02/22/2025
From This Moment
In 2002, my family was filled with excitement, preparing for my cousin’s wedding just a week before Christmas. That December, we left our home to stay at the wedding house, living with extended family. It was a beautiful time—laughter filled the air as we painted everything, giving it new life.
In Trinidad, Indian weddings are grand, days-long celebrations. My daddy had been drinking from a week before, fully embracing the festivities with my cousins. By the wedding weekend, he was permanently drunk—there was no time for him to get sober.
We girls were thrilled about dressing up for the events. But on Saturday night, the evening before the wedding, my daddy started feeling chest pains. It had to be serious because he sent me back home to get his heart tablets—the ones he kept under his tongue. I rushed in a panic, retrieved them, and returned as fast as I could. He took one, then continued partying as if nothing had happened.
I spent the night dodging him, embarrassed by how loud and drunk he was. But at one point, I heard his voice from a distance, calling out for a dance with me. Reluctantly, I made my way to the stage, and he held me in his arms. We danced slowly, my head bent in quiet shame, as From This Moment On played in the background. Whew—thank God that was over.
The next day, the wedding ceremony unfolded, but my dad was what I considered stone drunk. He could barely stand, talk, or celebrate. Most of the day, he sat in front of the wedding mandap, slumped forward, hand on his chest. In the wedding video, that’s how he appeared—frozen in time, a man weighed down by something deeper than alcohol.
As my cousin was about to leave her parents’ home with her new husband, I remember my dad sitting by the entrance, mumbling, “I have to see my big daughter leave.”
That might have been the moment he left, too.
He went home with my mom that night. The next day, she called to say he wasn’t feeling well—pacing up and down in pain. He eventually came to see us, and my sisters and I surrounded him, massaging his back as he winced from the discomfort. That night, my cousins took him to the hospital. The last time I saw him, he was holding his heart with one hand and waving with the other.
A rock hit my heart.
The following night, he died at Sangre Grande Hospital from a massive heart attack.
Our world as teenagers shattered. From that moment until now, my life has been about survival. Alcohol has never brought me good memories—it triggers me. The smell, the presence of it, the way it takes over. To each their own; I do drink occasionally, but it’s not for everyone.
As the years passed, I told myself that my dad’s death was selfish. He knew he was diabetic. He knew he had a heart attack in his early 40s. And yet, he never changed his diet and lifestyle. Where was the consideration for us? For our future? I was angry for a long time. Did he even care?
Life has thrown so much at us—still does. And now, in my toughest phase as a single mama, I hold on to the one thing that keeps me going: faith.
There is nothing God will put you through without putting the strength in you.
Here I am diabetic, and still not committing to a healthier diet. I’m on and off,,,,,,playing with my health. Would my young children, have to say the same about me? Am I slowly committing su***de by my inactivity, and consumption of sugar? 🤔🤔🤔 He was only 50….
Don’t listen to what they say ...come see
