2nd April 2009
Death is grim. Death always wins. The final destination singled out yet another reminder. What have I observed?
Sahar. My colleague from May 2008 till early August 2008. The perfect complement to the majority of dull workaholics. Except few though none like her.
Stage One: Shock and emotional numbness.
3.30p.m.
I logged on to my google mail and read the dreaded news. She met with a horrible accident on Sunday and passed away. My instinct was to despairingly hope that it was the most cruel April fool’s joke on me. I knew the sender is not that sort, but I wanted to deny. I wanted to deny. I wanted to deny.
I was still-life.
Then began to act like fish out of water.
What should I do now? Go to grandma’s? She’s been calling. I have training. Skip it? What for? To indulge in grief? Is that the best option? Ah, I am responsible for a new player today. She is coming for training and knows only me. I can’t ditch her. (and accompanied by other senseless thoughts…)
I paced up and down the interior of my home.
Called my soccer mate with a crackled voice. “I may still go for training.”
Stage Two: Yearning for the person
5p.m. – 6p.m.
(In the bus on my way to training)
She was always in black abaya, typical Arab lady dressing. Sometimes she had pins on her scarf; sometimes she tied them without those. She told me she preferred the latter, but uses pin because her husband preferred it. Her other stories along similar theme, made me admire her love for her hubby. In my mind’s eye, my very own impression, she was the perfect muslimah wife.
She was taller than most, probably the tallest lady in the office. She had a long face with dimples lengthier than mine. If I am not wrong, she told me she was Jordanian. She has the Arab beauty; beautiful eyes with long defined eyebrow and sharp features. Her personality made her even more gorgeous.
She was determined; she stuck to her diet for her brother’s wedding and told me about her walking exercises with her hubby. She was motivating; the one who would notice and comment on my weight loss, however insignificant. She was curious; always asking my Chinese friends who were also interns, about their culture and their belief. She had strong faith, her belief in Allah was deeply rooted and she felt sorry for those who do not believe. She asked me once, “who do they turn to when they are at their most desperate if they don’t believe in god?”
The one trait I love most about her is that she was fun loving. She was loud but not distracting. She brought life into the office each morning. Her presence was always grand, her morning greetings most enthusiastic. If we were the early ones and if I were not already at the pantry, I would tail her so I could steal some chitchat and laughter before work. She never failed to amuse me. Her sense of humour so cheeky.
“Ya maltoushah!” she would tease me. The confident voice is ringing in me. I would retort and say “laa, anti maltoushah!” Then she would pretend not to love me just so I would act that I was hurt. The best part was always the making up, when she would touch my cheeks and sometimes squeeze them while saying that she loves me. On days that I was luckier, I got a hug too. We would both declare it loud.
“I love you.”
“No, I love you.”
“Yes I know you love me. I love you too.”
“I love you forever.”
Stage Three: Onset of strong emotions
6p.m. – 9p.m.
I was at training. She flashed into my mind every now and then, but my soccer mates got me distracted enough.
9.30p.m. – 11.30p.m.
This was when the bouts of intense sadness crept into me. I was on my way home, alone in the train, and despite the crowd, I could not hold back my tears. My silent cry continued throughout my journey, except when I bumped into my friends for about 15 minutes. The weeping started again till I met another friend who wiped those tears away with her bare hands.
I came home and talked to mum and sis. My sister was struck with her own sadness, so I switched to being the listener instead of the one in grief. Mum too had her set of worries.
2.30a.m. – 8.30a.m.
In my room, I relived the memories again. Tears welled up a few times. My eyes got puffy and tired but I could not sleep. I began writing but it took me so long because the grief often slowed me down. I accept what has happened because I believe in Allah’s wills but it was hard to stop myself from feeling. I felt unthinkingly. In between, I did my prayers and I prayed for her. May Allah grant her peace in the hereafter, may Allah bestow his mercy on her and admit her to jannah.
An extract from Gut Symmetries by Jeanette Winterson
To each his own epidural. It does ease the pain but the pain persists, the dull ache, low down as though my back had been broken and not properly healed. Perhaps it would be better to lie on his grave like a dog. To howl out the plain fact that there is no comfort, no relief, that grief must be endured until it has exhausted itself on me. My mind repeats its exercises like a lesson-book. Over and over the same ground, memories, happiness, the said and the unsaid, the last hours, helplessness of the living, autonomy of the dead.
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