His face on the pillow, in the dim light wrote mourning to me, black and white, i saw him struggle, stiffen, and relaxed too; the face fell empty, dead as wax. Id read of death but never seen. My fathers face, I swear, was not serene; topple that lie however appealing: that face was abscence of all feeling. My sister cried, and her tears were my tears, each sob shook me. The pain of death is living, the dead are free. For me my fathers death was my sisters sorrow; that day was her day, loss was tomorrow. I never called him my dad – he was always father – but since his death 2 days back, the distance created by using the cold, sterilized term “father” has helped to keep my feelings on the issue in check. I dont want to speak about his death; I try not to think about it. In fact, I cannot actually recall the exact hour he died. For someone with an exceptional memory – I can easily pull off the top of my head all my bank account numbers and credit card numbers – but something as important and simple as the hour of my father’s death is impossible. He had been sick with leukemia for 7 years; he had defied impossible odds time and time again; and he was finally coming home. When he got home to our idyllic country estate in Kopong on a beautiful July morning, he did not look like he was better. We had a hospital bed put in the middle of the living room; he didnt walk in on his own two feet; and he still had his tracheotomy having spent the past week in the ICU. He did not look like the truly larger than life man he was; the man who worked very hard less than a year after his first bone marrow transplant; the man who was given a 5% chance of living 3 months 7 years prior; the man who was told he would not be able to survive another bone marrow transplant at Marina Hospital. He overcame the odds every time, and now he was home. Two days after he came home I learned why he didn’t look better. He wasn’t. The cancer was still there, and there was nothing more that could be done. All the experimental treatments had been exhausted; he had reached the lifetime limit for radiation; the only option left was spending his last days at home with his family. That is exactly what he did. When i was told he was going to die any day, I was in shock. I did not want anyone to see me cry, so I churned lap after lap in the shower silently standing and letting water run over me. The burning of my tears was overwhelmed by the chlorinated water. Time lost meaning; I do not know how long I was showering. My muscles screamed in agony, my lungs were on fire, and my vision was foggy from my eyes being soaked with chlorine. And yet that pain was nothing. My soul was torn asunder and no amount of physical pain could make the emotional agony any less excruciating. I had nothing left to give; I was empty. I lay sprawled out face down on the concrete motionless with the puddle of water growing around me. I was cold, but I didn’t care. I wanted to die. I spent the following days with my father trying to pretend that he wasn’t dying and enjoying the time with him. I watched him get worse and worse, and on the third day he did not have the energy to eat or talk; he mostly just slept. In the evening his breathing became labored, he was fighting to live, but this was one battle he was not going to win. In his sleep he mumbled, “The boat is stuck; the lines are tangled and I can’t get out to sea.” “No,” I said, “the lines have been cast off, and the sea is calm; you can sail away.” He stopped fighting and became calm and peaceful. His breathing slowed and finally, it stopped. His life had sailed off into the distance. I knew this day was coming, but I was not ready. I had steeled myself in anticipation for this moment, but my preparation was no match for the reality of his death. He was never coming back; he was gone forever. He would not take me to play chess with him; he wouldn’t be at my wedding; he wouldn’t see his grandchildren; he wouldn’t teach me how to talk to my wife. He was nothing more than a memory. I broke down. I cried for hours. I cried long after the tears were gone, my body wracked by spasms. I was ashamed of my crying, but I did not yet have an iron grip on my emotions. After I could cry no more, I promised myself that I would never lose control of my emotions again. I slept in the hospital bed that night next to his body. Once he was gone, I would never see him again. I did not believe in God, but that night I prayed to die. I could not live without him; I would not live without him add to that i had tried to make peace with him; approve him as my father and I wanted the pain to go away. The next morning his body was taken away, and the memorial planning began. RIP :(
Posted on: Tue, 15 Jul 2014 13:22:23 +0000
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