“Where was my father when he was alive? He was in my consciousness. Where was my relationship with him when he was alive in the physical body? The love that I felt, the connection, the bond, were all in my consciousness. Where is he now? In my consciousness.”
— Deepak Chopra
I often wondered what it would feel like to find out my father is dead. I often wondered if I would even be notified.
The illegitimate daughter of a Catholic novice and a married man with infertility problems—a not-so-immaculate conception—I was on the one hand considered a miracle of life, and on the other, a natural disaster that dramatically changed everything and awakened insecurity all around.
Recognizing me as his only biological child, my father claimed me, gave me his father’s last name, and registered my birth. A threat to the status quo, to public image, to social standing, to the line of succession, my existence was to be kept a secret and the paternal link decidedly publicly denied. My relationship with my father was clandestine at best—a passionate, illicit father-daughter love laden with longing, an impossible, poetic, existential love rich with philosophy, art, beauty, and creativity.
About nine months ago, I started having recurring farewell dreams of my father, with infinite hugs and gestures of closure to different aspects of the relationship we had shared. I felt an overpowering urge to get in touch with him more directly. Despite my letters and messages, there had been less and less communications from him in response. This, I knew, was because of his body’s condition, but it was no longer acceptable to play along with the long-distance murmur that became an involuntary silence. I insisted with my letters and reports, and, finally, three months ago, he was given access to a smartphone.
The erratic phone calls, video calls, and one-letter texts started coming in and became a regular occurrence. It didn’t matter if any of it made sense; we were finally in communication together. I could send him a heart or an image of a sunset and I could see that he received them. Even though I keep my smartphone silenced at all times, somehow, as the calls from my father came in, I coincidentally looked over at my phone and saw them so I could respond. We were talking about me coming to visit him as soon as I came back from vacation, mid-May.
The father dreams continued, and a general theme of preparing for dying and death permeated my life. Preparing for dying and death is part of my daily practices, but this was different. It felt like every moment was an opportunity to say goodbye to something or someone, even to memories and to the feelings associated with them. For the first time I was compelled to identify a beneficiary, define a healthcare agent and executor of estate. Grief and the sharp anticipation of great loss was the mood of my days and nights to the point that I thought perhaps I really was dying.
While on vacation in Puerto Escondido, on May 3rd I had a dream I titled “Liberating My Father.” In the dream I am teaching a death doula training and discover my father is trapped in a secret room upstairs. I search for the secret door while I ask someone to keep guard for me. I have to confront his captor before I can set him free, which I do successfully, and he then joyfully declares his life and legacy are now in order and he is able to go. That same night, another dream I titled “Signs, Gestures, and Codes,” prompts me to pay attention and learn the signs and gestures and codes so I can understand the way my father communicates with me.
Eleven days after these dreams, I very last-minute decided to join my partner and drive instead of fly home after a three-week vacation. Upon arrival at the first stop, San José del Pacífico, a bee came into the car and hovered on my right side. I gently let it out the window. The next day, May 15th, we very last-minute decided to make another stop, Ciudad de Oaxaca, a place that, as it turns out, looks and feels very much like mi Viejo San Juan de Puerto Rico, where my father and I used to rendezvous whenever we got together.
Around sunset in Oaxaca City, as my partner and I strolled down the pedestrian walk, reminiscing about Puerto Rico, I was conquered by an incapacity to move. A sharp pain shot up from my feet to the middle of my chest, and as I struggled to make sense of what was happening, a bee came and hovered by the right side of my face, as if stroking my cheek. As abruptly as the sensation came, it went, the bee flew off, and I was able to walk normally on our evening quest to find a restaurant for dinner.
We found the perfect place, the perfect table, and we sat down. Before the menu came, I had this unlikely thought: I would really like to have a cold beer. I haven’t had a beer in over 12 years, and I was never a fan of it. But this night the idea of a beer was very appealing, so I indulged, and we cheered to our most lovely impromptu adventure.
Our dinner was served as lightning flashed the darkening sky and winds grew robust. Within minutes a hard rain drowned out the background music, and the patio roofs were closed around a center tree. Everything about the scene encouraged presence, connection, and a deep intimacy. Conversation was rich and emotive that evening, our hearts full of love, awe, appreciation, and gratitude.
Rain stopped, and we were ready to wrap up the night. My partner got up to use the restroom and I looked at my phone to check the time.
22:39.
Within seconds, I see a call come in. I don’t have my glasses on, so for a moment I cannot tell if it is William Roig or Wilma Roig calling me. It is Wilma, my half-sister, who is 12 years younger than me.
Time warps as I put two and two together: my father loved a cold beer with his meal, Oaxaca City was his favorite place in México, it wasn’t meant for me to be the one by his side near the end of his life, and there is only one reason why my sister would be calling me at 23:39 hours, Puerto Rico time.
So, what does it feel like to have found out my father is dead?
We have all been fathered, so none of us is truly fatherless, regardless of circumstance. What does it mean to have lived a life with very little of my father’s physical presence or support? To have lived intense, sporadic moments of connection with the man who contributed his seed toward the conception of this life form and existence? To have only longed to be in each other’s presence and be allowed to bask in the glow of father-daughter recognition? What does it mean to have so often smelled his Old-Spice-body-odor-breath scent even when 2,250 miles away?
On our way to the last stop, Puebla, before heading home, we drove through majestic, unpopulated and undeveloped mountains. For several hours all we saw and smelled and felt was the pure magnificence of raw nature. It was a perfect reflection of the vastness I felt in my heart.
We arrived home with only minutes before I had to get to work. I rushed to the computer to set up for Death Café, and a bee waited for me, to the right side, at my desk.
My father was not physically there most of my life, but he was always there; he is no longer here, but he is still here. Even 25 days after his death, I am getting wafts of his scent.
In memory of William M. Roig Rivera
January 31, 1933 – May 15, 2021
Explore the transpersonal dimensions of
loss, dying, grief, and life after death.
The DREAMS, DEATH, + LIFE AFTER DEATH workshops resume
Friday, June 25th.
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