The day before my dad passed, he was unusually calm in the morning.
We convinced my mom that, after a few exhausting days in the hospital, this was the time to go home and refresh, take a shower.
"Ok, but just make sure he's still with us until I come back," she demanded in my ear before she left.
Like clockwork, as soon as my mom left, my dad woke up, struggling so hard to breathe.
I was sure these were his last breaths.
I held his hand and kept pleading, looking into his murky eyes: "Stay with me Baba!"
As I was saying those words, it suddenly dawned on me: This was NOT my mom's moment; or my moment.
This was my dad's moment.
"It's OK Baba," I switched into saying. "It's OK Baba," I kept repeating.
Those 40 minutes were the heaviest moments of my life.
But I'm glad I was present with my dad, in his moment.
