Navigating Loss:- Life before and after Ray.
To those who have lost loved ones, do you, like me, often find yourself wondering who might be next? I considered myself fortunate not to have faced significant loss until the age of 34. But since then, it's been one blow after another, some sudden, others too swift to grasp.
The first hit was losing my father. He had been unwell for some time, gradually slipping away from us long before his physical departure. Strangely, I felt like I had already said my goodbye well before his actual passing. I convinced myself I handled it with grace, as if death were an old friend. "I know you," I thought, "and I understand you. You're just a part of life." I believed I could endure anything after losing my father.
Then, just two weeks and three days later (not that I was counting), I lost a dear friend to cancer. I had convinced myself she would be okay, having overcome the disease before. But her untimely departure shattered that illusion. I remembered the wisdom from Hans Wilhelm's life-explaining series: grief is real, but its intensity diminishes with time. At the time, it made sense to me. However, I realise now that I was still clinging to an idealised version of life, not fully embracing the human experience.
The following year, a few weeks shy of the first anniversary of my father's passing, tragedy struck again. One of my brothers passed away in a car accident. He was stuck in traffic with another brother when a truck plowed into them, taking one life instantly and leaving the other with minor injuries. I received the devastating call at 2 a.m., and when I checked WhatsApp, I saw he was online just 30 minutes prior. Such events leave an indelible mark on the soul. This loss shook me to my core, challenging my strength and the extent of my preparedness. My life from then on was divided into two epochs: before and after Ray.
I tried to muster strength, drawing from everything I had read, seen, or learned. Yet, I question if I could ever reclaim the happiness I once knew. My existence has been forever altered. My innocence, joy, and faith in goodness have been stripped away. This is the first time I'm acknowledging these feelings. I can't undo his death, nor can I rationalise it by believing that being a good person shields one from tragedy. Death is impartial; it comes for us all.
I persisted, buoyed by gratitude and the unwavering support of my partner and confidante, my sister/mother/friend. Together, we cherish memories while forging ahead. Then, two years ago, she, too, departed. Cancer claimed her, leaving me with the relentless question: who is next? It's a morbid thought, I admit, but one that refuses to be silenced.
I'm not consumed by misery or depression. Life, for me, has simply taken on a different hue. It's akin to the moment a child learns that Santa Claus and the tooth fairy are mere fantasies. There's a shift in perception, a recognition that life isn't as magical as once believed. Yet, I remain determined to see this journey through to its end, whatever form it may take. Though at times, I find myself wishing for a reprieve, an easing of the pain of losses, especially when confronted with the world's conflicts and chaos.
I choose not to watch the news—it's too filled with stories of wars and strife; the weight of it is too much to bear. Instead, I focus on being present for myself and those who love me. I've accepted that life is different now. It's a reality I'm learning to navigate, one day at a time. And though the loss of my innocence is profound, there's a certain liberation in embracing life's complexities, even amidst my pain and uncertainty. There is always room for joy and laughter.
Love Bose. xxxxx