It’s been that long since you’ve been gone.
I still remember the panic in mom’s voice, the tears Jimmy wept, and the shampoo in my hair that I didn’t get to rinse out. I was taking a shower when you had the attack.
Mom tried to feed you something to alleviate your chest pain when you bit down on her finger as your heart and eventually your body seized up and you forgot how to breathe.
I heard screams, and so I ran out covered in a towel and visible suds in my tresses. Mom was panicking, and Jimmy couldn’t do a thing, poor soul was barely 11 that day.
I took charge by telling mom to calm down and call an ambulance, and demanded Jimmy to run to our next-door neighbour for help. I needed to get dressed before I could be of use to anybody.
I turned to the stairs only to look into your frightened eyes before I climbed to my room. I told you to wait for me. I told you, “Tunggu Pa ah, aku bebaju dulu,” as calm as I could ever be, thinking this is just a kink that the doctors at RIPAS hospital could iron out.
You were in an accident 40 days prior, and was recovering fine, with the exception of a few abdominal pains which was normal since you had that surgery to stitch up an internal bleeding that you took away from the accident.
“Everything is fine, just get dressed,” I told myself. I didn’t know what clothes I had put on, up until today, I wasn’t sure if I had my clothes on properly.
I went back to help, and saw that the neighbours had come by. They called the ambulance, but mom insisted on taking you to the hospital herself. So the head of the neighbour’s household volunteered to drive you and mom there.
I told the rest that I’d follow suit, I just needed to lock everything up.
When people write, or say, “Everything went by like a blur,” it isn’t just for the sake of saying it. Everything did go by like a blur. I don’t remember locking the front door, I don’t remember the drive down to the hospital, I don’t remember parking the car, I don’t remember turning the engine off, I don’t remember.
What I remember was walking into the ER, and saw mom outside room number 21. Then they moved him to room 22. I remembered this because not only that the room number was big and menacing, but it stood out to me because it was the 22nd that day, and I just turned 22 a fortnight prior. It’s a silly random fact to remember, but there you are.
My aunts and uncles came into the waiting room in a rush, but all I said to them, they’re helping him. He’s going to be OK.
Imagine my shock when they told me they lost you, and couldn’t get you back.
I started hearing ringing in my ears, and a panic-laced voice in my head telling me, no, this isn’t real. It can’t be real. You’re there, in that room number 22, how can you be gone?
That was the bitter reality, though. You were gone. Your soul was departing from your body, and there was nothing we can do about it. Your body was dying, but you didn’t fully let go until we’ve said our goodbyes. The doctor kindly unplugged the heart machine that went flat, as if to cushion the blow.
I remembered crying, but I also remember that I wasn’t really crying? I don’t know how to explain it. I pictured that my mind was shaped like an outlined circle, but the circle just kept contracting from the outline, until I was there in the center, becoming the smallest circle, just away from everything.
I found myself being a passenger in a moving car, willing away a killer headache. I had to get myself home, I said. “Awu, balik tah ni,” I remember someone gently replying to me.
I got home, but you were already there. They laid you on the living room floor. I went up to my room to get changed into proper clothes (I don’t know how I could even think of this at that point, but I was operating on auto, it seemed), and took the Yaasin from my praying mat to recite it to you.
I was in my green baju kurong, and tied a scarf on my head, reciting the surah Yaasin with my face flushed and wet with tears. My breaths hitched so many times, I don’t know how I managed to finish, but I did. After I was done, I kissed your forehead and stood up.
I walked into the guest room where everyone was, and I told them I had a pounding headache, and was about to throw up. I didn’t remember much after that, but I was told that I managed to get myself to the toilet in time, and passed out on the bed right after.
The next day, when you left the house to get buried in Kiulap, a fair drive from our house, my head felt like it was wrapped in cotton. My friends came to offer their condolences and comfort, but I talked to them, and pretended like nothing major had happened. I thanked them for coming, and I thanked your friends and colleagues who came too. Your best friends came with tears and regret in their eyes.
You left us that night, and now today, marks 10 years since you’ve been gone, and not a day has gone by without me remembering these details of that day I lost you.
I miss you, Pa, and I always will. Al-Fatihah.
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