Have you ever had these moments where you know you need to write, pen down the many thoughts you had, when the moment tells you, "ah, you should write about this"
But then, as I sit down now, letting the words come, it becomes slightly guttered, and the blank page becomes more comforting than having the story written on the page. At some point, I suppose I might be escaping from putting my experiences into a form of reality that I can't yet make sense of. Or is it, not wanting to make sense of it? Here comes the choice point, and I choose now to not run away.
So my father passed from this world into the next, about seven days ago, and the reality that is sinking in is beginning to hurt more that I initially expected. There were many moments since then, that has been replaying like a movie in my head.
It was but a weekend ago that I saw my dad still alive at the hospital. By then he was already very weak. He had to use the oxygen apparatus, whatever that was called, to breathe, and he was fading... oscillating in and out of consciousness. The day before on Saturday, he was admitted for difficulty breathing, and he seemed fine then. There were some moments where he awoke, asking us, "Kat mana ni?"... "Sekarang kat hospital, ward 15, Bed 11." My mum would say. And my dad would reply,"Nak balik". "Nak balik ke mana?" "Nak balik Ward 15, Bed 11" Repeatedly, he would ask us, then realise he was already in Ward 15, Bed 11, and then ask us again, where was he, and repeatedly, saying that he wanted to return to Ward 15, Bed 11.
I thought then that it was the effects of the morphine. And at some level of consciousness, also, that it was already his time. I suppose throughout that weekend, I had expected it, yet, hopeful that he might still snap out of it, the same way he had before at past hospital admissions.
On Sunday evening, after Maghrib, we had many visitors. My dad was conscious then. He could recognise us, but could not speak as he struggled to breathe. At one point, when my mum's eldest brother was going to leave, my dad reached out for his hand. From my dad's eyes I could read that he was struggling to say something, but couldn't, and he just held my uncle's hand with both of his, with as much strength as he could muster. And my uncle too, said nothing. They exchanged one look that said a thousand words, words I can only imagine of now, and never know the true reality.
The doc came in then, and said something about giving more morphine or something like that but the few words that stuck in my head was, "We wouldn't worry about death, for a patient who is moving so much." And I thought, OK, he might still bounce back from this! Because he was still (albeit very feebly) moving his own legs, and he was still faintly lucid that evening.
10 pm on Sunday night, my brothers shifted my dad's position on the bed and that was the last time I saw the black of his eyes. He fell asleep, his head and body tilted to the left. At 11, I made my way home with my older brother, got some food, reached home, said my prayers and went to sleep, pretty confident I will see my dad again the next day.
After Subuh on Monday, my mum called. She said to come quickly to the hospital, as the machine wasn't picking up his pulse anymore. So I rushed down, strangely calm, focused on the task at hand. I knew then that it was time to say goodbye.
I reached Ward 15, Bed 11. The curtains were drawn. My mum and brothers were surrounding my dad. He was in the same position as I saw him the night before, head tilted to the left. The oxygen mask was still on, and my dad's breathing was the most laboured I had ever seen. My mum and bros were taking turns to recite the Shahadah in his right ear. I couldn't bring myself to then. I just couldn't. I just sat at his feet, and prayed to Allah that if He is indeed taking his roh away from his body now, let it be the least painful for him, and may his sins be Forgiven.
At 8.35 am, my mum took off my dad's oxygen mask. He took his last few, heaving breaths, and then his final one at 8.38 am. I was a bit confused then, with the tiniest hope that he might still be breathing, and I actually aked my mum, if he still had a pulse? Of course, she shook her head.
One of the nurses came in, with what I think was an ECG machine. She put the tabs on my dad's chest, took the reading. Printed on the paper was a continuous flat line. I knew what that meant. Finally. My mum, brothers and my sister-in-law cried in silence.
5 mins after, or perhaps even less, I don't know... one of the Amah's came in, and put a tray of food on the table. We looked at her, with tears in all our eyes, and my brother said, we don't need that anymore. She looked at my brother, looked at my dad and said, "It's OK, when he wakes up, whether or not he eats the food, the nurse will record it. We'll just leave the tray here." And then she left.
I've come to label that moment the comedic dooush moment, for lack of a better expression. (You know the type of sound in old Hindi movies when the bad guys get punched? Sounds something like 'dooush'?) The moment where I wonder, wha..? how stupid was this woman to not notice? the moment where I didn't know whether to lauch or to cry... and because I was already crying, I could not laugh because it would just be wierd. (It turns out that this Amah was a bit mentally challenged, according to the other nurses)
In the spirit of, whatever that was meant to happen, happens... I suppose that moment was the time for us to wipe away the tears, to get into action, to inform everyone, to get the other preparations ready. My uncle and brothers got that process of settling the jenazah, while me and my sisters went home to get the house ready.
The feeling then as we made our way home was of relief. Or was it release? Perhaps I am not finding my words right. It was like in Theory U, where the lowest moment passed and the point of inflexion begins. And lately I realise this also happens after a good bout of crying. The point where I say to myself, OK, enough. time to do the things you have to do, to pay attention, to listen, to read and serve those around you and leave the troubles of self behind...
At 11 am that day, the jenazah was returned to our home for the last? first? time... There were so many... so many people it was overwhelming -- family relatives and friends of my father. Every room was occupied, and I think a big crowd of men outside the house too. It took a few hours for the jenazah to be bathed. My brothers of course, were involved. After Zuhur, we did the Solat Jenazah. All the men, and about half the crowd left for the burial. Me and my mum stayed behind.
That was when the emptiness and finality of it all hit me. I was looking for a place of solitude and I couldn't find any except for the kitchen and the little laundry room that was connected to it. It was the place where the men had bathed the jenazah and they had left it in a mess. Looking back, I suppose they did their best given the circumstances, but at that moment I felt annoyed, angry over the disarray. (Someone used bath towels to wipe the floor! Unheard of in my life, ever!) The washing machine was disconnected and had ended up in the toilet, the dirty laundry water was all over the floor in the little room.
As all things that overwhelm me, I wanted to run away. And I did run, well, walked fast from room to room at least, to find someone I could ask help to at least move the washing machine back to where it belonged. Of course, all the heroes had left for the burial. I thought, OK, let's do this later when they came back. I returned to the kitchen only to find my grandmum trying to clean the floor (with the bath towel!) and I said to her of course, to let it be, and I started to clean it up before my mum saw any of it.
Once again, In the spirit of things that were meant to happen, happened... I closed the door, let all the emotions surface, then wiped away my tears and got to work. I pushed and pulled the washing machine back into place. (Though I think I might have overdone it at the time, cos it's now making wierd noises during the spin dry :) Used the bath towels to wipe the floor. (Don't tell Mum!) Soaked all the dirty towels and rags and dad's clothes... in the pails, (I was careful to use the right pail for the right thing. Mum's quite meticulous. Though I had a confunded moment with the bath towels that mopped up what rags should have done.) returned every item to its place, looked back at the spanking clean kitchen and felt quite proud of myself. The cleaning was healing. :)
Since then, the days oscillate like a very slow rollercoaster ride. The kind where you want to get off cos it's painfully slow, numbing and nauseating all at once. The high points which I do appreciate, are the moments where I am focused on anything else but the emptiness. These days it was my little niece. At 2 and a half years, she is everyone's little, oblivious heroine that makes everyone smile with her superpowers of cuteness. She understands that her grandfather has passed, for she never asked for him since she saw his jenazah on that day.
The reason I write is to attempt to put this past me. So I can recall better the good moments with my father instead of getting caught up over the last few days. And having penned it down, I feel I can let these recent memories go, and start living more in the present, because it's on record somewhere, I don't have to recall it again... right? At least, that's the plan... let's see if it will work, InshaAllah. :) For now, prayers and du'a... a friend emailed this to me a few days ago and I thought it apt to be the one thing I continue to recall:
May Allah azzaw jal shower His infinite mercy upon your father and your family. May He send His angels down in masses to seek forgiveness on his behalf and fill the rows of his janazah prayers, May He make his grave a place of light and ease, May He show him each day therein his place in jannah, May He allow him to be brought up amongst those who rely on Him, those who are patient, those who are truthful, those who have taqwa, and those who have iman. May He grant him shade on that day when there will be no other shade other than that which He allows, may He make the scales heavy of his good deeds and allow him entrance through the gates of jannah without any judgment, may He grant him the highest level of jannah in the company of all those whom he loves and the company of His most beloved alayhi salaam. May He bring ease and peace to the hearts of your family and allow them to be together again for eternity in paradise and may He guide and bless us all. Ameen. Ameen ya rabbul 'alaameen.
But then, as I sit down now, letting the words come, it becomes slightly guttered, and the blank page becomes more comforting than having the story written on the page. At some point, I suppose I might be escaping from putting my experiences into a form of reality that I can't yet make sense of. Or is it, not wanting to make sense of it? Here comes the choice point, and I choose now to not run away.
So my father passed from this world into the next, about seven days ago, and the reality that is sinking in is beginning to hurt more that I initially expected. There were many moments since then, that has been replaying like a movie in my head.
It was but a weekend ago that I saw my dad still alive at the hospital. By then he was already very weak. He had to use the oxygen apparatus, whatever that was called, to breathe, and he was fading... oscillating in and out of consciousness. The day before on Saturday, he was admitted for difficulty breathing, and he seemed fine then. There were some moments where he awoke, asking us, "Kat mana ni?"... "Sekarang kat hospital, ward 15, Bed 11." My mum would say. And my dad would reply,"Nak balik". "Nak balik ke mana?" "Nak balik Ward 15, Bed 11" Repeatedly, he would ask us, then realise he was already in Ward 15, Bed 11, and then ask us again, where was he, and repeatedly, saying that he wanted to return to Ward 15, Bed 11.
I thought then that it was the effects of the morphine. And at some level of consciousness, also, that it was already his time. I suppose throughout that weekend, I had expected it, yet, hopeful that he might still snap out of it, the same way he had before at past hospital admissions.
On Sunday evening, after Maghrib, we had many visitors. My dad was conscious then. He could recognise us, but could not speak as he struggled to breathe. At one point, when my mum's eldest brother was going to leave, my dad reached out for his hand. From my dad's eyes I could read that he was struggling to say something, but couldn't, and he just held my uncle's hand with both of his, with as much strength as he could muster. And my uncle too, said nothing. They exchanged one look that said a thousand words, words I can only imagine of now, and never know the true reality.
The doc came in then, and said something about giving more morphine or something like that but the few words that stuck in my head was, "We wouldn't worry about death, for a patient who is moving so much." And I thought, OK, he might still bounce back from this! Because he was still (albeit very feebly) moving his own legs, and he was still faintly lucid that evening.
10 pm on Sunday night, my brothers shifted my dad's position on the bed and that was the last time I saw the black of his eyes. He fell asleep, his head and body tilted to the left. At 11, I made my way home with my older brother, got some food, reached home, said my prayers and went to sleep, pretty confident I will see my dad again the next day.
After Subuh on Monday, my mum called. She said to come quickly to the hospital, as the machine wasn't picking up his pulse anymore. So I rushed down, strangely calm, focused on the task at hand. I knew then that it was time to say goodbye.
I reached Ward 15, Bed 11. The curtains were drawn. My mum and brothers were surrounding my dad. He was in the same position as I saw him the night before, head tilted to the left. The oxygen mask was still on, and my dad's breathing was the most laboured I had ever seen. My mum and bros were taking turns to recite the Shahadah in his right ear. I couldn't bring myself to then. I just couldn't. I just sat at his feet, and prayed to Allah that if He is indeed taking his roh away from his body now, let it be the least painful for him, and may his sins be Forgiven.
At 8.35 am, my mum took off my dad's oxygen mask. He took his last few, heaving breaths, and then his final one at 8.38 am. I was a bit confused then, with the tiniest hope that he might still be breathing, and I actually aked my mum, if he still had a pulse? Of course, she shook her head.
One of the nurses came in, with what I think was an ECG machine. She put the tabs on my dad's chest, took the reading. Printed on the paper was a continuous flat line. I knew what that meant. Finally. My mum, brothers and my sister-in-law cried in silence.
5 mins after, or perhaps even less, I don't know... one of the Amah's came in, and put a tray of food on the table. We looked at her, with tears in all our eyes, and my brother said, we don't need that anymore. She looked at my brother, looked at my dad and said, "It's OK, when he wakes up, whether or not he eats the food, the nurse will record it. We'll just leave the tray here." And then she left.
I've come to label that moment the comedic dooush moment, for lack of a better expression. (You know the type of sound in old Hindi movies when the bad guys get punched? Sounds something like 'dooush'?) The moment where I wonder, wha..? how stupid was this woman to not notice? the moment where I didn't know whether to lauch or to cry... and because I was already crying, I could not laugh because it would just be wierd. (It turns out that this Amah was a bit mentally challenged, according to the other nurses)
In the spirit of, whatever that was meant to happen, happens... I suppose that moment was the time for us to wipe away the tears, to get into action, to inform everyone, to get the other preparations ready. My uncle and brothers got that process of settling the jenazah, while me and my sisters went home to get the house ready.
The feeling then as we made our way home was of relief. Or was it release? Perhaps I am not finding my words right. It was like in Theory U, where the lowest moment passed and the point of inflexion begins. And lately I realise this also happens after a good bout of crying. The point where I say to myself, OK, enough. time to do the things you have to do, to pay attention, to listen, to read and serve those around you and leave the troubles of self behind...
At 11 am that day, the jenazah was returned to our home for the last? first? time... There were so many... so many people it was overwhelming -- family relatives and friends of my father. Every room was occupied, and I think a big crowd of men outside the house too. It took a few hours for the jenazah to be bathed. My brothers of course, were involved. After Zuhur, we did the Solat Jenazah. All the men, and about half the crowd left for the burial. Me and my mum stayed behind.
That was when the emptiness and finality of it all hit me. I was looking for a place of solitude and I couldn't find any except for the kitchen and the little laundry room that was connected to it. It was the place where the men had bathed the jenazah and they had left it in a mess. Looking back, I suppose they did their best given the circumstances, but at that moment I felt annoyed, angry over the disarray. (Someone used bath towels to wipe the floor! Unheard of in my life, ever!) The washing machine was disconnected and had ended up in the toilet, the dirty laundry water was all over the floor in the little room.
As all things that overwhelm me, I wanted to run away. And I did run, well, walked fast from room to room at least, to find someone I could ask help to at least move the washing machine back to where it belonged. Of course, all the heroes had left for the burial. I thought, OK, let's do this later when they came back. I returned to the kitchen only to find my grandmum trying to clean the floor (with the bath towel!) and I said to her of course, to let it be, and I started to clean it up before my mum saw any of it.
Once again, In the spirit of things that were meant to happen, happened... I closed the door, let all the emotions surface, then wiped away my tears and got to work. I pushed and pulled the washing machine back into place. (Though I think I might have overdone it at the time, cos it's now making wierd noises during the spin dry :) Used the bath towels to wipe the floor. (Don't tell Mum!) Soaked all the dirty towels and rags and dad's clothes... in the pails, (I was careful to use the right pail for the right thing. Mum's quite meticulous. Though I had a confunded moment with the bath towels that mopped up what rags should have done.) returned every item to its place, looked back at the spanking clean kitchen and felt quite proud of myself. The cleaning was healing. :)
Since then, the days oscillate like a very slow rollercoaster ride. The kind where you want to get off cos it's painfully slow, numbing and nauseating all at once. The high points which I do appreciate, are the moments where I am focused on anything else but the emptiness. These days it was my little niece. At 2 and a half years, she is everyone's little, oblivious heroine that makes everyone smile with her superpowers of cuteness. She understands that her grandfather has passed, for she never asked for him since she saw his jenazah on that day.
The reason I write is to attempt to put this past me. So I can recall better the good moments with my father instead of getting caught up over the last few days. And having penned it down, I feel I can let these recent memories go, and start living more in the present, because it's on record somewhere, I don't have to recall it again... right? At least, that's the plan... let's see if it will work, InshaAllah. :) For now, prayers and du'a... a friend emailed this to me a few days ago and I thought it apt to be the one thing I continue to recall:
May Allah azzaw jal shower His infinite mercy upon your father and your family. May He send His angels down in masses to seek forgiveness on his behalf and fill the rows of his janazah prayers, May He make his grave a place of light and ease, May He show him each day therein his place in jannah, May He allow him to be brought up amongst those who rely on Him, those who are patient, those who are truthful, those who have taqwa, and those who have iman. May He grant him shade on that day when there will be no other shade other than that which He allows, may He make the scales heavy of his good deeds and allow him entrance through the gates of jannah without any judgment, may He grant him the highest level of jannah in the company of all those whom he loves and the company of His most beloved alayhi salaam. May He bring ease and peace to the hearts of your family and allow them to be together again for eternity in paradise and may He guide and bless us all. Ameen. Ameen ya rabbul 'alaameen.
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