Editorial Assistant Michael Yvon Robichaud's Interview with Nancy Hui Sulaiman whose story "The Impact of a Father’s Terminal Cancer Diagnosis" was published in Issue 304 (Summer Creative Nonfiction 2025)
Michael Yvon Robichaud: Your piece "The Impact of a Father’s Terminal Cancer Diagnosis" presents itself in the form of a research paper but moves with the emotional resonance of personal narrative. What drew you to this hybrid structure — part essay, part inquiry, part field report — and what did it allow you to express that a traditional form might not have?
Nancy Hui Sulaiman: I came to this hybrid structure quite by accident. I had written a rough draft attempting a triptych structure, with the idea of using three sections to show the before, during, and after periods of my relationship to grief. Finding a title eluded me. One day, I decided to do some online research about grief. It was then that I came across the title of a research paper, which became the inspiration for the title of my draft. Interestingly, from that rough draft, it was the title itself that held the most energy and spark. And so, I decided to lean into that and follow the format of a research paper, and I was surprised by the results. The constraints of the research paper proved very helpful by providing clear boundaries to safely explore what it was I was trying to do. As well, the objective third-person POV gave me some psychic distance on what I had been experiencing. Additionally, the distance created by the vocabulary and tone of a research paper reflected the problem I had in trying to articulate my grief, to find the right words, which, in turn, reminded me of the medical terminology used to describe my dad’s worsening condition, and the way clinical words were used to name some of the very scary things that were happening. Perhaps, what this hybrid structure allowed me to do was to show why I felt so confused. By using the style and language of a research paper and placing within it my raw and messy journal entries, I found a way to show myself why my grieving was so difficult. When we are grieving, we are asked to walk in two worlds at the same time. The journal entries show the foot that walks in the lonely wilderness of grief, and the research paper sections show the other foot that walks in the oblivious and unaffected world of daily living.
MYR: The piece shows how grief doesn’t unfold cleanly — it’s scattered, inconsistent, sometimes paralyzing. You even include moments of avoidance and frustration in your writing process. Why was it important to include those less tidy parts of grieving?
NHS: I think we live in a world that doesn’t see the value in the less tidy parts of life. Before my father’s death, I would have firmly put myself in that camp. As a rule, I don’t function well when there is mess and disorder in my surroundings. So, I have a strong inclination to being orderly and tidy about anything I do. I’m a fan of anything that has a step-by-step process. And tracking my process in anything I do, by increments or milestones, feels very satisfying to me. Writing has certainly challenged me in this regard, and, certainly, processing my grief over my father’s death even more so. I remember buying books on the topic, listening to podcasts, and reading articles, all in a vain attempt to try to figure out how to grieve. The anticipatory grief of waiting for a loved one to die is a completely destabilizing state of being. The way I kept my head above water during that time was to surrender to the messy parts, only doing one small, tiny task, one after another. It was important for me to include the less tidy parts of grieving because it’s not often discussed. Grief, in general, isn’t talked about enough. But we need to talk about it — and to talk about it with honesty, too. Writing this essay was an honest way for me to talk about it with myself. And acknowledging the avoidance and frustration was part of that. Living through the less tidy parts was part of the process. To expect to not feel unmoored or untethered was unrealistic, to say the least. And, I now better understand how it’s even necessary.
MYR: There’s a quiet clarity in the way you notice small moments — a flutter of birds, the breath moving in a resting yoga pose — that seems to carry as much weight as the larger events. Is that kind of close attention part of how you tend to write, or did this piece ask something different of you?
NHS: My goal has always been to pay close attention when I’m in the act of writing. That’s the goal, but it’s not always the case, of course. During the time of watching my dad’s condition slowly deteriorate, day by day, the pace of life seemed to slow down. And with that slower pace came the opportunity for moments of silence and stillness, where I could notice those small moments with more clarity and gratitude than I did before. I’ve tried to hold onto that kind of noticing since my dad died. Seeing birds in flight, for instance, has taken on a new level of meaning for me. I almost always see it as a miracle or blessing of some kind. When a bird flies by within my line of sight now, my body pays attention in a completely different way. It feels like a message from “the other side,” and even though I am aware that this is the meaning I have placed upon it, I still take comfort from it. I allow myself that comfort, and that’s one way I’ve found grace in grieving my dad’s death.
MYR: The piece wrestles with how hard it is to speak about grief — how language can falter or feel inadequate. Did that sense of limitation affect how you approached telling this story?
NHS: Absolutely. It is the whole impetus for why I wrote this piece.
MYR: Late in the piece, you suggest that there’s no single path through grief — only what you call “my own unique, fumbling, bumping-into-things, grasping kind of way.” What’s it been like to share that process publicly, knowing that others might be looking for direction in their own grief?
NHS: I do feel vulnerable in sharing this piece, but I also hope that by sharing it, someone who is feeling isolated in their grief might find some comfort in reading about another’s similar experience. Grief is a confusing and solitary journey. And, for me, ultimately, it has been an inside, one-person job. I don’t know if it has to be that way. I just know that’s the way it has been for me. And, if, by sharing that, a reader feels less lost and alone, then that is certainly a worthy enough reason for me to put it out into the world. And, strangely, just now, by imagining that reader, I also feel less alone.
NHS: Thank you for these questions that allowed me to more deeply reflect on this piece. I would also like to express my gratitude to Creative Nonfiction Editor Rowan McCandless, who selected this piece and who, with her gentle wisdom, guided me to its final draft.
Nancy Hui Sulaiman is a Chinese-Canadian writer living in Ontario. She writes short stories, CNF, and is working on a novel. Her work was shortlisted for the 2022 CBC Short Story Prize and was a runner-up in the 2020 Little Bird Contest.
You can read Nancy Hui Sulaiman's story "The Impact of a Father’s Terminal Cancer Diagnosis" in Issue 304 (Summer Creative Nonfiction 2025). Order the issue now:
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