The silence that came after

[Paulinet Angela]

It started with severe back pain, and a neurologist who said that there was a compressed nerve in his spine. Next came the blood chemistry profile which showed that there was something wrong with the liver. “This is only the secondary site”, the gastroenterologist said. Then the discovery of the presumed origin, a tumor in the lung.

It was around early August of 2020 that we found out about my father’s state of health. He had no symptoms. This was a man whose lifestyle and diet would not reasonably breed cancer, but there he laid at the Intensive Care Unit, barely a week after the tests that would’ve confirmed our fears, battling the fourth stage of a cancer that was still unnamed at that point. He suffered every conceivable complication because his body couldn’t heal itself. He fought, until he couldn’t anymore. 

I prepared myself. Days prior, after the doctor spoke of metastasis, I called my mother. I knew what the term meant, but I wanted to know the odds. A conference call with one of her colleagues was arranged, a Belgian-internist who doubles as an ER physician. Both him and my mother are surgeons. I needed to hear it from them. I needed to hear the science behind it. These days were probably the darkest because of the heavy anticipation. I knew what was coming, but I was holding onto faith. Faith in the unknown. Faith in prayers which rarely leave my lips. Faith in something beyond my comprehension. 

But on August 18, 2020, the light left my life. 

I was not inconsolable. I was calm. However, the thought that I was suppressing the pain occurred to me. There was also a lingering sense of regret and guilt. Could I have done something? Could I have gone home sooner? Could I have spent more time with him? I was not even able to see him at the hospital because of the protocols brought about by the pandemic. I went home on August 17, the day he was supposed to be discharged. I thought I would welcome him home. 

The last time I was with him was on June 28, a day before my birthday. He went for a visit that only lasted for a few hours. We wore masks, and face shields. There were no hugs, only a pat on the back. I already felt then, months before the initial diagnosis, that it would be the last time I would see him. I saw his frailty. This was a feeling that I could not subdue, I pleaded hard but it continued to resurface. Through the weeks, I sought help. I bought 5-HTP pills to regulate my mood, tablets of Melatonin to normalize my sleep. I could not eat, I could not function. It was as though I was already in mourning, even before I lost him. My mind was actively rejecting it, but my body obsessed over it. Was this the cruel manifestation of an irrational suspicion? Was this the universe’s merciful hand at work, did it spare me from the shock? Was this a higher form of intuition?

Logic took over. I should be thankful that he was able to live this long after a fatal accident that happened more than two decades ago. I should be grateful that he virtually had no symptoms, that he was able to enjoy the last chapter of his life. In the last five years, we went on adventures as a family. I should be relieved that it was only a swift brush of agony.

But on August 18, 2020, nothing made sense. I started to question the procedures. I started to doubt my faith.

Why weren’t we given enough time? Why did he not hold on a little longer to have treatment? Why did he not wait to say goodbye?

Maybe, he wanted to keep us from seeing him in excruciating pain. Maybe, he did not want to wither away in our eyes. Maybe, he wanted us to remember him in the strength of his might. Maybe, it was not goodbye. This is the only narrative that I’m choosing to accept since I am the only one left to answer these questions, and I know that he would not want me to fill his space in my heart with remorse. He would want me to move forward and live my life in his honor.

Death is a fact of life, a concept that I could completely grasp. There’s an unspoken expectation that a daughter would outlive her parents. It was as natural as all other stages of life. As a young student-writer, I was fascinated with death. Such fascination led to the publication of articles about our own mortality and the finiteness of things. Still, this level of awareness did not prepare me for the suffocating grief that followed. 

It wasn’t the reunion that I had with my father’s lifeless body at the hospital morgue. It wasn’t the flood of reactions that we had gotten from people that this was a tragedy. It wasn’t the desire to scream when his casket was lowered down to the ground —

It’s seeing his empty chair at the dinner table. It’s his makeshift shrine, lit with candles in the corner of the house. It’s realizing that I would not be able to hear his thunderous voice call my name again. It’s the emptiness of the house without his humor. It’s knowing that he would not be there anymore in the important moments of the rest of our lives. There are days that I don’t want to get out of bed and face a reality without him, but I do. There are nights when it feels like I couldn’t breathe, but somehow I still find the courage to draw one more breath. 27 years with him is not enough, it will never be enough.

But on August 18, 2020, my life did not end, and neither did his. 

Every day, I still see him in the mirror. I see him in my little sister’s tender eyes. I feel his presence in the arms of people who have given us solace and retreat. Even in death, he gave me knowledge and peace. In the silence that came after, I delved deeper into my spirituality. It forced me to confront my true purpose. It drove me to understand that love and loss are intertwined. That grief, no matter how devastating, is ultimately an expression of love. It should not be suppressed but accommodated. 

I am letting grief have its way. I am letting pain run its course. In the hope that from these shattered pieces, in my ruins, light — his light — will pass through.

[Where I write]

[Leej]

Sorry for your loss! I lost my mom in similar circumstances 14 years ago. My father just passed away August 23, 2020 after extended illness. 

[reader]

 Dear Pauline Angela,

 My deepest sympathies and condolences. Losing a parent is one of life‘s hardest moments. I don’t think any of us understand what it feels like till it happens. What you wrote was very poignant. There will be light again even though it doesn’t feel like it now.  Take your time to grieve and honour your dear father. Sending my thoughts and prayers

[Paulinet Angela]

Thank you both for reaching out. Love and light.

@Leej, @reader

[HopefulHeart]

You wrote this so beautifully. My heart goes out to you as you continue to discover the depths of your grief. It’s going to be hard, but you have the right perspective to go through it. 

[Paulinet Angela]

Some days are definitely harder than others. Sometimes, I still find myself in shock and disbelief. Sometimes, I feel completely numb. I’d have to remind myself constantly to move forward with grief, otherwise, it would consume me. @HopefulHeart