Grief is The Most Universal Thing, yet The Most Complicated Thing
CW abuse and death. This material contains depictions of abuse and death. The content is used in this writing to provide a personal experience going through grief. It’s neither meant as an endorsement nor meant to cause any harm; nevertheless, I encourage you to prepare yourself emotionally beforehand. If you believe that you will find the following reading to be traumatizing, you may choose not to read it further.
My mother’s hoarse voice startled me as she asked, “Who are you?” The question pained me deeply. My heart sank when I saw my mother in a daze, coming to terms with the passing of my father. I immediately embraced her tightly and she broke down in tears. Through her sobs, she managed to say, “Father is gone. We’ve been together for so many years, and now he’s no longer here.”
My aunt barged into the prayer room where my mother and I were, causing the door to creak open. She saw my mother crying and immediately raised her voice. “That’s enough, Mom! Don’t cry! Think about poor father!” My blood boiled at her words. I replied, “It’s okay! Mom will stay with me!” then she stormed out of the room. I still remember the rage building up within me, then. Looking back now, I realize that my anger was not directed at my aunt; she was just another victim of a system and culture that have long prohibited healthy grieving. For me, grief is like an unwelcomed guest who shows up unexpectedly but eventually leaves when the time is right. Although I often wonder, when will that be?
I see my father everywhere.
It had been two weeks since my father passed away, yet I still caught whiffs of his familiar scent everywhere I went. It made me anxious. Every time I ate sushi, I couldn’t help but think of how my father used to pour sweet soy sauce on it, satisfying his love for sweets. Just the thought brought a small smile to my face. And in the kitchen, remnants of the corn sugar he used to control his blood sugar levels were still present. Whenever I passed Cikini Street, memories of taking my father to the hearing optometrist to maintain his hearing aids before his condition worsened flooded back to me.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, after long tiring day at campus, I stumbled my way back to my room. The sight of my messy bedroom greeted me. Clothes, both dirty and clean, were scattered on the floor. I was too exhausted to even think about tidying up. My eyes glued on a photo of my father and me, tucked away on one of my bottom shelves amongst my books. I crouched down and picked up the photo, gazing at it intently. Then, my attention shifted from the photo to my messy bedroom. Photo. Messy bedroom. Photo. Messy bedroom. The memory of his words before he passed away flooded back, and tears streamed down my face uncontrollably: I had not fulfilled his wish to see me get married before he passed, even then, my relationship with my boyfriend had already ended in turmoil. There was an emptiness that lingered in the room as I cried, with no one there to comfort me. Grief is a force that takes over emotions. Because grief is a container that holds the tumultuous and ever-changing emotions born of heart-wrenching loss. It’s capable of holding the deepest sorrows and the most beautiful memories in its grasp.
The day was dark and gloomy, filled with an unshakable sense of worry that hung thick in the air. My dad spent the entire afternoon sleeping in bed, completely unresponsive. It wasn’t until we put in extra effort to wake him up that he finally stirred. Our family was concerned, so, with the help of an ambulance, we rushed my father to the hospital. As he left, his face still held a small smile when one of us suggested going to the hospital. But the weight of worry was etched on my own face. I could only pray for my father’s healing.
During the time when COVID was rapidly spreading, anyone who wanted to be admitted to the emergency room had to first undergo a mandatory antigen test. Unfortunately, my father tested positive for COVID and also had underlying health issues related to his blood sugar. There were also concerns that he may have suffered a stroke. I felt completely helpless during this time, as my father’s health deteriorated and our family was not allowed to visit him.
After around a week of treatment, my father was finally discharged from the hospital. I was filled with happiness and gratitude for his recovery. However, his condition was still weak, and he needed assistance with eating and drinking, so the hospital placed an NGT tube in his nose. My family designated me as his caretaker, responsible for administering food and liquids through the NGT tube after receiving training from the nurses.
I agreed to do it because I saw it as a chance to show my gratitude and respect towards my father, who had raised me since infancy despite not being my biological parent. It felt like an obligation that I couldn’t turn down.
“Be quiet! Stop crying!” My father’s grip on my arm pulled me towards the kitchen, where he was boiling hot water. I could feel the fear in my voice as he threatened to pour it on me. But my mother intervened and took me to the prayer room to protect me. The traumatic memory of this incident resurfaced, one that I had tried so hard to bury. It happened when I was in third grade, after I refused to go to school because of bullying from a transfer student. Instead of asking why I didn’t want to go, my father chose to use threats and violence. It made me feel like there was no safe place for me. My father is more than just a violent figure; he is my solace during exhausting days, massaging my feet and telling me stories until I drift off to sleep. He also never fails to surprise me with books that I love.
Upon arriving home, I took on the role of my father’s caregiver with some help from my aunt who would often complain about it being the nurse’s responsibility. I couldn’t help but wonder why this wasn’t communicated to other family member with more authority and resources — namely money — to assist with taking care of my father. These thoughts were further provoked by a nurse’s warning about the potential dangers of feeding through an NGT tube. The pressure and responsibility weighed heavily on me, especially as I still had to complete my undergraduate thesis which was quickly approaching its deadline. As if my mind couldn’t handle anymore, my father’s condition suddenly worsened one quiet Wednesday morning. A brown liquid began to seep from his mouth, and he was rushed back to the hospital by ambulance. I impatiently waited for news, feeling anxious. Eventually, the doctor stepped out of the room to deliver the devastating news that my father had passed away.
There’s no perfect interval for grief. It has been two years since my father passed away, and there are many responsibilities to be taken care of, many changes to adjust and readapt to. Every night, I still see my mother waiting for sleep to come while sitting in front of the TV until she dozes off. This has become her nightly ritual since my father’s passing. The sound from the TV and the gentle breeze from the fan help her drift off into a peaceful slumber, as she cannot sleep alone before eleven o’clock anymore. As I think about this, my fingers unconsciously start fidgeting quickly — a sign of my anxiety. My thoughts drift to my mother’s health, who stays up late despite having hypertension and had been on heart medication. The fear of losing her consumes me, and I can’t help but imagine what would happen if her condition suddenly worsened due to her new routine. A tear forms at the corner of my eye as guilt washes over me, knowing that my worries stem from my own fears.
Even now, my room remains in a state of disarray. I can’t bring myself to tidy it up; it feels like if I do, he really will be gone. I thought that after learning about different ways to cope with grief and how to handle it in a healthy way, I would be able to navigate through it smoothly (I even tried to feel and acknowledge it like the theories I’ve read), but it seems that when faced with loss, I will always be a beginner.
I read that grief is like a large ball we carry around within us. It doesn’t shrink with time. Instead, we grow around it. Despite all the losses I’ve experienced, I’m grateful for each and every ball of grief I carry with me, and for the chance I get to keep growing around them. After all, as my friend said, grief is simply an extension of love.
Grief is a universal experience, but it appears differently for each individual. The process is complex and deeply personal. Your grief is very private, so we should let people process their grief at their own pace and their own way. And I’m still processing it.
Thank you for reading this ‘till the end! Please don’t forget to clap and drop a comment if you have anything to say! :)
