Background: Staring at a peeled-beige wall, waiting in an empty office for my dad’s death certificate.
Facing another heartbreaking moment because two weeks ago, it never crossed my mind that I’d be writing my father’s name on a paper declaring his death. Gritting my teeth as hard as I could to keep me from crying. Was it a successful method? I won’t answer.
Has anyone ever told you that when you cry too much, your head, eyes, nose, and even salivary glands can hurt all at the same time? Well, they can. I don’t think I’ve cried this hard since elementary school. I’m the kind of person who usually observes my thoughts and feelings, thinking, “Huh? Interesting” and sitting with them for hours until they settle. Yet this time, grief swallowed me like a tsunami. Those thought-watching processes didn’t stand a chance.
My father’s passing came as a shock. I won’t share the details of his death, but the news arrived on an ordinary day as I prepared for my ICCU shift and for a while, my world went blank.
Ever since, I’ve been crying and staring blankly at walls, trees, cars— you name it. I’ve tried to let grief take its space, sitting silently with it, neither forcing it to go nor resenting it for staying. But oh boy, the pain it causes. My mind blanks out from time to time, and my heart sinks as if it pumps too hard during systole but doesn’t make it back in diastole. There is an empty space at the front of my chest, sending out signals to my brain that there was something there that is now missing. I read somewhere that grief is the price you pay for love, and it’s true. I know how deeply my father loves and I him.
Back to staring-at-walls situation…
The silence in this office at midday is deafening, and this island I called home has always been scorching hot, as far as I can remember. But these past few days, gloom looms and rain patters down, making the place almost unrecognizable. Then again, it’s not the only thing that feels unfamiliar these days. I don’t recognize myself either.
If the old me prided herself on being grateful, optimistic, and friendly; your typical hype-up girl who loves to joke around, these days, I can barely smile. I do not feel like myself at all. The only things that I hang on to, to still remind me of who I was are showering twice a day, wearing my wristwatch, and putting on my perfume. The version of me who prioritized sleep, meals, exercise, and social interaction? Never heard of her. The other day, my cousin who lives next to our place and sees me regularly, asked worriedly if I was ill. I was not, but I probably looked haggard to her.
My kind-hearted friends (I will write more about them in another post) have told me to take my time grieving, and they’re right. Yet I wish someone had warned me how weird these days would feel. That sadness lingers and I will feel uncomfortable in ways I simply haven’t found words to articulate. That my stomach would knot and my frontal lobe pause. That grieving will take more than those 9-days of tahlil or that it won’t go just because it’s been two weeks now. That I wouldn’t be able to answer “How are you?” and other questions from friends and families or reply to condolence messages even after scheduling time in my calendar to respond and say thanks. See, I consider myself polite, and ignoring people empathize with me feels rude. But I can’t bring myself to text back, even with my WhatsApp open in front of me. I know I’ll have to reply eventually, but I’m not ready because responding feels like validating their goodbye to my father. He’s gone, I know, but oh, how I wish grief worked so simply.
Then there’s the guilt: guilt for grieving, and guilt for not grieving. As a PPDS, my colleagues cover my shifts when I leave, and while I’m grateful, part of me still feels guilty for burdening them (don’t worry I will do the same for them while humming because it is the least that I can do to help). And then there’s the guilt that I should be grieving more. Can it be more confusing?
It's funny how time works, because it has only been two weeks out of forever. You see, if I have the privilege to live till 70 years old, that means I will live more than half of my life without my father. Of course, there are those even more unlucky than I am, but we are not in a competition, so no, I don’t want to compare my loss to someone else’s. It has only been two weeks, and my brain refuses to believe that now most of that love will stay as a memory. The thought that I might someday forget him is what breaks my heart the most. People might think that it has already been two weeks, so it’s time for me to drag myself back to PPDS, but I am not at all convinced—even as I book my ticket to YIA.
Life feels upside down for now. The future is blurry, and for the first time, the world seems a little scary, and a whole lot lonelier. If the old me that you know was an easy going person, I think it’s because I had my parents; healthy, loving, shielding me with prayers and sacrifices so I never had to worry about a thing. It was probably a privilege not a personality. So now I find myself in this predicament and I am clueless about what to do.
I don’t know how strong my teeth are for me to grit through this unfamiliar sadness while juggling PPDS, which demands energy, focus, time, and emotional capacity plus some extra energy just to survive. Doing all that while being in this state doesn’t seem like a brilliant idea. But it is what it is, so for now I can only pray that whatever season that I am in or going to be in Allah SWT will grant me strength to face it with a grateful heart, no matter how unsure I am of my capability to do so at this moment.
How messy life is. And yet, as messy as it gets, I find it easier to accept that this chapter will be messy than to accept grief itself. What will I do with this heavy, hollow feeling? What am I going to do about this grief?
I don’t know, but maybe I'll continue staring blankly at walls as I pay the price for being loved so deeply. And if you read this and find me somewhere in the near future, staring blankly - please let me be, as I'm trying to navigate all these uncharted feelings. Because I just don't know how to grief.
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