Fulfilling a Father's Dying Wish

BY KCY

“I want you to do something for me,“ my father said one day as we rode in his electric golf cart through the hot Arizona sun. 

We were driving back from the gym on the retirement community he lived in.  It had been a hot and dry day, so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. 

“What is it, Dad?” I asked.

“This is very important,” he said, “I need you to find someone for me and help him.”

His words shocked me.  My dad had never once asked me for help in my life.  Even with his present circumstances.  He had been diagnosed with an incurable brain tumor in February and had been given six months to live.  The doctor had called me, telling me, that my father had wanted to battle this demon himself but the doctor had urged him to call someone and it had been me.  My parents were divorced and my sister and father were estranged.  He had emigrated from Turkey and had distanced himself from this family as well.  He was alone and had been for many years.  Although he had a magnetic personality, drawing even the most crotchety person to him, he kept more unpleasant and serious matters locked up inside. 

Throughout the surgeries, the radiation therapy sessions, his attempt at chemotherapy, the headaches, pain, nausea, my father had never complained once or asked me for anything.  Sure, he knew he was a dying man, but he had never acted like one.  No last wishes.  No last minute trips.  No experiences to check off on a bucket list.  Just a quiet life in his house, tending to his garden.

So, my ears perked up when he uttered those words “do something for me.”

“Anything, Dad,” I said, “anything at all.  Who is it?”

“Typhoon.  I need you to help Typhoon.  He is the son of my sister.  He is a very good person.  You need to find him.  Do whatever you can to help him when I am gone.”  He paused, driving the cart.  “Bump,” he said, as we rolled over a speed bump on the road.

Typhoon?  Like a storm?  I didn’t know what to think.  Was he a real person?  Who named a person typhoon?  I wasn’t sure if my father was thinking clearly.  After all, he had had brain surgery just four months earlier.  I was also used to my father telling unbelievable, magical stories.  Extraordinary tales of adventures in which he always emerged the hero.  Could this be truth?

“Sure, Dad.  I will do my best to find him,” I said.  Because, after all, this was what you said to a dying man.

“Thank you.  I knew I could count on you,” he murmured quietly. 

My father had died about one year later.  He had never spoken to me about this matter again. 

Three years after he died, on a night of reflection of self-discovery, I booked a 14-day trip to Turkey on a whim.  Even though it had been three years, I still grieved for my father.  Still felt a sense of storminess inside myself. 

I wondered if I should attempt to contact family in Turkey.  I had been to Turkey once before but had never attempted to actually find anyone in Turkey.  But perhaps it was time.

A person named Engin had commented on an obituary I had posted online about my father.  I had done a social media search and found a profile, matching this name and messaged him.  A few hours later, a message popped up in broken English: “Yes, I am your cousin.  I would love to meet in Turkey.  I will have our cousin Ipek come meet you when you are in Istanbul.”

My sister and I talked excitedly about this.  When we landed in Turkey, we called Ipek as Engin had instructed us.  Yes, she could meet us and she was bringing her father.

We went to the meeting point that night.

“Hello, I am Ipek,” a young woman said.  An older man stepped out of the shadows. 

“May I introduce you to my father, Tayfun?”

What? For real? 

“I am Tayfun,” he said in broken English.  He said something in Turkish and Ipek translated.

“He says he loved your father very much.  Felt like he was like a brother.  He was always smiling and helping.  We miss him here very much,” she said.

It was a magical night spent sharing.  I was able to glimpse into my father’s life in Turkey, something he had never shared with me.  In return, I shared details of my father’s life in America.  Who knew that a “Typhoon” could bring peace to a daughter so that she could fulfill a father’s dying wish?