
My father's legacy is really us, his children, and there are pieces of him within us three and I see it all the time. There are a few regrets that I do have. I wish my story would've been different, in that by this time, I would have a family, and my father would have experienced having grandchildren. Or maybe my brother or sister. Sadly that is not how our stories panned out.
He taught me a lot about life and many of my character traits and world views are based off of his teaching me. I miss him dearly. Sometimes I find myself getting off the subway station in North Hollywood and expecting to bump into him on his way home from work as what used to happen while he was alive. There are also times when I would come home and expect to see him watching some sort of tennis match on the TV. I guess I'm still getting used to him gone.
For all that he was, and for all that I am, I can only hope to be the man he was.