Today is August 9, 2015, three days before my father’s 2nd death anniversary and it is only now that I learned the real reason behind his death. Apparently, it was aneurysm that killed him. Learning the cause of his death awakened the feelings I tried so hard to suppress.
I suddenly remembered the talk I had with some of my friends, one of which had lost someone dear to her heart recently. It was something that had to do with the brain that was linked to that person’s death and I also remember how part her story goes; the doctors telling them it was not aneurysm, it doesn’t show any symptoms, instead it will suddenly attack you and before you know you’re either in the hospital, comatose, while the people who love and care for you outside are crying and praying for your survival or you’re dead. That is what I learned from our brief conversation and from what I learned in science, aneurysm is the hardening of the arteries in the brain. But from what I learned from my father’s death, it attacks like a thief in the night, suddenly while you are unaware and defenseless and it will leave the people from your life hanging and dumbfounded. How stupid of them to not notice right?
I remember the morning of his death; he was in the ICU, unconscious. Seeing my father there helpless, a lot of tubes connected to his body, that- well most probably would keep him alive is heartbreaking. I remember entering the room and crying even though my family kept coaxing me to talk to him at least, to tell him to fight because that is enough encouragement for him to win the battle and be alive, and me being the stubborn daughter that I am did not oblige. I remember sulking by the chair in the corner and I remember the tears in his eyes.
One opportunity given to me to just sit by his side and let the contents of my heart spill, to tell him I’m sorry for not being the good daughter he wanted me to be, to tell him that I love him even though I am not keen on showing it, to tell him to fight even though I know he will do it for the sake of his family, for the sake of me and I let that moment pass. He was transported out of the room; he was to travel to the city to receive better medical care. I didn’t say goodbye to him, only to my mother whose eyes were red and cheeks dried with tears. She was to accompany him to the hospital as she is a nurse and knows better how this whole fiasco goes.
Hours later, I am in my room reviewing for the coming exams, I heard my phone ringing. It was my mother and I believing it would be news about my father’s condition quickly answered the call. I heard my mother’s grief stricken voice, she was crying, again and she was asking for my grandmother. I refused to let go of my phone; I wanted to be the first own who would hear the news. I was again being stubborn. She was starting to get panicky and it was her raised voice that made me surrender my phone and look for my grandmother. I was back at my room after following her orders, waiting in agony for the news. The news- my father was dead. I remember hearing screams and wailing out of grief. I refuse to accept but I know sooner or later I have to adapt. It was not easy. The difficulties of losing a loved one came to my mind like lightning and it stung my heart. Everyone was shook but everyone was preparing the house almost immediately for his wake. There wasn’t enough time to mourn.
I remember my cousins giving me comfort and one of them barging in my room crying, telling me how hard it was while simultaneously easing me with a hug. Some of my closest cousins were there but wasn’t talking, only providing me with the presence of familiar faces that I desperately yearned and some of them who suffered the same fate of losing their father were beside me because they are the ones who understand how painful it was. I remember rain on that day, the weather being one with my emotions.
Again I remembered not talking to the father who provided me with everything when he needed it the most and I remember regretting it. Perhaps if I told him that he was to fight he would still be alive but I did not provide him with the strength he needed. People were preparing our house for his wake, bringing in the flowers, the lights and at last the casket that contained him. I remember refusing to look at his lifeless form inside, not until my friends would persuade me to it days later. I didn’t want to see him and be reminded again of my mistake of not giving him the encouragement he needed before he left. Although that will and always be the biggest regret of my life, I did not want to be reminded of it by seeing the aftermath of my hardheadedness. He was there reduced to a cold corpse and I was still thinking of none other but myself. I remember regret that I didn’t talk to him before he left.
I remember the night of his death, waking up in the middle of my slumber to my mother’s cries. It was the first time after months that I slept again in their room, on their bed. She was repeatedly saying that my father was gone. You can hear the grief in her voice, the sorrowful thought of having to deal with it for the rest of your life and the anguish of leading her children out of the trauma. That was the moment I knew my life was changed forever. From then one, she was to be a mother and a father to her two young children; one on her teenage years, the critical one as this is the phase she needs the guidance of both and one on his pre-pubescent period, the harder one as to this one needs more caring and attention as he was young and spends more time with his father and was with him when the thief attacked him. I knew of my mother’s dilemma then, how is she going to be a good mother and father for both?
In anguish, I went to school two days later. I remember not wanting to skip classes. I wanted to go on with my normal life the way it used to before the incident occurred but who was I kidding? A new normal was set to take place in my life. People who lost loved ones are expected to mourn, to feel the agony when you look at them. I was different because I did it inside. I went to school, I didn’t cry but I laughed. I was surprised that I had found my voice sooner. A gloomy aura was surrounding me but I was the only one who could see it. Everyone treated me with caution and I remember hated it. I wanted my life to be just the way it was and they weren’t giving it to me. They just had to remind me of my lost, I never the understood the song Dance with my Father until then. I felt like an outcast, part of it I owed to my lost, I started to blame it for my sadness about everything even though it wasn’t connected to it or maybe it is I just rejected the fact that it was.
I went about the whole school year with enough sanity, I struggled but I survived. Until now I am merely struggling with the occasional bouts of missing my father and remembering the things we used to do together and the things he used to do for me. I still remember how the whole day went and how glum it was. My father’s death wasn’t really accommodated through I just learned how to deal with. I just learned to accept that a part of me was never to be found again.
I AM GOING TO PUT THIS IN MY QUEUE BECAUSE I MIGHT FORGET THE FEELING I AM IN RIGHT NOW WHILE I AM WRITING IT THE DAY I WAS SUPPOSED TO. AND THERE IS ALSO A CERTAIN MELANCHOLY THAT COMES WITH PLACING THIS TO MY QUEUE, AN EMOTION THAT IS SUPPOSED TO WASH YOU WHILE READING THIS ENTRY.
