Mummy had a fever on Saturday, 16 October. As she didn’t have any appetite, she declined to take any medication on an empty tummy. Abah wanted to bring her to see the GP on Sunday but she refused. Finally, on Tuesday, 19 October, Akak and Abah brought her to a private hospital (the hospital actually specialises in gynaecology but she requested to be brought there as she was familiar with the doctor). Test blood on Tuesday didn’t reveal anything; however on Thursday, it showed she had dengue. She was immediately given platelet treatment and continued to be on drip.
She looked fine on Friday and even the doctor remarked that some of the colour had returned to her face. I remember thinking how red her lips looked, like she had applied lipstick on.
On Saturday, Abah stayed with her until half past eight in the morning, promising to be back later. He said they had their usual morning talk, he made her some hot chocolate and gave her some dates to eat and even massaged her back when she asked him to. Her back sometimes gave her problems but what do you expect, she was over 69 years old.
However, after 10, she called the doctor saying she had trouble breathing and pain in her chest. I was on my way to the hospital when Akak told me about it and practically ran all the way there. There was a delay as the nurses decided whether I could be allowed to see her and finally, after what seemed an eternity, I was allowed to go down to first floor where she was brought to.
The doctor came out and told me she had difficulty breathing and then told me that she was gone. That they couldn’t save her. I looked at her in disbelief and asked almost accusingly, ‘What do you mean?’ Then I demanded to see Mummy and there she was, on the bed, not moving. I was numb and went to her in a daze, repeating, ‘Mummy, Mummy, I’m here’ over and over again. I didn’t have any premonition, foreboding or bad dreams that she would be gone so it all came as a great unbelievable unpleasant shock.
Abah had arrived by then and the ambulance people too (the doctor told me they called the ambulance over earlier, when they were trying to help Mummy). I went out to see him and told him in a daze that Mummy seemed to have stopped breathing, because I still refused to believe that she had gone. I still thought and held on to the little hope that she might still be revived, that the ambulance people could help resuscitate her where the hospital staff had failed, that it was all a big cruel unfunny joke and that Mummy would suddenly wake up and all would be well again as it had been before and we could all go home happy and relieved and thankful. Abah came in, went to her and held her and recited ‘Allah’ to her repeatedly.
But it was not to be. I told the doctor to keep trying for another half an hour but if I was hoping for a miracle, it didn’t happen. Akak and Nadia arrived shortly after and I went up to pack her things.
The ambulance man was kind and thoughtful enough to volunteer to bring Mummy home and I rode with him to show the way. I was numb the whole way. I was still in disbelief because she had looked so much better just the day before.
We quickly prepared the hall for the visitors to pay their last respect, rolling out the carpet and mats and bringing out the Yassin. I didn’t want to leave her side and continuously read Yassin to her over and over again. Some ladies were in the kitchen preparing shredded pandan leaves and whatnot. I saw them but didn’t register their faces. All I can say is I’m glad for the help because we needed all the help we could get. Abah was busy calling up the relatives and the mosque cleric (imam) to arrange for the burial (Muslims believe that bodies should be buried as quickly as possible).
One by one, the neighbours and relatives started arriving and the Yassin recital grew stronger and louder. Oh Mummy, that is all I can give you now, my prayers and hope for your peace on the other side.
We brought her to the mosque just before 4 pm. Akak and I helped to bathe her. Oh Mummy, that was the last physical deed that I could perform for you. After that was over, we wrapped her up in white unstitched cloth and gave her our last kiss. I couldn’t remember how many times I kissed her. Oh Mummy, I can never kiss you again. I can never talk to you again and share my problems, my encounters, my stories etc. I can never pick up the phone and say ‘Hello Mummy’ again.
We brought her to the burial ground at Taman Kosas and laid her to rest around 6 pm. It was drizzling lightly (those who journeyed from Johore – for Mummy and Abah are Johoreans - told us of the heavy rain they endured all the way until Pagoh, so heavy they could hardly see a few metres ahead) but I was glad it didn’t rain heavily and made the visitors wet or stay away from her service.
It was with a heavy heart that I later walked away from her burial ground to return home.
My family and I would like to say a big thank you to those who came, who sent text messages, kind thoughts and prayers, who recited Yassin for her, who helped in the kitchen with the burial preparations, who helped to give my Mummy her last bath, who performed the solat jenazah, who helped to make the burial smooth, who attended the service, who participated in the tahlil, even though I know the majority of them don’t read this blog. I had switched my handphone to ‘silent’ since Saturday (until late Wednesday) and didn’t take any calls from anyone. Don’t get me wrong: I was grateful for the thoughts but I didn’t hear the calls as the phone was on ‘silent’. Besides, I just wasn’t ready to talk yet.
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When I think of the times when I disagreed with her or got angry with her for something which now seem so stupid and trivial, it makes me very sad. If it’s one thing I don’t want to have in this life, it is regrets but I can’t help thinking that there’s more that I should have and could have done for her. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a good daughter, I’ve been a trial to my parents ever since I was born with my stubborn and obstinate attitude and I know they deserve someone better as a daughter. Someone who is obedient, who is agreeable, who doesn’t swear or have bad moods and emo yoyos, who is pleasant-mannered and gentle. But I’m not that although I try hard to be. And although I don’t want to have any regrets, I cannot help but think at times that she had gone too soon. I can’t help thinking that although I have been blessed than some of my other friends, even my half-brothers, who lost their mother much, much earlier in life, that I have been robbed of my mother’s love too soon. She left too sudden and too soon after my brother (a mere six and a half months after his passing).
I hope I haven’t given you too much heartache, Mummy. I hope I haven’t disappointed you too greatly. I hope that you forgave me for all my wrongdoings and gave blessings to my food and drink. I hope I haven’t made you gave up hope or made you too angry with my stubbornness. I hope you are at peace now on the other side and will continue to watch over me like you used to do. I hope you’re not too lonely there. I wish I can still keep you company over there but what can I do except offer my prayers for you now.
Having witnessed how my late brother suffered towards the end in his battle against his disease, it had been Mummy’s wish to die a death where she would not suffer long. She had hoped that she would die from fever or something similar, where she would not have too suffer too greatly and where we, her survivors, would not be unduly burdened. You see, even in that, she was selfless and thoughtful. And alhamdulillah, she got her wish. In fact, everything went smooth from transporting her back home to laying her to rest. Alhamdulillah for that.
But how am I going to survive without her by my side? How am I going to go through life without her guidance? Who will I talk to now about my fears, angst, concerns and worries? Who will I share my joy and happiness with now? Who can I bring with me on some of my travels? Sure I still have Abah but the father-daughter relationship is somehow slightly different from a mother-daughter relationship.
I don’t want to blame God for taking her away the way she left because that was what she wanted and how she wanted to leave. It’s not the how, but the when because I feel that it’s too soon for me to live without a mother’s love. But then again, there is never a good time, is there. And God’s will will be done. The moment of death has been pre-determined and will come not a second sooner nor a second later. I have to continue to believe in that.
I am blessed to have a good family support and strong circle and network of friends to help me through this difficult period. Because I’m not a strong person, I need all the help and support that I can get. And I want to grieve the way I want to, for as long as I should because it takes time to accept things. I want to allow myself to grieve properly. Of course I know that those alive must continue on living. I do accept that. But give me the time and space to grieve and allow me to cry when I couldn’t help myself and don’t look on or away in disgust or anger when I do that because I’m too emotional and not strong enough to contain myself. And if I have to turn to something like football to channel my grief, then don’t mock or sneer or snicker at me.
This is the hardest blog entry I’ve ever have to write but it’s something that I have to do, if only to release myself. I always think that I don’t want to outlive my parents because I don’t think I can live without them. Sure, no parent would want to outlive his/her children but I can’t bear the thought of living without my parents. I don’t think I’d survive. And yet, and yet, that is exactly what I have to do now. For now, I’m taking one day at a time because that’s all I know.
Oh Mummy, what will I do without you in my life now? How am I supposed to live without you? And yet, that’s what I must do. I must continue to live even if life is no longer as complete as before. So help me, God.
Do I have it?
