Dad, I Promise It Was All Worth It

An Immigrants Who Impact Story

On September 13, 2023, my world came crashing down.

Everything I ever knew about myself, my family, my present, and my future disappeared in a matter of moments.

The night before, I found myself tossing and turning, knowing in my gut that something wasn’t right.

September 13, 2023 was the worst day of our lives. The day everything changed.

My parents were in India for my paternal grandmother’s (Dadi's) funeral. My dad had become so weak and sick that he couldn’t help carry his mother’s casket. He felt like he failed her, unable to fulfill his final duty as the eldest son. And he was robbed of the peace that so many get — myself included — by performing the rituals of spreading a loved one’s ashes in the Ganga River.

At that point, we knew something was seriously wrong. We just weren’t sure what.

My dad had lost the ability to swallow, he wasn’t able to think or talk much, the left side of his face was drooping, and we later found out from his office staff that he had lost some control of his bodily functions well before we knew it was happening. He had gone to so many doctors for so many months and no one could figure out what was happening. The general consensus after all the tests was that he had Long Covid and he just had to wait it out.

My brother and I had seen the symptoms a month earlier when our parents came to visit us in New York. By the time they were set to fly back home to California, it was clear that he was deteriorating rapidly and things were only getting worse, not better. We saw some signs that made us wonder if he had a stroke and decided they would get an MRI the second they landed back home.

But in a cruel twist of fate, his mom passed away right as they got back from New York. My parents quickly packed up and got on the first plane out to India, leaving the idea of the MRI behind.

But my dad kept getting worse. And we desperately needed answers.

Since my parents were forced to stay behind while the rest of the family traveled to Haridwar, they took this opportunity to travel to a nearby city where they could get the MRI done.

We were preparing ourselves for the worst (or what we thought was the worst) and praying for the best. We talked about a stroke recovery plan and what he would have to change. About how we would start treatment right when they got back.

We were not even close to prepared for the news we got or what lay ahead.

The MRI showed something worse than we could have ever imagined. Much worse than the scenarios my anxiety was conjuring as I tossed and turned.

The brain scans revealed that my dad had a large, cancerous tumor growing in all parts of his brain, including in his brain stem, which made it inoperable. The official diagnosis was high-grade glioblastoma, an aggressive and fatal stage-4 brain cancer with no cure — and he only had 3 months left to live.

3 months.

91 days.

2,190 minutes.

That's all he had left on this earth. In this life. With us.

Turns out one moment can shatter just about everything you thought you knew.

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The next 8 months that he lived, we watched our dad rapidly decline and quickly fade away. We lost him day by day, moment by moment, breath by breath.

Picking him up from the airport after returning from India, we saw our strong-willed, passionate and lively father being rolled out in a wheelchair for the first time, frail and losing the use of his limbs by the minute. I spent 8 months watching his movements to prevent further pain and checking his breathing every time he slept to make sure this wasn’t going to be the moment I was dreading.

My dad was always the pillar of strength in our family and our guiding light in life. I called him my moral compass and would go to him whenever I was overwhelmed because, curled up in his arms, I knew everything was going to be okay.

And yet here he was, barely able to talk (he always had an opinion on everything), crouched over in a wheelchair (he always stood tall with a commanding presence), unable to even carry his bag (he always took pride in helping with everything) and visibly afraid and heartbroken for the first time in our lives.

When someone you love has as severe of an illness as this, you lose them while they're still alive. You have to grieve them while they sit right in front of you.

Many people tell you that when someone you love gets sick, you need to talk to them a lot. Get stories. Record voice notes. Have them write letters to your future kids that they'll never meet. But my dad couldn't do that. He could barely process and formulate coherent thoughts. We cherished the few moments we did see glimpses of him, but we spent most of the 8 months just making sure he was comfortable enough to live another day.

There was, however, an exception, one that I am so grateful for. Even though he couldn't process or say too much, it was like his guards were gone. The armor and towering walls he built up throughout life to protect himself were fading away. And I got to take a small glimpse inside.

When confronted with the immediacy and finality of death — especially in this way — he found himself reflecting on his life and all the choices he had made. I wanted to share in this reflection and better understand as much of my dad as I could before I lost him for good.

So I came up with a plan.

An important thing to know about my dad is that he was unapologetically himself and worked hard to chart his own path. He became a doctor because that was what was expected of him, but he was an entrepreneur at heart. Something I admired about him was that he always found a way to create something for himself and solve new problems, breaking free of the expectations put on him. He spent 17 years painstakingly building his own internal medicine practice from the ground up and finding ways to innovate his approach to medicine and helping others with their long-term health. Most recently, he saw how problematic the weight loss industry had become and how people were using unhealthy metrics and methods to lose weight, so he learned all he could and became medically certified in weight loss management, supporting people who needed to lose weight for medical reasons in a way that was healthy and sustainable. His perspective and ground-breaking approach to work and life gave me permission to chart my own path, just as he did.

When he got sick, he had to give up his practice and was so upset that he was forced to retire and give up what he had worked so hard to build. So, he went searching for new things that he could do in his current state. He decided that it was time for him to write a book. He “knew too much” and felt that was an important story to tell.

My dad had always loved my writing and wanted me to write a book, so when he got sick, he decided I had to write his book with him. What better time than now?

So we began brainstorming. Somewhere in my Google Drive I have our book outline. In it, I see his responses from when I asked about how he was feeling in this impossible moment, how he sees the time he has left and so much more — all under the guise of getting more information for his book.

At one point, he told me he wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of this.

My dad was fiercely independent and extremely proud. He worked so hard to create a beautiful life for us, moving to another country, starting with nothing and creating something that gave us the chance to thrive. And he had just started to actually enjoy his life and reap the fruits of his labor when he suddenly became dependent and unable to support himself, let alone enjoy his life. It all got taken away in a single moment.

One of his biggest reflections was something I had heard from my parents before — wondering whether their immigration story had been worth it. They always felt so much guilt for moving away from their family and everything they knew.

Losing his mom when he was an ocean away and facing his mortality led him to ponder this question again — was his sacrifice worth it? Did he make the right choice?

My dad grew up in Barnala, a smaller, less progressive part of Punjab. His original vision for his life was always to stay there for the rest of his days and care for his parents. He wanted anyone that my Dadi proposed he marry to know that this was the future he wanted and he would only meet with them if they were aligned with that vision. He wasn’t here to waste anyone’s time.

When my maternal grandfather (Nana) brought this to my mom, he expressed significant concern. He worried that his daughter wouldn’t be able to maintain her independence, career and sense of self in this version of her future. But my mom saw this as a beautiful gesture, that my dad was honest about what he wanted and he loved his parents so deeply that he wanted to care for them. So she said yes (and my dad and Nana quickly became best friends).

What my Nana was concerned about was my mom being held back and being put in a box, especially after he worked hard to raise a strong and independent daughter in a world that didn’t want her to be. At that time in Barnala, women didn’t have much control over their own lives. They were expected to take on traditional gender roles, leave their families behind to care for their inlaws and fulfill the obligations that were presented to them as wives and then eventually mothers.

Daughters and daughter-in-laws weren’t celebrated and empowered. For example, my Dadi wasn’t thrilled when I, her first grandchild, came along and turned out to be a girl.

People at that time couldn’t see past their small town in Punjab, their worldview tainted by centuries of tradition. My Nana feared my mom would be left with the same fate. She worked so hard to build her career — what would happen if she got stuck in the past?

But life had other plans for them.

My parents found themselves facing violence in Barnala with their one-year-old’s life at risk. In 1994, they moved to Toledo, Ohio, in search of safety and a better life for their daughter. So they packed what little they had and found a path to America.

They had to rebuild their careers one at a time because they couldn’t afford to be in residency again simultaneously. They fought and clawed their way to build a new life in an unfamiliar place that didn’t always want them.

I once asked my dad why he didn’t move to another part of India and decided to move all the way across the world instead. He told me that if he couldn’t be with his parents and care for them, he was determined to give his children something more than he had.

My dad had never even been to the US until he married my mom. They took a trip visiting her family abroad and it opened up his world. He saw the possibilities of a different life — how her uncles had built something beautiful and larger than he could have ever imagined. And he wanted that for his daughter.

This is why I am so grateful for their sacrifice and unequivocally believe it was worth it.

Because they came here, I get to be messy and complicated. I get to make mistakes, try new things, see the world and figure out who I am — on my own terms. I get to be independent and ambitious as a woman and build a career and dream up a life and want more for myself and my future.

Because of what they did, I get to be so much more than a wife or mother. I get to be me — whatever I decide that means. Who knows what I would have been if they hadn’t come here.

The second we got the news, I knew I had to tell my dad all of this. Before it was too late.

I wrote him a letter and sent a photo of it via WhatsApp before they even left the house in Barnala. In my moments of panic, I frankly wasn’t sure if he would survive the arduous journey home, and I wasn’t sure I would ever see my dad again.

Before we did anything else, I needed him to know how I felt. I needed him to understand how his life did have meaning and how the way he lived gave mine meaning as well.

It felt impossible to put into words a lifetime of gratitude and the overwhelming swirl of emotions I was feeling in that moment. But in this rawest, stripped down, emotionally bare place, I wrote him this:

“I know that especially lately you’ve been wondering if moving to America was a mistake. I just want to tell you it truly has been a gift. Your incredible sacrifice allowed me to be my big, larger-than-life self, find meaning in my life and my work, figure out how to love myself and others. There’s this saying I’ve been thinking about a lot with Dadi’s passing ‘I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams’ The thing is — I think I’m beyond what Dadi could have ever imagined. And that is all because of you.”

I spoke to my mom about this after I told her I was writing this piece. I told her about the book and how he opened up to me in those moments. She was surprised because that was unlike him — and was also so grateful he did. She told me that the day I got my job at the White House was the first (and potentially only) time that they felt that leaving home — and everything they endured to get here — might have finally been worth it.

It felt worth it because their daughter got to do something beyond their wildest dreams. She got to find her passion, create a meaningful career and try to change the world.

I know so many of us reflect on our parents’ immigration stories with immense appreciation for what they did — and deep pain for what they had to endure.

As we near the anniversary of dad’s passing, I find myself sitting in this gratitude alongside my grief. His immigration story — the fight, the sacrifice, the sheer force of will — made my life and my story possible.

When my dad got sick, my parents told my brother and I that my dad may not have a long life ahead of him anymore, but my brother and I do. And that we need to live it to the fullest. Because you never know when you’ll run out of time.

I hope that wherever you are dad, you know that your sacrifice was worth it. And I promise you — I won’t just survive in this world, I will find a way to live. I love you forever.

Garima Verma