CHANTAL TSHIMANGA —
RISE OVER RUN
A | LORENZO COLOCADO | PROJECT
It seems fitting that I am writing this piece while being slightly distracted by something else on a screen. Classic avoidance when you are writing about an issue that is just hard to even put into words. I have been following ‘Enzo’s (Lorenzo) project since it started and I am honoured he asked me to share one significant struggle that has occurred in my life.
Grief is never easy, especially when it strikes you a few times. I’ll start at the beginning. I am Daddy’s little girl, people say we even look the same. I inherited traits such his boldness, love of community organizing, love of politics and even his astigmatism. My dad always laughed and I think was slightly worried about how much I was like him. It always made me proud and sometimes gives me comfort. My dad had a serious stroke when I was in the spring of Grade 10 (2007–2008). I still remember the stretcher in the living room and my horrified face as I ran up the stairs to hide, to cry. I also remember this is when I began to question the passing judgements of extended family members. Let me explain. My family has been for many years, a pillar in our community, respected and admired and not for lack of trying. My dad was the president of the community association and laid the groundwork for a centre of integration for immigrants. He was loved and by association, so was his family. My house was like a community centre: always bustling, full of talks, food, people and laughs. The stroke affected us and the community. His journey to recovery was hard, tiring, and complex, at times he even forgot his children’s names, his wife’s. I was on the roller coaster ride of my life. One of the Titans in my life had fallen, and I just didn’t know when he would rise again. We held on hope and had optimism, with great PT and positive reviews by his doctors. My dad even managed to come home for a home visit. Grade 11 looked very good and I was excited to see him come home. Grade 12, his recovery regressed and by prom, he still wasn’t home. My last tearful conversation with my father was before I came to Queen’s, on university and advice on how to do well. My last kiss on my father’s cheek when he knew it was me. I started my first year with reserved excitement, still thinking of my first professor, in a care facility, fighting to get back to us. Around Dec. 8, 2010, I received a call from my mom. “Sweetie, Daddy isn’t going to make it, you need to come home.” I spoke with a little shake in my voice and calmly agreed with my mother, who was also trying to keep calm. I later contacted my sister, to get a letter from his doctor to give my teachers. We held our breath. My don was next to know and helped me get ready to leave. The hospital room was full and by his bedside, I kissed my dad. I said goodbye to my dad on Dec. 16th and buried him 3 days before Christmas. Some people couldn’t even look at me at the funeral in the face since I apparently hold a striking resemblance to him. The first man I had ever loved was gone from this life and my heart broke, I felt it in my chest; for me, my mother and my sister. We lost one of the loves of our lives.
At the end of December, I was hit with another blow. My grandpa, who had also been sick, had also just passed. I buried him the weekend of January 8th, right before I went back for winter semester. I buried two important men in life in a short amount of time. I went to a counselling session and tried to process my grief. 2nd year was hard, grades suffered and so many things made me cry. Some people wondered how I could go on, go back to school, when my life literally fell apart. I did for three reasons: my mother asked me, she wanted me to find ‘normal,’ routine or she was afraid I would just stop. Secondly, for myself, same reasons, and lastly for my dad, the former educator who loved school so much and instilled that love in his twin girls. At the end of 2nd year, I lost a childhood friend. University was filled with grief for me, but I’m still here and went through process to contend with the stark loss and tragedy. Grief became my cross to bear. I think of them, pray for them and yeah, still wish things were different. I held fast to God, yes even after asking him why countless times and to the Circle of Life, the child must bury the parent. Now, whenever I look in the mirror, I see what others have already seen. My father in my smile, my father in my eyes and my father in my face. I even have my dad’s haircut from like the 80’s! At first, that gave me little peace, but now it gives me comfort. I can look in the mirror and see him. I miss him profoundly, probably more than I’ll ever know in my heart of hearts. But I continue to believe everything happens for a reason.
