Condolences for your loss, MIG.
Having been an expatriate for much of my life, the prospect of the dreaded late night phone call is always, always on the back of the mind. It has happened to me on a few occasions, and deep in my heart of hearts, I know there is more on the way, what with the Pakistani propensity of people passing away suddenly because of heart attacks once they reach a certain age, an age which by Western standards is relatively young. And now that I have many relatives, including parents, in-laws, aunts and uncles at that age, there's that perennial sinking feeling, the foreboding, the sense of impending doom.
It has got so acute that every time the phone buzzes, an entire wave of emotions overwhelm you. And it need not be late at night, it can be at any time of the day. Who is it this time? Please, God Almighty, let it not be someone too close. If it is someone in the inner circle, at least spare my parents, just this once. Is my passport valid? There are going to be flights to book, bags to pack, condolence calls to be made... and then the call, text or email turns out to be totally mundane, and I live on to fight until the next call, text or email...
Such is the curse of the expatriate and the first-generation immigrant. It is traumatic, and going to bed each night is an ordeal, because one dreads that call so much, one ends up dreaming about it every so often, and then the belief system that emphasizes dream interpretations takes over: was it really just a case of me dreaming about what I think about during the day, or was it a premonition, a divine hint of an impending calamity? Aren't we occasionally given glimpses of the future in our dreams? What if this is one of those instances? What do the next few days hold?
Looming above this entire inner dialogue is the sinking feeling that the worst is bound to happen. It may not happen today, but it will eventually. Every son knows, deep down, that he will have to bury his parents one day. The realization dawns on us soon after we mature. However, the expat/immigrant may not be there to sprinkle his fistful of earth onto the grave, to not be there to be in the first row of the funeral prayer, and perhaps that is a prospect worse that we dread more than the actual demise.
