Singapore, 2018. A year before his terminal cancer diagnosis.
It was 12pm on a sunny Tuesday. The sun was just starting to settle down above my head. I remember drinking coffee sitting opposite my sister at the outdoor cafeteria. The lake shone bright under the sunlight, with its green hue and the never ending sound of the birds chirping across the horizon.
It had been a long night of anxiety and dread, as the oxygen levels of my dad, still connected to a high powered oxygen cylinder running at full force, fell closer to zero by the hour. The doctors were running in and out of our hospital cabin, administering countless liquids in his still body, as only his mouth moved as he gasped for air. Four years of battling brain cancer had come down to this moment.
The cancer had clearly won, as the head neurosurgeon’s assistant entered into the room at the crack of dawn and brought me in close to tell me “I am sorry but your dad might only have a few more hours. His cancer has spread throughout his brain.” I asked him, “Is there really no other option.” He replied “There isn’t. All we can do now is wait”. And wait we did. I had been sleeping on a small blanket on the floor for the last couple of weeks, as part of a rotating shift of who keeps watch on my dad’s oxygen levels as it kept dropping steadily.
Breakfast was over and my sister and I finished discussing how different our lives were going to be, when he did pass. But nothing really prepares you for the inevitable moment when death really comes knocking. It is one thing to anticipate or imagine what it would be like before the inevitable death of your loved one, how their absence or death would be like. But as soon as we came up the elevator and heard our mother’s scream, we understood what had happened.
The doctors rushed in with their monitors to check his heart. He had taken one big breath and then, nothing. His gown was removed, a gel placed on his chest while the ECG monitor was placed.
A flat line.
“Please, check again.” My mother screamed as she was fainting from her relentless crying. Still, a flat line. I will never forget the atmosphere, the sounds of my mother or sister crying or how lifeless my dad’s eyes were as I opened them, hoping to see them move. It’s silly, but I kept hugging him, patting his beard like i did when I was young or just whisper in his ears to wake up. I remember shaking him because I was frustrated that he wasn’t moving like he used to. A thumbs up was all he showed whenever he was admitted in the hospital, signalling that he was okay. But he never moved. His eyes never opened. He never took a breathe again. He was, in one word, gone.
It has been more than a year after this death now, and I’ve spent the year, struggling to accept, understand or even fathom his absence, his death or move forward with what happened that day. But, as someone who has watched a great man, a loving father and a caring husband slowly fade away, like a candle slowly dying in the wind, my dad and his journey with his illness and eventual death has taught me 3 things:
Be okay with letting everything go.
I remember sitting beside his bed three years ago, while he was undergoing chemotherapy. I felt uneasy with the whole situation and the gravity of what was going on. My dad took my hand and told me “We all must return. Return to God, return to Earth whatever you call it. Remember, be ready to let anything go, even if it’s me.” I broke down as he said it, but now I realize the truth in the statement. Everything around us, my two beautiful cats, my aging mother or my traumatized little sister or even the worries we have of yesterday or the relationships we hold dear, everything will end. And that’s okay.
If everything lasted forever, I guess I wouldn’t have understood the importance of what or who I’ve lost. I wouldn’t have learned to slow down and appreciate the beauty of every day things around me.
Philosophy or the meaning of this temporary existence has never popped up in my head before my Dad’s cancer diagnosis. Life felt invincible and my future felt solid. But the Yiddish proverb “Man makes plans but God laughs.” rings ever so true now.
Find meaning outside of your own pain.
During the year after my father’s death, I dove deep into existential philosophy. One such writer who has helped me through this journey of grief is Viktor Frankl, as he wrote in his book Man’s Search for Meaning:
Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation.
Other than the newfound anxiety or the occasional crying session whenever I get flashbacks, I’ve turned his lessons of kindness and of gratitude into my own, as I’ve now turned to helping animals and of those in need. It gives me own pain a place to change into something worthwhile. I could go on and spiral into my own pain, or I can remember what Albert Camus wrote in The Myth of Sisyphus.
The literal meaning of life is whatever you’re doing that prevents you from killing yourself.
A bit too harsh, but it is what gives me motivation to continue living, despite all of my sadness.
And lastly,
Live around the grief, not past it.
For too long, I’ve spent my days distracting myself with a number of instant gratifying substances or bad coping mechanisms to ease the pain, instead of truly processing it. But, I’ve started to keep grief around as just another emotion. Sure, most days or even weeks, I’ll be stuck paralyzed to my bed because of the sadness and the yearning for him to come back down. But on some days, I’ll carry my grief in my pocket and go about my day. It was my turn to face this tragic phase of life and I finally understand that I must see my life to its end, no matter how good or bad it may get.
I think I’m starting to understand what this life truly is. A brief flash of existence in this vast universe, where the only real thing we can do, is love one another and be kind. If I may quote Viktor Frankl again,
When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.
My dad used to tell me, “If you can be one thing today, be kind.” and I’m going to make sure I follow his advice, as long as I exist.