No one ever thinks of death when they are alive, and when they do, it’s shrouded with uncertainty and too morbid to be contemplated. In this part of the world, the idea of death is almost always accompanied by fervent spiritual rejections that start with: “God forbid…” and ends with a war against our fictional enemies.
But, I learnt early in life that death is inevitable; it may come later than sooner, but it comes. Like a tornado, it yanks off anyone in its path, tossing them to another realm.
I was barely ten years old when my mother died. The months leading up to her inevitable passing were emotionally intense. I was young, but I felt the once cheerful atmosphere in our home get replaced with fear-gripping and heart-wrenching moments.
I knew she was sick; that was all my father was at liberty to tell me. Besides, how would I have understood that there was a difference between malaria and cancer? How would my developing 10-year-old brain fathom that cancer had no cure? Or that the reason her stomach was bloated wasn’t that there was a new baby in there, instead it was the ugly face of stomach cancer expanding her body beyond its limits?
When family members trooped into our home to check on her like she was a museum artefact and visits from our parish priest became more frequent, I didn’t think much of it – I was in a bubble of childish innocence.
My mom and dad had a special relationship; they always acted like best friends and sometimes siblings. I hadn’t fully grasped the concept of love, but from the little I remember they were inseparable and unashamed to express their embarrassing cheesy emotions everywhere. Because of their closeness, our home became a haven for my little sister and me.
But my mother’s death changed all that.
These days, I often hear people say that men have a harder time handling the loss of their spouse than women and from my experience; I find this to be true. After my mom passed on, my dad lost the drive to live, even though he had two little children to care for. (I truly believe he didn’t know where to start.)
He was thrown into a deep depression which, first, cost him his job and then his life. My sister and I were forced to drop out of school and stay at home to care for him. He would often come back home drunk and refuse to sleep in the house, choosing to spend the night out in the cold, instead. I wondered why anyone would prefer to sleep in the cold, neglecting the comfort of their bed. Now it’s clearer: he was trying to die, but he didn’t have the guts to end his life himself – he wanted help from nature.
A year later, things got worse.
It was our house so we weren’t homeless, but we were very poor and unable to feed properly; daddy boozed all our money down the drain. I wanted to hate him, God knows I tried to end his life myself; to accelerate the process, but I felt sorry for him instead. I saw him transition from a happy man who was content with life to a shadow of himself and I was too young to get him the help he needed. I had just turned eleven when my dad got his wish – he died from kidney failure.
Till this day, I partially blame myself for his death, because I could have done better. I should have ignored his warning against sharing our problems with family and friends. I shouldn’t have camouflaged his shortcomings and weakness.
My father was a good man who lost his life after losing his better half.