The First Time I Met Death Face-to-Face
He didn’t say hi.
It was a cold, dark winters’s night when Death decided to pay a visit — Wednesday night to be exact.
Mocha was sick again.
Mocha was a 4 year old Himalayan cat that joined my family at the age of 2. We thought it was just a common cold, because he always got that in the winter. He didn’t behave any stranger than sleeping in corners of the house like he would whenever he was sick. No one thought anything was wrong… at least, so we thought.
We were so wrong.
That night, Mocha decided to sleep under my bed. After finally falling asleep, I woke up to a wheezy snore sometime after midnight. His nose was clogged.
Snoring is the one thing that keeps me awake.
His snores crescendo-ed with each breath. It seemed to never end, this sound had no cadence. I got so annoyed I decided to do something about it:
Make him leave.
In order to quiet the noise, my solution was to move him. I got out of my warm bed, determined to achieve my goal of a silent night. It was no easy task. He was under my bed in a place that was hard to reach. There was a dresser lined up next to my bed, and both were against the wall. He happened to be leaning horizontally against the wall. The dresser impeded my ability to easily get him out.
It was hard for me to go under my bed and carry him out. I was already quite weak — he was heavy. The low bed frame and the position I was in didn’t allow me to use any other muscles except my arms. I tried to drag him out.
I wish I didn’t. I wish I wasn’t so selfish at the time.
Mocha had a coughing fit. A seizure. His head banged against the dresser. I didn’t know what to do! I sat there, watching in shock. Until it was over.
Death had arrived.
Without a word.
There was no sign of what he had done. Mocha’s once-bright blue eyes stared back at me blankly, it’s glow of life — gone.
I was in denial. I tried to get back the glow. I shook him, trying to wake him up, all while praying desperately to God to save him. Why didn’t I wake up the rest of my family?
Because Death didn’t say hello.
He didn’t say “Hello! My name is Death, and I have come to take a soul away!”. I didn’t know I was staring right at him. Because of that, I waited too long. The time to attempt to save a life already past. Death already took what he wanted and made another move:
He carved his name into my heart,
Let it bleed and let it scar. From then on, every time I saw or heard of Death, I was reminded of what he took and what he did.
The first few times hurt the most. The wound burned every time I heard someone talk about Mocha, and every time someone spoke of Death. The burning was so unbearable, I stopped conversations from continuing. It wasn’t just talk that triggered the burn either. Through the screen, through music — any mention or show that pictured death, what could’ve been just a teardrop falling came instead a sobbing storm.
When did it stop?
After I accepted what happened. Looking back, I realize now that the burning period of grief was due to my denial of Mocha’s death, and wishing for some way for him to resurrect. I kept picking at it. Like picking a physical scar, I interrupted it’s fading pace.
Time is needed for a scar to fade. Acceptance to an emotional scar is like a cream to a physical one. But deeper wounds take longer. The closer the loved one, the deeper the wound. The first time we meet Death close up is a memory that we can never forget. It’s been 8 years. The scar is still there. It does not burn, but…
The scar is still there.
