-Brian Mendonça
The words in the title were a WhatsApp message from
Dad’s doctor. She always had a kind word and a smile for him when dad shuffled
into her consulting room. We had sent her an e-copy of the announcement for the
first death anniversary Mass for dad. Though she practiced a different faith,
death levelled us all. In this busy world t was one of the most poignant
messages we received.
Soon
after dad passed I felt cheated by life. ‘Why had he to go?’
I asked myself bitterly. The transition from a pulsating human being so full of
life to a corpse, cold to the touch was beyond comprehension. Like Shakespeare’s
Prince Hamlet one could savagely ruminate over God’s handiwork in his famous
soliloquy, ‘What a piece of work is Man.’ This lofty creature must ultimately
turn out to be ‘this quintessence of dust.’
I tried to distract myself by doing other things. Yet
the finality of death keeps haunting you. ‘Could I have said this in a better
way?’ the voices rise in accusation. I found a moment of refuge in haiku and
yoga. Surrender to nature, to the immanent design seemed to be the best thing.
After
3 months the black dog of
depression rears its head. At a weekend trip to Malvan I am driven by desperate
thoughts at dead of night of just walking into the roaring sea. You cannot
escape the demons. They are inside your head.
Dance Movement Therapy unloosened the tautness of
remembrance. ‘The body remembers more than the mind,’ we are advised Relax
–relax- relax, the instructor was seeing as we lay on the ground. And as I felt
myself plummeting, I fancied I was lying beside my dead dad. For the first time
both of us were sleeping peacefully.
A gradual acceptance started dawning with a Vision
Board workshop where I grappled with my guilt. I felt immensely blessed at the
thought, ‘The Universe will sort it out for you.’ Prayer brings healing.
Around
6 months later we were invited to spend Christmas in
Ernakulam, Kerala with the family. We observe the festive mood and understand
that life is cyclic.
We spend time together as a family. We travel together
to places both outside Goa and within Goa. We visit dad’s favourite eating
joints and imagine him sitting there beaming.
Writing has sustained me. I don’t balk from sharing my
experience. Perhaps someone going through the same thing can take heart.
As Queenie and I gently place dad’s photo on the shelf
in the showcase in the front room, I realise that dad belonged to everyone. We
were just co-travellers with him in this journey of life.
Almost
a year later I feel lighter. I am more comfortable with myself. I am
done with recrimination. I have
jettisoned the ballast of blacks and blues from my wardrobe. I wear cool cotton
kurtis.
After the Mass of remembrance the family gathers for a
meal.
--------------------------------------------------------------------Published in Gomantak Times Weekender, St. Inez, Goa on Sunday, 29 July 2018. Pix of pastel colour painting on grief and art by Gail Sibley 'Using art-making to deal with my sadness and anger,' at www.howtopastel.com
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