I can only pray

"If I had known Papa was going to pass away so early, I would've documented his life on paper and shared his stories in words. But I didn't. I was seven when he passed away and the unfortunate regretful fact is I will never know him the way others did because I was only seven."

For the longest time, I avoided talking about Papa. The truth is, even hearing people talk about him stirs an unfamiliar feeling in me and I'm not sure I know how to deal with that.

Recently, though, after numerous interviews with writers, I set down my determination to start on a new project of letters addressed to Papa.

I titled the new collection Letters to my Papa and this comes years after I unintentionally put away my paper and pen and left my passion for writing behind.

I used to write short stories when I was in Secondary School. I would marvel at the way words moved me the way my first essay dedicated to Mama moved her to tears. I was awed by the power of words and I fell in love with language.

I wrote for the people who kept me together during tough times and for the people who abandoned me without batting an eyelid. I wrote for my imaginary friends and to fill the space Papa left behind.

Then I stopped writing at all.

Was it because of school? Definitely.

Unsurprisingly, of course, in a society that focuses so much on academic results and paper qualifications, I had to make sure I remained competitive and competent in the rat race. So I dropped my passion for reality.

Years went by without me even thinking about writing. That was a luxury - one I couldn't afford.

I studied and studied and studied. I made friends and cut out the negative ones. I lost family members. I was happy and sad and angry and lonely and sometimes I felt everything at the same time but I couldn't write. I didn't have the time to.

A couple of weeks ago, I told myself I had no more excuses. Every writer here has a day job yet they commit themselves to writing because they love to and they want to. What excuse do I have? 

I picked up my pencil and started writing:

"CHAPTER I: 9 April 2000 

Dear Papa, 

Today is the day you passed away..." 

The tears came slowly but surely. I bawled.

It was slightly past 11 that night and I was all alone at the study table. I couldn't stop myself from crying with every word I wrote. It took so much of me to surppress the cries and sniffs. My spectacles were fogging, my cheeks were growing hot and my teeth were chattering. I cried like I hadn't in a long time but I kept writing.

It was uncomfortable yet strangely assuring that I knew Papa, that in the short seven years I had with Papa was real.

You see, Papa didn't pass away peacefully.

He was battling a failing kidney - he only had one and required dialysis sessions three times a week but would sometimes skip because he felt they weren't changing his life for the better. I would occasionally accompany him for dialysis and I'd watch him sit there for hours. I asked him if it hurt but he insisted it didn't. 

How silly. It must have hurt having a needle and tube attached to your arm yet he said no. He said no. Papa did.

I remember the no smoking sign in our kitchen toilet. Mama had put it up specially for Papa. I vaguely remember he'd smoke with my uncles whenever they came over. He enjoyed his smokes but he wasn't allowed to smoke as much. Mama said she'd paste a band on his hand - that was supposed to suppress his craving for a cigarette.

The day he passed away, he was in a lot of pain. I know, we all do, because we were there with him at home.

Was it a Sunday? Why were we all home? Where was I? The kitchen? The hall? Fuck, I don't know.

Papa was sleeping on the bed he hadn't gotten a chance to sleep on for a while because he'd come home late every night and I'd steal the spot next to Mama. Papa would end up on the sofa. But he was sleeping on the bed that afternoon and half-naked as usual.

Then he choked (or did he?) and started  gasping for air. Did he choke on his dentures? Or did he choke at all? Was it a heart attack?

15 years later, I find out Papa's cause of death was renal failure and only because my insurance agent required that information. But a quick chat with the teeter said he passed away from a heart attack. 

"That's what's stated on his death certificate," she said. I've never seen the death certificate. Is it something of utmost secrecy that Mama kept hidden? How naive must I have been to never once considered the existence of such a paper.

Papa's passing is an extremely painful memory because the last I saw of him, he was in a lot of pain. He was struggling and suffering and that tore me apart inside.

So when I decided to dedicate my next collection of work to Papa, it was after much hesitation and consideration.

I was afraid of confronting a painful memory. I was scared I would be stripped of words to say. I was unsure, I was uncertain, I was uncomfortable and anxious and all things of that sort.

I lived most of my life with the memories of Papa quietly locked away in a corner of my mind. It was something I did in self-defense because I was so young when it happened and it would either make or break me. I definitely didn't have the confidence to extract a memory I had safely sealed away for 15 years.

But I did anyway.

What was I waiting for, really? For my career to soar? For the money in my bank to quadruple? Or for my memories to turn foggy? For the yellowed photos to fade?

I reasoned with myself. As much as I wanted to do it, I had the same amount of reservation because I was simply scared of going through that day again but I held myself tight and I did it.

I successfully completed the first installation of my new collection.

Certainly, it is not going to be easy writing about Papa. I cannot yet see or envision what the last page would be but I took the first step.

Every day, I fight with the space Papa left behind.

Did he love me? Did he hold me when I cried? Did he put me to sleep on nights Mama was too tired? Did he witness my first steps? Did he change my diapers? Did he feed me when I wailed out of hunger?

So many seemingly trivial questions to which I'll never know the answers to. And it saddens me because I will never know.

Losing my loved ones over the years has been really difficult to bear and it's even harder to accept because they were all so young. But sending them off became a daily reminder of how unexpected and fragile life can be. Cliche as it sounds, that's the reality of it.

That's why I tell my family I love them every day. That's why I'm not afraid to show affection. It could be Monday morning or Sunday afternoon and I'd tell the old friend how much I miss her or tell Mel how thankful I am to have her. I could be enjoying a night out but I'd text Angel just to let her know I remember her. Simply because these people are important to me.

And if I don't say it now, when will I? 

Every step I take to get to the hospital to see Ahma really takes a lot of me. Watching her shrink to nothing but skin and bones turns my insides upside down. That reality is brutal and I hate it.

I never really grew up with Ahma, partly because she was already busy raising my three other cousins and with the three of us, she'd have to deal with six children and Mama didn't want to put that kind of responsibility on Ahma so we mostly grew up with a helper by the side and Mama took charge of the upbringing.

Even after Papa passed away, we remained independent and there was only a very short period I was put in Ahma's care since Jo and I attended the same nursery. It was very, very brief so I don't remember much. I remember, though, she used to threaten me with the cane because I hated school so much I'd cry every day outside the classroom. 

Besides that, neither of us were brought up by Ahma.

There was also a language barrier - Ahma spoke teochew and Papa never taught us the dialect. We have not once learnt to speak it but fortunately picked up a few useful phrases through observation over the years. Still, my capacity for that dialect is extremely limited and this is after 22 years of existence.

So we didn't grow up together and on top of that, we couldn't communicate. It's safe to say I don't have the same affection for Ahma as my cousins do... but she is my Ahma after all. And I value family above all.

Losing so many family members, when my family is already small as it is, over the years makes me realize it'll always put me through the same emotions of distraught and confusion when I see someone I love lose his/her life to time. 

I hate it when I try to convince myself it's all part of life - old age and death - yet I cannot bring myself to accept. Why are we born just to experience death? 

The priest who did the prayers for Aunty Usha's third death anniversary said our life on earth is transient. When we die, we return to the source of where we came from. I haven't gotten to the point where I successfully convince myself of that. Right now, I believe I am born out of love between Mama and Papa. How can I return to where I came from when Papa's no longer around?

This whole thing about life is sure enough a peculiar thing. Is this what they call a quarter-life crisis or an overwhelming curiosity?

Whatever it is, I wish I didn't have to deal with it.

I'm a self-acclaimed superwoman but there are some things even superwoman can't deal with and there are some days superwoman feel like breaking down. These days are those kind of days.