Lessons of grief
In memory of Lai Hock
How often do we notice the beauty of the sunrise and sunset? But if one day the sun ceases to exist, we would all experience profound grief and regret.
My friend Lai Hock was like the sun. His being and presence was so large, he seemed he would always be around. He was always a text message away, and he often told me he would always make time for me. At his memorial service yesterday, several people delivered eulogies, sharing how they had regular coffee and tea sessions with Lai Hock, and these sessions would often run for 2–3 hours.
I wondered how he made time for so many people.
I was caught in a moment of shock and denial when I saw the news of his passing last week. It only lasted a moment, before I went into the shower and sobbed like a child. I couldn’t help but observe in the background: why was I so sad? We weren’t particularly close, so I thought, I didn’t spend that much time with him.
I learned that grief doesn’t need to have reasons. It doesn’t allow rationalising or intellectualisation. I am reminded of one of my favourite quotes:
“Love, then, is less a utility and more a preemptive form of grief. Allowing something to matter is simply another way of saying you’re going to care when it’s gone.” — Helena Fitzgerald
I wasn’t conscious of it, but grief brought it into light: I loved Lai Hock, even if the time we spent together was so very little. I was telling a friend that there is universality in the beauty of certain objects, like the beauty of a sunrise, and ever so rarely, the beauty of a human being. I loved Lai Hock because he was a great, beautiful human being, he was someone who was genuine in every inch of his presence (I can’t help but add: which is very rare in this society), and he must be one of the least judgmental person I know, or at least he worked to transcend his judgments to allow the space for compassionate responses.
Some of us mourn the loss of forests, coral reefs, whales because we instinctively understand what the loss means. I now understand we can mourn the loss of a beautiful human being the same way when we lose a magnificent part of nature.
In existential psychology there is a concept of existential guilt: we feel guilty when we do not live up to the promise of ourselves, when we fail to become who we are. I didn’t consciously know this back then, but I had always felt a tad uncomfortable in Lai Hock’s presence. He is like the sun, we marvel at the beauty from a distance, but it can be scorching when we get too close. He is scorching because in his presence I am reminded of who I am not. I am made aware of the lack of my generosity, compassion and presence in contrast to him. Sometimes self-honesty is a little hard to bear, so we unconsciously walk away from it, especially mirrors who uncompromisingly reflect who we are.
I would like to propose a concept similar to existential guilt: reciprocal guilt. It is the guilt that occurs when we are unable to reciprocate at the same magnitude being offered to us. So I semi-consciously walked away further from him, because I felt like I couldn’t reciprocate what he was giving to me.
Grief is never a singular event. It is a series of cascading effects. The death of a person makes me think: who is next? What if I am next? What if some other person I love is next? Have I lived well? What about all those things I said I would do but never did? Why didn’t I spend more time with this person? Why am I caught up in these petty concerns?
The last time I grieved, it threw me into an existential crisis. It resulted in me moving back from San Francisco to Singapore. I returned still bright-eyed, and I threw myself into meeting people and participating in collective efforts. That was how I met Lai Hock.
I volunteered my time with his organisation, GUI. My time there among other efforts I threw myself in taught me a powerful lesson: we carry and express ourselves in everything we do and everybody we meet. If our self is full of baggage, that is also what we’re carrying to others. I burned out in everything I tried to do, because I have an inability to set boundaries within myself and in my environment. I knew I would always be repeating my negative patterns unless I sought to work on myself.
Eventually, I became a recluse. I had health and anger issues, and I figured that I should quarantine myself from people, just like what a person would do if they are carrying a virus. I wouldn’t want to be spreading my “virus” everywhere. If I cannot light up people’s paths, at the very least I should stop affecting other torches.
That was how I lost touch with Lai Hock.
I am aware that a huge part of my sadness is guilt. Guilt for not keeping in touch, for not measuring up to the brightness of his light, for not being able to endure his presence because of my own reflection, for not being able to reciprocate his love.
I have so much regret.
Yesterday, one of his dearest mentees delivered an eulogy, sharing with us some of Lai Hock’s last words with them before he passed away unexpectedly. He told them what they must learn: they must learn not only to connect, but to heal.
That was when I knew. He would have understood my desire to be in solitude because I wanted to work on myself. He of all people would have understood and given his blessings. I have learned that I cannot connect unless I heal.
What have I learned between my first event of grief and now (I have to say I am tremendously lucky that at this point in my life I have only touched by grief twice)? I have learned to be more self-honest. The last time, it took me months before I even dared to cry. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t sad because I didn’t want to face the possibility of having to change my way of life.
It turns out that life will change us even if we are unprepared and unwilling.
I think I have grew the capacity to face grief in its face and experience my regret, to let my tears fall whenever they want to, to take responsibility for the decisions I have made. Again, in existential psychology there is an emphasis on the freedom and responsibility of decisions. To endure freedom, we must choose. In every choice we make, there is always choices we are not making. To be free, to choose, we have to decide one over another.
I chose to work on myself in the way I could and knew how to, and in that process I have lost. The reality of not being able to live all our unlived choices means there will be inevitable regret, and I think growth is about developing the ability to endure that regret and contemplate if we need to reassess the choices we can make for the present and future.
The grief and regret for Lai Hock is still fresh, and I am not sure how it will change me. I am still feeling the effects of the last one in 2014. But this time, I will not avoid the change. I want to seriously contemplate what it all means to me and how I will integrate it.
They say a great human plants trees they will never get to sit in, and I think that epitomises the spirit of Lai Hock. Based on the turnout and the eulogies delivered yesterday, he had planted a ton of seeds, cultivated many saplings, pruned some trees — across a wide spectrum of ages — while also providing sunlight for all of them.
I thought I would have a date with him sometime in the future, where I can share with him my progress, my learnings, how far I have come along since he met me. He would never get to witness the shade of the tiny canopy I have grown, but I will try my very best to share it with the people, the country, the earth, the humanity and the universe he so very loved.
