Saturday, August 20, 2005

the longest day

thursday was the longest day of my life.

it started at 12am, when i volunteered to stay awake with the nurse for the night, keeping a bedside vigil for my grandmother. her phlegm was lodged in her throat and she had difficulty breathing, so we had to constantly watch her in case she choked.

my mother took over at 2am, and i had a fitful 4 hours of sleep that night.

in the morning, almost my whole family was in my house. we bustled around doing the necessary chores for the day. i helped with my grandmother's daily wipe-down, lovingly slathering lotion on her dry, jaundiced skin and applying her favourite styling cream onto her hair.

as the time approached noon, my grandmother started coughing up blood. it was a sight that shook me to the bone. however, the image that will remain in my mind forever will be the scene that occured not long after.

my beloved grandma stopped breathing 10 minutes shy of 12pm.

my uncle tried to keep calm, but his voice was shaking as he said, "her breath's been cut off. nurse? is there a pulse?" but he was already drowned out by the wailing of my aunts who were screaming, "mother! mother!!"

and i'll never, never forget the sight of my aunt, my grandmother's eldest daughter, running into the room with tear-streaked cheeks and red eyes, yelling, "no...she can't be gone. she can't be gone!" it's something i'll bring with me forever, and it's a scene i've replayed in my mind over and over again for the last two days.

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when a loved one dies, people normally start to feel guilty about various things.

maybe they should have paid more attention; that way the disease might have been detected earlier and treatment might have been possible.

what if they had called for a nurse earlier, or allowed them to undergo that minor surgery that might have relieved one of the symptoms?

they should have told them they love them more often. maybe the deceased died without knowing how much they were loved.

but have you ever wondered what people feel when they know they've done everything they could, and they know their loved one knows how much they are loved? what do they feel then, if there is nothing to be guilty about?

i can tell you what they feel.

betrayal.

those people who love with all their hearts and have done it all for the person they love...they feel betrayed when their loved one passes away.

betrayed because all the care and love and concern they invested in that person brought no returns other than anguished tears. betrayed because they were left behind by someone who promised to be there always. betrayed because they could no longer fulfill the vow to love someone for the whole of their lives.

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my family sprung into action almost immediately after my father came home. he called the papers to put in an obituary. my cousins and i, together with the 3 family maids, carried all the furniture in my living room to the rooms upstairs. my aunts and uncles dressed my grandmother the moment her death was confirmed, in order to get the job done before rigor mortis set in.

it was like everyone was just triggered into motion by her death and suddenly we were rational robots who could even think of things like the onset of rigor mortis.

the funeral arrangements were made, clothes were changed, production lines (for putting sweets into red packets, for folding papers, for stapling bags) were formed, and last minute task delegations were carried out.

at night, we patiently endured 3 1/2 hours of buddhist chanting, and we entertained guests who came to offer their condolences and to catch a last glimpse of the woman who was, and still is, the superglue that keeps my family of 20 so close-knit.

when the ceremonies were over and we had finished packing up for the night, i took a quick shower and locked the room to my door.

i hadn't shed a single tear throughout the whole day. while my 8-yr-old cousin sobbed on and off during the organised chaos of preparing for my grandmother's funeral, i went about doing odd jobs and cracking tasteful jokes to cheer my relatives up.

it was 12am when i opened up my journal to document the day.

24 hours ago, i sat by my grandmother's bed, on a personal mission to keep her alive. 24 hours later, i was sitting on what used to be my grandmother's bed, on a mission to make sure i remember how she lived.

the words in my journal flowed as freely as the tears that soaked each sentence as i wrote about the betrayal that had befallen my family on the 18th of august 2005.

the longest day of my life.

lishun at 10:14 PM

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