Without You.

A memoir about a girl who lost something.

There was a time when I was a dreamer who believed in magic and potions and wishes. I believed that if you blew at the candles of your cake, or looked at the clock at 11:11 and wished hard enough, surely it would come true. Though I quickly learned that life doesn’t work this way, and more often than not, life simply isn’t fair. I used to ponder why those who had everything would throw it away, while those who had nothing would do anything for some scraps. Life turns your world upside down no matter who you are or how old you are and my gut wrenching tragedy so happened to come at the ripe age of four.

BEFORE THE INEVITABLE

The soft whoosh of rain pouring down outside paired perfectly with the atmosphere surrounding me; calm yet eerily gloomy. As the water continued to shower relentlessly, I stared at the droplets hitting the window and melting down, my hand resting tirelessly on my chin. April was known for its showers, but the shower in May was something I’d never forget; fitting for the month my family and I were having.

All my aunts and uncles had been in and out of the hospital for weeks, especially my mom, who would go when she could and come back late in the night. My house had been like a guest house for my entire family, each day a new member of the Tans showing up to take care of my sister and me. Today, it was my older cousin, Ronald, who was a usually strong willed and wise-mouthed but seemed quiet today. The day wore us down, and by mid-afternoon we surrounded the small box set television in our tiny living room and watched the Pokémon movie. I snuggled between the couch cushions, and my sister and cousin were on the floor. Yet I noticed that there was surely more than just physical distance between us, as each of us stared at the TV, their eyes were vacant.

The screen was the only thing catching my attention as I laughed and gasped my way through the film, even trying to stir emotions from my family. Though they had now become more of the décor than actual babysitters. I ignored their worried glances and anxious rattles as they would sip their water uncomfortably every time I asked a question about how strange they were acting. My sister wasn’t much older than me, only a three year difference, but she understood the precarious situation of sickness more than I ever could.

The movie was coming to an end, and as all the Pokémon characters cheered and celebrated their victory over Team Rocket the phone rang three sharp, piercing cries. Brring. Brring. Brring. Frozen in his place, my cousin looked scared for half a second before leaping from his spot to reach the cord phone on the wall of my kitchen. He picked it up and held the phone immediately to his ear, the cord hanging between him, while my sister and I followed only to stand at the kitchen’s entrance. He listened patiently to the person talking on the other line, occasionally nodding or softly gasping. This charade had been going on for a while, of mysterious phone calls and hospital visits but it always ended with my mom coming home and tucking us into our beds. That day was different.

In my four years of living I’d seen my cousin go through heavy situations from brutal fights and serious parental lectures. However, I’d never seen a reaction from him so deep and unnatural that I found myself dumfounded. The water that surrounded the rim of his eyes spilled over, making trails in their wake as they slid down his face. He was trying to wipe them before they spread, but he couldn’t catch them all. Gingerly he put the phone back in its place and leaned against my counter, head in his hands.

What happened? My subconscious repeated over and over again. I was terribly afraid and confused, and a part of me ached for my mom to come and hold me in her arms. Although, deep down I knew that my worst fears had been realized but I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself. The inevitable had come.

Without a word, my cousin eventually rid himself of his tears and led us back to the living room where the movie credits were rolling. There we sat, the silence cascading over us as I stared at everything in the room but my cousin, whose hands were back on his face covering his eyes. My sister was sat back against the green couch beside me this time, holding my hand and staring at the wall opposite of us. For minutes the silence and tense air threatened to squish me until I heard the creak of the door being unlocked.

Springing to my feet away from the sadness I walked to the entry of my house to see who it was. Several people came bustling in, like a pack of wolves, all of whom made noises I may never seem to get out of my head. Shrieks, cries and deadly sobs erupted as they continued to moan and groan. The pain radiated from their bodies, as if they were physically hurt rather than emotionally. I scanned the crowd for my mother’s face and surely enough there she was, at the center of the madness. She stepped out from my aunts and uncles still surrounding the door and made it up the tiny steps to where my sister and I stood. She hugged us at the same time tightly and searched our faces, the sorrow evident in her watery eyes.

At first the garbled words that came out sounded like mush and made it easier to blank out of what she was saying. Instead, she took a deep, shuttered breath and continued clearly.

“I have something important to tell you.” The next words came out quickly, as if she was trying to get them out before she ran out of air.

“You know daddy has been sick for a long time now” my sister and I nodded in unison “I’m so sorry baby” she said to both of us “but daddy-“gasp “he-um; he passed away today.”

A large sob came from her lips and I stood frozen in the doorway trying to understand what it all meant. I didn’t even really know what death meant. All I knew was that it was bad and that no one ever wanted it. I never wanted it.

THE SEA OF BLACK

To a four year old, I always assumed that death was sleeping for a really long time. In Disney movies I always saw the princesses going to sleep but then in a twist of fate their true love would come and wake them up. A part of me knew that fairy tales didn’t comply in the real world, but the hope was still there.

On the next few days that followed, my mom took a group of my cousins, aunts and I to the funeral home to pick out the flowers and a coffin. The man at the desk in a sharp black suit gave us a strong yet comforting face, which he mastered to a tee and he handed us a catalog of flowers to choose from followed by “sorry for your loss.” There were dozens of pages with pictures of flowers all gathered neatly with ribbons. The man began talking about the types of arrangements and costs though all I could think about was if they had any blue or green flowers because that was my dad’s favourite colour.

The man whose name I came to know as Mark, led us to a room full of their “finest coffins” as he had so eloquently put it. There we went inside the big, fluorescent white room which had a sterile feel to it. Though it was cold and pale, the coffins had a comforting look to them, with their lined silk padding inside and the smooth shiny wood that I ran my hand along. There were silver and gold metals twisted into fancy designs and I could easily picture myself getting into one of them and taking a cat nap. However what caught my attention was that they were $2000 each but my mom didn’t hesitate as she picked the one in the far back with silver metals made into arrows. A light green lining graced the inside, but when I looked to see if she picked it to cater to my dad, her eyes told me she felt no connection to how the funeral looked at all.

Entering the room where my dad was laid felt so strange to me that I decided not to look up. The floor was lined with a soft dark green carpet and my shiny black shoes glinted to match the black velvet dress my aunt had gotten me the day before. I held hands tightly with my sister but a pop of colour to my left caught my eye. There, a giant poster board showed a colourful collage of my dad with my mom, my sister and me. Our smiles touched me through the frame and brought me back to the times we used to play hide and seek together, or he would take me to the park and push me on the swings. The laughter and the tickling and the times of musical chairs was over and here I was standing amongst the sad faces of those around me, pity in their eyes.

As we made our way up the aisle, the whole room starred at us, whispering to one another and shaking their heads. It was surreal, and I suddenly felt like a celebrity, with constant prying eyes and people watching my every move; documenting the tragedy before them. From there the speeches droned on, a priest speaking about my dad in a matter of parables from Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, though I knew no amount of words could sum up his life.

Then my family came up, telling my mother comforting words of her strength through my dad’s battle with cancer. Having strangers tell my sister and I that he was a loving father and that with their father being absent for most of their life, my dad was their happy replacement. That’s why I thought it was strange that there were terrible people and terrible fathers living and breathing and hurting. However, my dad was one of the good ones, and he was taken away, “somewhere better” they’d say. More went up to speak but at that point all I was thinking about was going home and being wrapped up in my blankets. Safe and sound, away from here.

My mom hand a firm hold of my hand even though she was preoccupied wiping her tears away. There she led us to where my dad lay in his smooth, wooden coffin in the suit he married my mom in. I watched her reach in and take his hand, telling him she loved him endlessly. Everyone around me was crying so hard they needed to catch their breath but I was just numb. A vacant observer off at the distance, trying to comprehend the scenes acted out in front of me. That was until I peered into the coffin to look at him straight in the face. His long face looked pale but his lips were curled up as if he were at peace. He smelled of roses and incense and his hair looked as perfect as ever but when I touched his cold skin I immediately became discouraged.

I started to ask frantically “Why isn’t he waking up” and “Why is he so cold.”

All my mom did was rub my shoulder as the tears began to well up and spill over. A year of repressed, confused feelings spilling out of me like a waterfall. There in my tear stained clothes, is when I looked up to all the blurry faces of my family, friends, those I saw once or twice and those barely recognizable. They were all dressed in black upon black, so much it could fill the sea; and there I was drowning in the middle.

AFTERMATH

Times heals all wounds, is what they say. Though I disagree slightly, just because I think time numbs the pain but it never heals, you just learn to live with your scars. My little family carried on, though every so often I catch my mom starring too long at a scrapbook, or my sister watching home videos on repeat but we manage. My sister graduated from high school and is going to her second college for culinary, and I am trying choosing a future, a place to share my creativity. The world is at my feet and more than ever I think about where I came from and the person I want to be. Learning to grow up having to fight for your own things wasn’t what I wanted but proved to be what I needed.

Though every time I walk down the street and see a father holding his daughter’s hand, or see ads for Father’s Day sales, I wonder what if. Who would I be if I didn’t have to live without you?

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