I am typing this at 4am in the dark. It is almost impossible
to see the keyboard, I have to rely on my aim, which, unfortunately, isn’t too
accurate.
The mattress is new but thin, such that I can feel the hardness of the marble tiles through it. I have to make do, to complain is suicide. The house smells of a strange mix of incense and embalming chemicals, people are strewn over every available couch. I was “greeted” at Penang airport by my sister’s grumpy face. You’d think that families, being thought of close and loving and all, would have at least a cold “hello” for me. No, the first thing she said was “do you know what you’re wearing?”
She was, of course, referring to my yellow long-sleeved tee. Nobody told me I couldn’t wear colours, honestly. All they told me was to bring a “white shirt and black pants” for the burial ceremony. Nobody, I repeat, nobody told me I couldn’t wear colours. When I said that, she replied, “It’s obviously common sense.”
Whose common sense, may I ask? I know it’s all mourning and all, but honestly, I think Granddad would appreciate the splash of colours in the midst of all this gloom.
Poor Granddad. I had to pray with joss sticks to him and some God (I think). It’s an open casket, the body is in the living room right now. I wonder where his chair is, the one he used to nap in every afternoon. I used to play with the strings on them while watching TV, trying to stretch the plastic-rubber strings which never seemed to break.
His illness took a toll on his body. The liver cancer, not eating, just sleeping, lung infection, lack of oxygen, and kidney deterioration shows on his face. I took one look at the face lying in the coffin and my first thought was “what? This is not my grandfather!”
I felt a tug thinking about how much he must have suffered during those few days before his death. On the last day, he had trouble breathing, probably due to the lung infection. He wasn’t responding to antibiotics (and the doctors were too idiotic to prescribe another), and the infection was probably suffocating him. Theory has it about blocking the alveoli from oxygen exchange or intake. He was transferred to the ICU, where he passed away an hour later.
I kept looking at the face in the coffin, trying to picture the once chubby, vibrant man, my grandfather. It was impossible; the stranger in the coffin bore no resemblance to the man I used to know. Until a few years ago, he was still driving himself around, he always drank soft drinks (Pepsi, Sarsi) at meals. He loved to go out on his own, but then recently, about a few months ago, he broke his kneecap and couldn’t walk anymore. I think there was a certain frustration inside him, and it sparked the realisation that his body was giving way.
I can’t say I was the closest person to him. In all honesty, I barely knew him. He was always this distant figure, non-physical-touching, and he spoke a different language, so there was always that barrier between us. It was always rather awkward, but then, in my family, it always is.
Sometimes I wish for something warmer, but this way it’s easier to let go when the time comes. Poor Granddad. He couldn’t walk then, but at least he can go wherever he wants to now. I can talk to him without the language barrier, and he shall suffer no more.
Ok this is random but I keep feeling this strange soft pressure on my upper back. But no, not fear. Just a strange calm knowing he’s around here somewhere.
Morning of June 13th 2012
The mattress is new but thin, such that I can feel the hardness of the marble tiles through it. I have to make do, to complain is suicide. The house smells of a strange mix of incense and embalming chemicals, people are strewn over every available couch. I was “greeted” at Penang airport by my sister’s grumpy face. You’d think that families, being thought of close and loving and all, would have at least a cold “hello” for me. No, the first thing she said was “do you know what you’re wearing?”
She was, of course, referring to my yellow long-sleeved tee. Nobody told me I couldn’t wear colours, honestly. All they told me was to bring a “white shirt and black pants” for the burial ceremony. Nobody, I repeat, nobody told me I couldn’t wear colours. When I said that, she replied, “It’s obviously common sense.”
Whose common sense, may I ask? I know it’s all mourning and all, but honestly, I think Granddad would appreciate the splash of colours in the midst of all this gloom.
Poor Granddad. I had to pray with joss sticks to him and some God (I think). It’s an open casket, the body is in the living room right now. I wonder where his chair is, the one he used to nap in every afternoon. I used to play with the strings on them while watching TV, trying to stretch the plastic-rubber strings which never seemed to break.
His illness took a toll on his body. The liver cancer, not eating, just sleeping, lung infection, lack of oxygen, and kidney deterioration shows on his face. I took one look at the face lying in the coffin and my first thought was “what? This is not my grandfather!”
I felt a tug thinking about how much he must have suffered during those few days before his death. On the last day, he had trouble breathing, probably due to the lung infection. He wasn’t responding to antibiotics (and the doctors were too idiotic to prescribe another), and the infection was probably suffocating him. Theory has it about blocking the alveoli from oxygen exchange or intake. He was transferred to the ICU, where he passed away an hour later.
I kept looking at the face in the coffin, trying to picture the once chubby, vibrant man, my grandfather. It was impossible; the stranger in the coffin bore no resemblance to the man I used to know. Until a few years ago, he was still driving himself around, he always drank soft drinks (Pepsi, Sarsi) at meals. He loved to go out on his own, but then recently, about a few months ago, he broke his kneecap and couldn’t walk anymore. I think there was a certain frustration inside him, and it sparked the realisation that his body was giving way.
I can’t say I was the closest person to him. In all honesty, I barely knew him. He was always this distant figure, non-physical-touching, and he spoke a different language, so there was always that barrier between us. It was always rather awkward, but then, in my family, it always is.
Sometimes I wish for something warmer, but this way it’s easier to let go when the time comes. Poor Granddad. He couldn’t walk then, but at least he can go wherever he wants to now. I can talk to him without the language barrier, and he shall suffer no more.
Ok this is random but I keep feeling this strange soft pressure on my upper back. But no, not fear. Just a strange calm knowing he’s around here somewhere.
Morning of June 13th 2012
1 comment:
شركة كشف تسرب المياه بالقصيم
شركة تمديد و صيانة برك مسابح بالدمام
شركة مكافحة حشرات بالنعيرية
شركة عزل اسطح بالدمام
فحص المنازل قبل الشراء
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