Nine days after my sister, Rita, passed away due to a ruptured brain tumor, I stood at the garden of my parents' home. We were having a dinner party because it's customary to have people over to pray on the ninth day. White tents protected finely decorated dining tables from that night's drizzle. Silver Tiffany(esque) chairs and floral centerpieces gave the event a festive look. And I felt... I felt that something was incongruent with the festivities and the reason for them. I felt there was too much ado, too many social events to mark such a sad occasion. I felt angry. I felt the saddest of sad. I felt... Nothing in my vocabulary could really describe how I felt.
Ten days before Rita left, she first went into coma. As we rushed to the hospital, I felt scared, worried. But nothing prepared me for the news that we were about to receive that afternoon. That her tumor bled, and the blood filled up 40% of her brain, and that it could only get worse. That she was as good as gone. Though that report got me crying instantly, its meaning still did not sink in right away. I went to the ICU and talked to her, urging her to wake up. In the most cheerful voice I could muster, "Wake up, Rita, we have to shop for books!" In full denial of the reality that she was gone. Though her body was there, breathing, she was never going to wake up. That night, when I went home, I cried hysterically, refusing to accept the worst possible eventuality. I kicked and screamed. I felt like throwing up. I wanted to strip off my skin. I wanted to reverse time. I wanted to escape, but I didn't know how.
As we waited for days in the hospital, we went through a host of emotions and actions. There were times when we hoped for and believed in a miracle; the miracle we really wanted was for Rita to wake up. Obviously, that didn't happen, but there were other miracles of love and enlightenment that gave meaning to the suffering. There came a point when we had to just let her go, and we even had to verbalize to her that we were letting her move on, even when she was brain dead and we were not sure about what she could hear or understand. But even as we said those words, we knew that we were thinking contradictory thoughts. We were not ready to let her go. We wanted her to wake up, smiling her awesome, picture-perfect smile, speaking excitedly in her gentle, loving voice, and we would run to the nearest bookstore to indulge in her only vice. And everything would be fine. Ahh, that hospital room could not hold all the emotions our family felt.
But amid those periods of stress, sadness, fear, our family bonded. We reminisced. We teased each other. We made fun of each other, the way we used to as kids. And we displayed amazing love for Rita, for our parents, and for each other. But of course, there were tears. Each one of us grieved differently. We took turns breaking down into racking sobs. We took turns being strong, comforting the other. And we had to find words to explain to others what was going on.
Even my prayers were complicated. The negotiations. The pleadings. The cries of desperation. The surrender. My prayers changed through the days--at first, selfish prayers, dictating exactly what I wanted God to do, and then eventually, just a faithful prayer of His will be done, because His thoughts were not mine, because my myopic view of the world was nothing compared to His perspective. Because His view saw the joy beyond the mourning. As the chances for a recovery became bleaker by the day, my prayers were channeled towards my family's health, comfort, and understanding. And mine too.
Days before Rita's body finally succumbed, I was already in a state of numbness, my psyche's defense mechanism for staying strong, staying strong for myself and for my family. I stopped crying, and the event manager in me kicked in and started preparing for the logistics of death. I felt guilty that maybe I did not have enough faith for a miracle, but at the same time, I felt that I had to be the responsible one to take on the tasks, so that those who were suffering more pain, a greater loss--my sister's husband, child, and my parents, would not have to worry about the trivial.
And when she finally went, I had the task of accompanying her corpse to the morgue, checking on her hair and make-up and other accouterments. That was surreal, to say the least. Alone with her, at the morgue, checking if she looked fine, touching her and knowing that was not really her anymore--how could I dare describe how I was feeling, when most of the time, I was controlling emotions, but at times, failing to do so, breaking down.
At the wake, I went through the motions. Mostly, I was exhausted. Staying up late, waking up early, being in charge, being social, being strong.
There were so many people. So many people. Some close to our family, some we haven't seen in ages. I've never seen a wake that jampacked with people. I was overwhelmed with the outpouring of love, comfort, and support. I was touched to know how loved my sister was, is. But at the same time, I wanted to be alone in my grief. I wanted to just curl up in a tight little ball and sleep my sadness away.
After the cremation, I dove into work. Not by choice, really. Just driven by commitments previously made. I had to be at my element, do my job, conduct workshops out of town. Sleepless. Restless. I was alone, and I didn't have to be strong for anybody else. And I allowed myself to break down. And grieve. And heal. But I realized, what they said about the phases of grieving--Shock, Anger, Rejection, Acceptance--was too neat a formula for real life. Somebody mourning goes through all that in a matter of minutes, days, weeks, going back and forth, never really following any patterns obediently, logically. You can't dictate to yourself what to think, to feel, or to stop thinking and feeling at will.
I had a friend who would text me and ask me how I was. How I resented that question! I really did. How the (expletive) do you answer that question? How can I begin to answer that in any way that's accurate? How can I properly articulate what I don't know? What I was going through was a melange of emotions that cannot be compartmentalized; it's one big, murky, illogical mess. Sadness, anger, hate, doubt, guilt, denial, grief intermingled with hope, faith, joy, understanding, gratitude. Layers and layers of emotions, gradated grief, some days good, some days bad. I have no words to describe any and all of that.
And then, there was the public purge. Facebook became a source of comfort as I stared at her pictures, trying to remember everything about her face, her life, the times we spent together. And my Facebook status box was just there conveniently for me to release my angst, to vent whatever I was feeling at the moment. Part of me felt some of those thoughts were too private for sharing. But part of me felt that as I shared my humorous musings, those who lost a friend would think that if I, the sister closest to her, could find something to smile, laugh about even while mourning, then there's hope for healing.
And now, thirty days after, when I have not cried about Rita for days, when I could talk to others about the event without my voice breaking, when I could look at her Facebook page without tearing up, thinking I was fine, I suddenly find myself sobbing in the shower. No longer crying in grief, but some selfish, bratty, whine for not getting my way. Because getting my way means a reversal of all that just transpired. I want my sister back! Alive! Here! Now! Not sick! Not dead! I wanted to throw a tantrum the way Rita used to do so when she wanted a pencil case so badly, the way I did when I wanted to finally have denim jeans instead of the frilly dresses my mom made me wear.
Complex. It is complicated. If anybody asks me now, how I am, I guess I'll say fine. Fine because I think I've finally had some rest, some sleep, some periods of normalcy--when that new normalcy includes having one less sister around. Fine. Because when no word can even begin to describe the complexity of the emotions of somebody recovering, trying to recover from the grief, then just go for the briefest of words. Fine. I'm fine.
