a record of my thoughts

I used to think that I could be tough. Now I realised.

I went through that morning as calmly as anyone can be, taking it as the course of nature. Thinking about it was alright, I could even analyze the figures on various equipment attached to him.

But the moment of truth struck when I needed to talk about it. Saying it was a different thing. I was choked by my breath that went up to my throat as I prepared to say "he has gone".

I tried to fight back the surge of feelings, but it was all in vain again. Looking at him lying peacefully and painlessly, standing with everyone around the bed, I could not stand the terrible silence, and started picking through stuff in his drawers. I didn't want to keep anything there that reminded me of his disease. I wouldn't want to see anything such things again. "We're not going to take the medicine home, right?"

There went my control. The frustration of being powerless to help took over, and tears poured down. I hated to cry, and I hated it even worse when all the earlier efforts proved futile. A cathartic punch landed on the mattress, and I turned away from everyone, pulling myself together trembling in rapid, shallow breath.

In the toilet of the A5 ward I stayed for over 5 minutes, pacing, washing my face, trying to fight my emotions. I needed to be alone.

After some food, we all went back up to the ward. He was ready, now lying in the zipper bag. We said our goodbyes and walked along as mortuary workers took him to the chamber. We were asked to bow, and we saw him off. The mortuary was such a sensitive place, even the outside was so carefully planned. The metal coffin would go down an alley on the far end of the lift lobby, so you can't even see the door. The coffin disappeared quickly out of sight. I stopped and looked back until it went behind the corner. My eyes swelled again, for I knew he now belonged to the world of the dead.

The first thing I did when I was home and alone, I browsed through his photos on my computer, picked one with a grin, turned it black and white, and stuck it up on facebook. That was the least of gestures I could do. That squeezed more tears out of me. And since then I could not stand seeing my profile page.

The Saturday afternoon and Sunday that followed were convenient time to gather together tidy up his stuff, and it was comforting knowing that we were doing something for him, and it was important to spend time with mom. Luckily sis could be there at night.

Those couple of nights that followed were hard to bear, that I can say at least on my part. When there was nothing occupying my head, silly thoughts (I guess they were) bombarded me like showers of arrows. Could we have done something to help? Could we have told him he should go to ICU despite the discomfort which he categorically rejected, for the sake of his grandchild, maybe? Did we do the right thing, letting him taking in pure oxygen? And I actually told him that the gas would help him breathe after he said he wanted to be discharged. Did he want to spend his last moments at home? Looking back, he seemed determined with his decisions. He wanted Father Lam to be summoned. He denied going to the ICU. He knew what was coming. It was his decision.

But there was no clarity of thoughts in the wake of all the events. It took days for me to come to terms with reality, and extremely tiredness to slip into rest.

Knowing that I needed to get out of that state, normal activities were resumed, though my facebook profile was still something I avoided. With new events, thoughts and updates on the ceremony arrangements flooding in, the following days were as normal as I could have; but as the day drew near, anxiety started to creep in. For with the ceremony came the final farewell.
I was tense. I understood that it was necessary, but I would have it delayed to I-don't-know-when if I were to decide.

Sunday. Time to take him to the funeral home. It was the first time I saw him since in A5 two weeks ago. He looked... dry, lifeless. The sunken eyes struck me hard. I could imagine the cause, but accepting that was very different. I googled and found that it was all normal and inevitable, but still....

Monday afternoon. Things were prepared in the little hall. So was he. The make-up was not ideal, but of course I understood that he wouldn't look the same. There seemed to be a thin layer of wax on his face. Saying that I liked it would be an utter lie, but obviously I would just have to settle for that.

Friends and family came for the mourning. People from his church came too. An unexpected number of people turned up. I couldn't help thinking if I would see as big a crowd when it was me lying in the backroom.

Another sleepless night followed. Up in the small hours, I decided to go to the funeral home early. It was before 8:30 am when I was there. He was moved to the bigger hall already, with his coffin open, ready for him to rest in, with his assorted belongings lining the bottom.

I talked. About me, about him, about the baby. Once and again I walked into the little backroom. There was no fear. I even seemed to have seen a gently pumping chest. But I didn't think I would be scared even if he had opened his eyes and looked at me, even less grinned.

More people came. So was Father Lam and others from the church. We cut flowers for him, getting ready for the goodbye.

The time had come. Ceremonies began. Next to his bed we stood, reading out unfamiliar lines from the little book of rituals. He was then moved to his coffin. We followed him back to the main hall. Then more rituals and songs and prayers. Totally inexperienced as I was with the Catholic way, I could tell from the topics of prayers that the end was drawing near, especially when the coffin was set in front of me. Sitting up straight, I looked at him and saw his forehead, knowing that the lid would be closed, and I could see him no longer.

And the time came at last. Guests queued up for the final tribute. Flowers were put beside him. The walked past us one after another, until it was finally our turn. We each took a flower and followed the line of guests. That was really the final look at him. I could not help stopping for a second, but I knew that I could not just stand there and hold up everyone. I laid my rose on his right chest with tears rolling in my eyes. It was a blossoming one. Hopefully he would enjoy the fragrance.

The coffin was then closed, forever. I held his photo and followed his coffin to the van. The ride was short, or maybe I was not paying attention. I was thinking I could not really stand going through those pain and emotions again.

At the crematory, the coffin was pushed up a conveyor belt in a small church. As I awaited the others coming on a coach, I looked at his photo on the altar and I murmured: "Here's the real goodbye."

Next to the conveyor helt I stood. On the other end was the black curtains, through the slit I could see the red fire hose reel on the far wall of the room behind. That should be the burner room, I supposed. I looked at the coffin closely. He was inside, behind the paper boards. That was not the closest I could get to him, but somehow I did not touch the coffin.

Father Lam arrived, and confirmed that sis and I were to set the coffin behind the curtain. The moment was near.

More prayers and hymns echoed in the little church, but I only reluctantly followed, as if that would delay the process. Of course, it was not to be. The ceremony there was short. Soon we were summoned to the altar. The button was like any ordinary electric switch at home, with a red light next to the button. Just when I was thinking what to do, sis said: "You press it."

I couldn't reject. I raised my hand above and button and fidgeted. I glanced at the coffin. The button would trigger the conveyor belt. I did not like it, but it would have to be done.

With two fingers, I pressed the button hard for a few second. The red light glew in the corner of my eyes. The coffin jerked into movement. slowly but steadily, it edged towards the black curtains in the psalms. Hands clenched, I saw the coffin slip into the backroom. That's the last recognisable existence of him in this world. The face is forever gone. Now I can see why some "crazy" people do not handle dead bodies "properly". You just want to hang on to the more tangible relationship.

After taking the photo to his home, I went back to mine for a nap. It was much needed, and I fell asleep within barely a minute. But the evening was hard. A surge of tears was persistent, and the fight to hold it back was tiring. And the night was again sleepless.

It is over now. But at least I have learnt that there's a soft spot in me.