Scream I Must

How could it be, that only 5 Sundays ago, we ran home to shower up, grab blankets, socks and sweaters so we could be by your side? How could it be, that only 5 Sundays ago, I curled up on the floor by your bed the whole night through? How could it be, that only 5 Sundays ago, you could still give me a smile and a thumbs up when I asked if you were feeling alright?

I have been telling myself each time it hit me, these weeks past, that I am actually not here, not in the country, or that you've gone back to JB - that's why we've not seen each other for so long. And then I tell myself, that is not quite right either, so for the last year or so, with the aid of technology, no matter where you or I traveled, we still saw and spoke at least once a week.

And then I get angry with you, for leaving me behind. For going off by your lonesome self, leaving me to fend for everyone else. To sort out your affairs. To tie up your loose-ends. To figure things out for myself. To have to depend on others who perhaps now feel I am too much of a pest.

To say I miss you, is an understatement. Just like the word "condolence" which is suppose to convey all things unspeakable, "miss" does not begin to describe the emptiness that is now exposed.

Tonight I want to sit and scream at the top of my lungs. Too hell if I scare the shit out of my lovely neighbours - this girl needs to let it out, let it rip, let it run lose and wild.

Cos right now, a month in, I have held it in enough and I have held up it enough. It's time to claim my space, my grief.

The Grief Has Come

I recall another time, of a similar scene - me sitting at my desk, heaving like I am choking and finding it hard to stop the tears from falling. And I am familiar with this scene and what it is called.

For the last 3 weeks, I have been indulging in what my Irish colleagues call - Occupational Therapy. Mindless working and constant motion. Never stopping to be still and just be. And now, 3 weeks have passed that I have been wearing black, with another week to go before the colours can come out again.

I am hesitate that this week to pass, for me to once again switch my clothes in the cupboard into their correct order of purpose. For it would mean that Dad's been gone a month. And I have been without his voice, his smile, his touch, his whole being for the same length of time.

I understand now why some folks prolong their mourning. It provides some form of false pretense, as if the colour cloak you from the pain of missing someone so dear and so loved, so very badly. But I also know that prolonging something that needs to be addressed, changes you on the inside. You become so well at blocking it, you simply become numb.

I know on 27th March 2013, Dad would want to see me in the brightest of my colours. Because if there is anything that he most wanted out of his death to those who are living - that we continue to live, and live well!

But it doesn't deny the fact that the grief has arrived at my door.

How Soon Is Too Soon?

This morning, I am stuck with the thought: we seemed to have moved on. And the question beckons - have we done it too soon?

Are we not suppose to sit and stare into space? Are we not suppose to mourn and bemoan the fact that life cannot go on cos Dad's not here anymore?

Mum, Fabian, the children, Aunt Cat and to some extent, myself included - we seemed to have forged new ways to do things. Today, the elders are heading to the grocers with a family friend driving them. And while I am so proud that they are carrying on, I also feel a slight pang that goes "Hey! You can't do that!"

I know wherever he is, Dad sure would be proud. I just hope he doesn't think that he is no longer missed. Cos as much as life goes on and the great world keeps spinning - there is a still a big gaping hole that stares at us in our face.

Just Plain Angry

There is suppose to be 5 stages of grief. Yet, I only know one - Anger.

I am so angry, even Ben thinks I'm in a bad place, and my BFF responded with a "HUH?!"

What am I angry about? A lot of things. Who am I angry at? Only 1 person. And it's shameful cos he's not even alive to defend himself anymore.

All I ask for is this: one lil simple sign - to let me know as you always do - that I am not broken, but merely slightly bent. Otherwise, we both know where this road is gonna lead to.

And you and I both know - that is the road that lead furthest from you.

Empty Chairs

My world stopped turning 2 weeks ago, when I got a call saying Dad was rushed to the Emergency Room. He went in fully dressed, he came out in a burial shroud.

We laid him to rest yesterday. Since then, I cannot help my imagination from spinning out of control. The darkness. The silence. All these things will be his companions from now on... 6 feet underground.

I have not addressed his death. I may have been saying out-loud "My daddy's dead" but no matter how many times I say it in my head or to folks around me, it is not sinking in.

This is a conscious effort to let it rip. And I am failing miserably.