"It kills me sometimes, how people die."

Death sure is a strange thing.

I don't necessarily fear it but I don't fancy being there when it happens, especially to a loved one.

On some days, I think about the day God sliced Papa away from our lives. I would think about all the what-ifs and could-bes if he was still around.

I imagine he'd be the one changing light bulbs and assembling new cupboards, killing cockroaches and shifting furniture for us. On nights he returned home late from work, we'd have his signature fried rice for supper and durian parties during the season.

I imagine he'd drop me off at school before work and on nights I came home a little too late, he'd grumpily offer to pick me up and then rain on me for staying out.

Over time, those what-ifs turned into wishful thinking.

Truth is, I look into the mirror on some days and see the 7-year-old me still distressed, still confused, still naively thinking Papa is going to come home.

Years later, when I finally began to understand life, I thought to myself, "Too quickly."

I've never told anyone how I struggled to accept Papa's absence.

As a child, I grew up as Mummy's girl, my sis as Daddy's girl and I always thought things were meant to be that way. But when Papa left a little too soon, and I had to grapple with that fact at such a young age, I realised I didn't know who I was missing.

I was unfamiliar with that father figure. Not only because I was too young to understand but also because I spent little time with him.

The only meaningful memories I have of Papa are the only memories I have of him. (My favourite is the daily morning routine where he'd hold my hand and walk me down to take the school bus. His big, rough hand was scratchy against mine but it always warmed my small hand.)

My siblings, on the other hand, would sometimes share their loving memories of Papa. "He used to take me to MacDonald's for breakfast," my sister said. And I thought to myself, "Where were my MacDonald's breakfasts with Papa?"

The one regret I will always have is not choosing to spend time with Papa when I had the chance.

Given, no one knew or expected him to pass away at just 48 years of age but it doesn't change that fact that I will never be able to comfort the 7-year-old me.

~~~~~~~~~~

I make it a point to talk to Papa every day lest I forget about him.

Although it has been 16 long years, I haven't quite gotten used to his absence. I believe I live with a void inside and it is one even the best cardiovascular surgeon won't be able to find.

Because in the end, when you lose somebody,

every candle, every prayer

is not going to make up for the fact that

the only thing you have left is a hole

in your life where that somebody you cared about

used to be.

As trashy a show The Vampire Diaries was, this is one the scenes that really stood out to me. (I can't decide if the more surprising fact is that the scriptwriter gave this line to Damon.)

I suppose the only norm in life is accumulating holes because the people I love and care about will eventually expire and I have to learn to see their life on Earth as transient, their physical bodies as a mere vessel to carry out their lives here.

But it's tough.

The day we sent my Aunt off her last journey, I realised I wasn't half as strong as I expected myself to be at accepting death.

And that I still very much prefer to not witness it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The last 2 weeks proved to be one of the most trying periods for me. I don't think anything I've experienced so far cuts close to this.

A week after starting work, I received news that my grandpapa had been admitted. The nursing home decided to send him to the hospital because they felt he was beside himself and it was better to be safe than sorry when they were dealing with a 91-year-old.

He was mostly drowsy due to medication. Later, he was diagnosed with pneumonia and I most recently found out that he has blood in his lungs. 

During the time he was hospitalised, I visited him every day during lunchtime. There were some good days and not-so-good days. On good days, he would be chirpy and chatty despite not recognising anyone. On bad days, he'd be sleeping and we'd worry he'll never wake up.

What really broke me was when the sister said my mom and uncle told my grandpapa it's okay to go; that we're all grown up now and there's no need to worry for us anymore so he can go in peace.

At 91, I would like to believe he has led a fulfilled life with 5 children and 7 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren. 

He was a hardworking man who dedicated his life to his family. Whenever we gathered, he would always tell us the importance of having a degree certificate (because it meant a higher pay and more money.) He was very traditional with old-fashioned thinking but it is the one thing he still regurgitates in his current demented state.

I've seen him deteriorate over the years. Maybe I've even subconsciously tried preparing for the day I see him off. But right now, it absolutely breaks my heart to see him so frail and helpless.

These days, we talk about bringing him home to live with us where he will receive palliative care for his final days. (Mama says he won't last 3 months.)

When the talk for his end-of-life care came about, I knew we were expecting the worse. I know he wouldn't like his last days to be spent in an unfamiliar environment so I suggested bringing him back to a place he can call home where he is more likely to go at ease.

After all these years, it still kills me sometimes, how people die.