Between Pain and Pages: A Daughter’s Journey of Healing Through Writing | Disha

Abstract

“Between Pain and Pages: A Daughter’s Journey of Healing Through Writing” is a deeply personal essay that chronicles my emotional journey following my father’s diagnosis and eventual passing from esophageal cancer. The essay explores the profound shock of witnessing a strong, protective figure fall victim to illness, and the emotional toll of assuming new family responsibilities. Faced with overwhelming grief and uncertainty, I turned to writing—not as an academic pursuit, but as a means of survival. What began as an outlet for processing pain evolved into a lifeline, allowing me to channel my emotions and maintain a connection to my father’s memory. In an eight-month period, I produced numerous articles and academic works, each one becoming a reflection of my grief, my love for my father, and my struggle to find clarity in a world turned upside down. Through this essay, I aim to explore how writing can serve as a powerful tool for healing, a way to cope with unimaginable loss, and a means of keeping a loved one’s legacy alive. I hope this piece resonates with readers who have faced similar challenges and highlights the transformative power of words during times of personal crisis.

Introduction

As I reflect on December 2023, that was the month everything I knew started going in a downward spiral. The information about my father’s diagnosis with esophageal cancer hit our family like a wrecking ball. World turned upside down for our family. It was a rare, grim moment that blurred the boundary between reality and imagination. I have always lived in my parent’s protective bubble all my life, and the adversities of the world were kept away from me by my father’s love and care. But then cancer came and pulled me out of that shield and brought a reality that I have done all I can to escape for some time. Writing, which had always been a small part of my academic life, became a lifeline during this period—an unexpected escape that carried me through the darkest of days.

The Shock of Diagnosis

I do not have any siblings, and until a certain age, I was more or less coddled. My father, the quintessential “male” figure in our traditional Indian household, had always been the cornerstone of our family. He was the one who took care of everything, from paying bills to taking us to the doctor. He never made me take up routine tasks, even going to the kirana shop. It was like certain aspects of life such as maturity were stunted in me in certain ways because my father was always around and I never had to learn those skills.

His diagnosis shattered that shelter. Esophageal cancer, an aggressive and unforgiving disease, was not something we saw coming. He had always been a great provider, dependable. The one who organized everything. But suddenly, roles were reversed. I found myself grappling with not just my father’s illness, but also the overwhelming need to step up in ways I had never imagined. It was both a terrifying and liberating moment, forcing me to engage with the world outside my bubble.

Writing as a Lifeline

When the diagnosis first came, I found myself lost. I am not someone who expresses emotions easily; in fact, I tend to cry more than speak. But once the tears dried, what was left? How does one process such grief and uncertainty? That’s when writing became my solace. I had not done much writing during the first two and a half years of my Ph.D. research. Most of my writing had been confined to the thesis, and I never imagined that writing could be anything more than an academic exercise.

But at the time my father got sick, writing changed in the ways that it had never changed before and would never change again. It was no longer about writing or scholarship. It became my way of making sense of the world that was crumbling around me. I was also taken out of my comfort zone but in a different way, both in my life and my writing. Words were spilling in a manner that had never happened previously. In the span of eight months, I published over eight articles in Mainstream Weekly, a piece in Economic & Political Weekly (EPW), one article in a UGC CARE Listed Journal, three articles in peer-reviewed journals, book chapters in six edited volumes, and more upcoming writings. I wasn’t trying to make a name for myself or build an academic portfolio. I was simply writing to survive.

I am not a prolific scholar, nor am I someone who prides themselves on the quality of their work. But I am proud of the process that has allowed me to create. The writing wasn’t perfect, but it was raw, honest, and necessary. Every piece I wrote during that time became a reflection of the emotional turbulence I was experiencing. It was as if I was pouring all my fears, grief, and confusion into those words, and in doing so, I found a semblance of peace.

Watching Him Fight, Watching Him Decline

The emotional processes that accompany a diagnosis of cancer are the type of things one cannot conceive of unless having been through it. At first, we were hopeful. My father went through therapy, and for a while, it looked like things were getting better. Hope was not lost, and we thought that maybe this horror would be over after all. But then, the cancer escalated to metastatic esophageal cancer, spreading its roots deep into his body.

In those last two months, my father became bedridden, and the reality of what we were facing became impossible to ignore. It was devastating to see the person who had always been the pillar of the family barely manage to stand on his two feet. There were visits to the ICU, moments when we thought we were losing him, followed by brief recoveries that only extended the inevitable. During those times, writing was the only thing that kept me grounded.

I haven’t cried much since his passing, but I remember crying the most when we discovered the metastasis and during those final ICU visits. In a strange way, I was surprised that when I began to ponder over him, I was flooded with more and more thoughts on how to write interesting papers and articles. Writing became a bridge between me and my father. Even in his absence, he continues to inspire me. He has made me who I am today, and I owe every ounce of my success to him. A part of him lives inside my brain and this bodiless existence drives me to achieve more each day. Every time I sit down to write, I feel as though I am honoring his legacy, making him proud.

Navigating Grief and Purpose

The hardest part of grief is not the tears you shed, but what comes after. The after is where I found myself lost. My father was no longer there to guide me, and in his absence, I had to learn how to navigate life on my own terms. But more than that, I had to learn how to navigate my grief. I don’t know if I have done a good job at either, but writing has certainly helped me cope.

Every time I write, I feel as though I am talking to my father. I like to believe that, somewhere, he is reading every word I write. It may sound strange coming from an atheist, but I hope that there is a heaven where my father is finally free of the pain he endured in his last eight months. I like to imagine him watching over me, no longer suffering, and perhaps even smiling at the way I have chosen to keep him alive through my work.

Looking Forward

I have no idea where my academic journey will take me from here. But I know that writing will always be my way out, my place of comfort and the one in which I will always hold my father’s memory close to my heart. His absence is felt deeply in every aspect of my life, yet it is his absence that motivates me to keep pushing forward.

In many ways, writing has been the one constant in this period of upheaval. It has allowed me to process the unimaginable and find a sense of purpose in the midst of my grief. While my father is no longer here, I feel as though he lives on in the words I write, the ideas I explore, and the questions I continue to ask. And perhaps that is how I will continue to cope, by writing through the pain, the confusion, and the loss, until one day, it feels a little less overwhelming.

For now, I will keep writing, for him, for myself, and for the possibility that someday, somewhere, he will be proud.

(Author: Disha, Ph.D. Scholar, Senior Research Fellow, Dr. K. R. Narayanan Centre for Dalit and Minorities Studies, Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi, India)