Faces : Phases

Received an sms from my uncle (my aunty's husband) on the night that I was back from Johor Bahru, where my beloved and I went for a weekend getaway. It was about 11pm last Sunday. Mine and I was chilling out at our favourite PJ before we headed home. I received my aunty's sms first. She was checking on me, asking me the time at which I would be home. My uncle's sms followed after my reply. He asked if I was aware of the date on when my aunty was discharged from the hospital. Forwardly I replied I did not know and asked if she was discharged on Sunday itself. My uncle reprimanded, "All you can say is that you don't know. Did you care? Why didn't you visit her? She was back on Friday."

His words pierced my heart, of course. I was dumb-founded. My throat choked with a sense of shame, yet anger at the same time; self-pity and heartache. Initially, I wanted to reply with a spirit of self-defence and anger. I wanted to question my uncle, "Why didn't anyone in the family tell me anything then?" But I stopped and prayed, thank God. About five minutes later, I finally replied with a simple, "I do care, but it doesn't help to know and worry about it. Have a good rest." At then, that was the best I could come out with.

Would any one care to hear my story? Even if it might come from a spirit of self-pity. Would any one be interested to hear my share of the story?

Words can never fathom the pain and trauma that I still feel inside, every time I am reminded of the slow process of my mother's death; her images, the last scenes - her moans, her cries, her forgetting who I am to her, her slowly dying away. The last two months of waiting for the time to come. The last two months of sleepless nights, waiting by her bed in the terminal ward of the hospital; where news of terminal patients dying were heard as often as every fortnightly. The last two months of waiting for her to gasp her last breath, to catch the last sight of her. My own mother. How could I not be traumatised? I DETEST the sight, the smell, the touch and the feel of a hospital; of sitting and waiting by a hospital bed. I HATE IT. An excuse for myself?

I could hardly sleep that night, after returning home from PJ. I turned on my favourite worship CD to coax myself to sleep. I asked Daddy, "Daddy, am I really in the wrong? Am I giving myself too many excuses? What am I to do, Daddy...teach me..." With tears in my eyes, I fell asleep. It is very painful. To have your grandmother giving you cold shoulders every morning. So cold, I would rather rush out of the house every morning, and stay out of the house every night. Sometimes, she seems happy. Then I would think that I have finally done something right. But shortly after, she would start to give me cold shoulders again. What have I done wrong again? How not to feel condemned?

The next morning, my aunty came into my room. She smiled and asked, "Uncle scolded you last night?" I'd rather say no. Then with a smile again and a gentle pat on my back, she said, "It's nothing, don't bother about it." I was holding back my tears that very moment. She was looking so puny and weary. It really really did pain me. The words that she said touched me so much. It was as thought her smile was telling me, she knows my heart. Do I look like someone with a heart made of steel? Why doesn't my own family just believe that I do care?

Then as I rushed out of the house, I could no longer hold it...my tears rolled and washed my cheeks.