If my grief has become a tiring topic, I am the first to ask for forgiveness. But please bear with me as I try to assimilate the new realities into my life. We'll never know, we might just learn something together.
IN MY BEDROOM
I haven't slept in my room for months. Not since the day Daddy died. I think I have never forgiven myself for still being asleep that morning he fainted while cooking breakfast. A part of me still hates myself for being fitfully slumbering, instead of helping out with the morning meal. Maybe if I was awake I could've cooked the blasted extra Spam and he would've had something to eat. He wouldn't have gone into hypoglycemic shock. My laziness has costed me a father.
Useless to blame myself now, I know. But my own ghosts has kept me from sleeping in my room. If you peek in today, you'd find books, clothes scattered on the bed. Things to distract rather than a body at rest visible on its sheet.
It was a relief, in some ways, to have slept in the hospital lobby for so long when Mummy was confined in the ICU. I think I saw it as a punishment for loving my bed too much that I couldn't leave it. And -- I will never forgive myself if I was also asleep when Mummy died. Much as sleep is an escape for me, I can't help but hold a grudge against it.
I had been living my life asleep.
I miss my Mum so much. Last night, I remembered that while she was still in the hospital, she wore adult diapers all through out. She had a catheter on and she couldn't move much. It hurt to defecate and her face will scrunch up everytime she needs to go. I often get alarmed when she makes that scrunchy-face. I'll ask her if she's okay and she'll nod. Then a minute later she'll smile serenely and write down: pooh2x lang.
Then it led me to remember how painful it was for her everytime they needed to suction the water from out of her lungs. They'll insert the plastic suction into her tubes and I can hear the swooshing noise as it drains pleghm and water from her organs. My Mum's face will turn red and then blue because of discomfort. She'll look at me wild-eyed and I often wondered what she was thinking. Was she asking me to ask them to stop? Was she asking me if she'll make it through? Was she asking me for help I couldn't give?
Getting hit by a bus and run over by a train and chopped up to tiny sisig pieces wouldn't hurt as much, I believe, as those moments when all I could do was just stand there and watch her suffer. And able to do nothing. Nothing.
If death was just as easy as asking for a hall pass from a classroom monitor, I would've demanded it there and then. Not for Mummy. For me. I have never felt so useless and powerless and pointless.
All I could do was hold her hand and hope it was enough for her and that she'll understand. I know my mother forgives me. The harder part is forgiving myself.