One of my teachers’ husband died a couple of days ago. Brain stroke. She’s depressed beyond what I can explain. I haven’t interacted with her much, but from what I have, I’m sure it’s going to take her a long time to get over it. They were both too nice for their own good, I hear.
One of my distant cousins had brain stroke as well, just a couple of weeks ago. He was young and lively, and from what I hear, had a happy life. Fate has been a bit more cruel to him that to my teacher. He’s almost paralyzed. His parents are still alive and well. Him, I don’t really know.
It’s been around four years since my grandfather died. I lost count of how many brain strokes and hear attacks he had altogether. Losing him was like losing direction when you are blindfolded and the silence is so loud you can’t hear anything. Not just for me, but for everyone else in the family as well. I never even considered the possibility. I always thought, when I grow up and have kids, he would be the first one to bless them. He would be the unquestionable source of inspiration. But, look at us now.
A year later my uncle died of cancer. He was younger than my mother, and she is still alive and well. His mother is still alive and well. I’d never considered losing him either. Among all all my eight uncles, of whom four are older than him and still alive, he was the one who, I hear, care about family most. I don’t know, I wasn’t as close to him as my brother was.
Another one of my uncles, younger than him this time, has a screw in his leg that’s rusted. It’s been in there for years since he broke his ankle. Chances are, they’ll have to cut his foot off.
His son, just a year and a half younger than me, has malfunctioning heart valves. Palpitations – check. Expensive treatments – check. Childhood lost – check. I guess it’s the Divine power giving me a taste of what my mother felt when my uncle died. The kid has flaws, yes. It’s hard to even imagine the kid I grew up with being so sick. He used to be my personal joke source, my confidante. At times, I was his partner in crime, sometimes, he was mine. He used to be brilliant, and all he ever wanted was for his family to be whole.
All of this serves to bring in just one phrase into my mind. Memento Mori.
Because, there is just way too much sorrow to fit into this tiny life we’ve been granted. It is so much easier to remember that we have to die too, and that everything isn’t over. This probably makes me sound suicidal, but I am actually fine, not contemplating suicide. After all, it is the humane ability to forget that keeps us going when we would otherwise have been wallowing in apathy.
Rita miss, this is my very weak and probably unsuccessful attempt to relieve your burden somewhat. The last few years have been hard on me, and I just want you to know, you are not alone.
Yarnful of Stories 