So much has changed in the last year. I don't know where to start.
The beginning is probably a good place. I applied for medicine last year, got a interview, and then a spot. The summer holiday was a long one in many ways - it was at least 8 weeks long, I was eager to start my new degree and terrified at the same time, most of my stuff was already packed because I was so nervous and it sort of made day-to-day living a bit difficult but whatever. I started uni in February this year, living on campus with eight classmates. I really struggled with homesickness. In a major way. My grandpapa fell ill(er), was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, deteriorated rapidly, fell into a coma about a six weeks before semester one exams, and passed away about two weeks later. It was a Monday night. I had applied to defer a test I had on the Monday morning, but was denied, so I came back to uni on the Sunday night. My sister called to tell me at about a quarter past 9 on Tuesday morning. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop crying. I didn't know what to do. In hindsight, I'm a little angry with the faculty for not letting me take the test at a later date, though I know anger is futile and exhausting. I could have been with my family through a terrible, terrible time. I went home that afternoon, and stayed until Friday morning. I missed out on a lot of uni, I couldn't cry at home, surrounded by an entire family falling apart, and kept forgetting what I was doing. It felt unreal. It was awesome seeing almost the whole family, but also terrible. I felt like I had to keep my wits about me, driving instead of mum (she was in no fit state), holding so many members of family as they cried. We saw my grandpapa's body at the mosque before the janazah prayer. He was tiny. I saw my dad cry. One of my little cousin's had a panic attack, his whole body shivering, couldn't breathe, couldn't stop crying. Death affects everyone in different ways. I just wanted to close my eyes and wake up. I wanted to fix the hurt in everyone's hearts. I wanted to run away. I felt guilty for wanting to get back to my room on campus, to sit alone and cry. I wanted someone to hold me as I cried, but I couldn't do that to my family.
My family didn't call me the night he passed away. They didn't want me spend the night worrying and alone. In some ways it was a blessing. I was super stressed about uni, people at uni, my own health; when I did find out and manage to stop crying, my first thought was to let my lecturer know that I couldn't make it to prac that afternoon and that I still wanted to see the agar plates. Why? I was bewildered and hurt, and trying to find some order and think sensibly. I'd be missing out on uni so I needed to be responsible. What's wrong with me? Why didn't I run home straight away? Grief does weird things to us. Throughout the next few days at home, my cousins, siblings and I swung between laughing hysterically and then remembering what had happened. In some moments, it was as if nothing had changed. We were together, stress-free, happy. And then someone was crying again.
I normally stay in my room a lot, once I get home from classes. This was a bit different. I just cried constantly. I had nightmares of a sick and dying grandpapa, to wake up to a reality a thousand times worse. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to sleep because I kept seeing him in my dreams, and then waking up knowing that I'd never see him again. But I was so tired.
And the guilt. The last time I saw my grandpapa conscious, he was home from hospital but quite poorly. He was sitting on his bed in my auntie's house. My mother spent the day with him. I was keen to leave with dad; I think I wanted to go somewhere. I wasted my last opportunity to see him alive. I was caught up with some stupid worldly distraction. The next time I saw him was maybe a week or two later. He was in a coma. I didn't believe the doctor's saying he wouldn't wake up. You never see death as something real. I thought that if I prayed hard enough, he'd wake up whole again, and live forever.
Back at uni and going through the motions. I fell apart each day when I woke up, and again when I came home after class. Certain people - a certain person - said some insensitive and ridiculously awfully things to me, as if their pain and wisdom was all that is important and right. I don't hate them, but it'll be hard to forget their words. It made me realise that words can never help, and though my friends were sympathetic, their kindness was again of little comfort (though at least not detrimental). A friend I went to school with passed away last year. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, but I always meant to get in touch with her again. This was the first time I'd known someone who'd died, apart from my dad's dad, who I hadn't seen since I was about three years old. My instinct was denial. I cried a bit, but mostly I just couldn't believe it. She'd pop into my head during lectures weeks later, and I'd hold back the tears. But it got easier very quickly, and soon it was just a distant fact.
With my grandpapa, I knew all of the rationalities and realities of life and death. I had the safety net of religion. I had the support of an amazing family. But it didn't stop the pain. Even when you know that all it takes is time, it hurts like crazy. It was awful then, and it's still awful now, though it doesn't occupy my thoughts all of the time now.
The week at home after exams was glorious. Back at uni for a fresh start, and the beginning of Ramadan. This was our first Eid without my grandpapa. We didn't go to my grandparent's house. We didn't kiss his hand. We didn't steal fruit of his cherry trees. We didn't tiptoe in the hallway during his nap time. We didn't see him dressed in his best white clothes for the five daily prayers at the mosque. Mostly I worried about my grandmama. She's a restless soul at the best of times, constantly busying herself with gardening, cleaning, visiting her kids. It's been three and half months since he went, and the reality of death is far away. I know that one day we will all die, that it is the way of the world, that life only has value because it one day ends. But the terrifying reality isn't so fresh in my mind. I thought it would change me. And yes, it has changed my world in a painful way, but I have not changed. I am in better spirits than I was at the time, but when I see his grave now, for a moment I forget what I'm looking at and when it clicks I feel sick. It doesn't feel real anymore. If I think about it, yes, it will all come back to me. But the whole thing seems to have just left an ache in my heart. And I have this sick heavy feeling even when I'm not thinking about his death. The pain makes me feel less guilty. It's a reminder that I am capable of normal feelings.
I often forget about how terrible it must be for everyone else. People are resilient, our capacity to forget and be distracted is a blessing, but the absence of the core of your family is hard to ignore. They all lived so closely together, visiting constantly, their routine's based around him. My immediate family lived further away for a few years so our routine wasn't so set, but sometimes I remember that my mum has lost her dad, and that she used to phone him all of the time. I am angry with her for working so hard, but then I remember that keeping yourself busy means your thoughts wander less, and it's probably a good thing.
I think I'll stop here, for now. It's really hard to be coherent when you're crying.
Peace and love,
S.
