Life has a way to pull you back to earth, to remind you that nothing lasts, and that it’s short. A month ago I lost an uncle. He was my mom’s older brother whom we called pak andak. A death none of us saw coming. He was only 66 years old, healthy as ever. He was fit, and in fact he was casually having his weekly badminton session. It was a normal Sunday, or so we thought.
Mama received a call from an old colleague—she and pak andak worked in the same company many years back, so they had an overlap on the people they know, which was a blessing now that I think about it because that friend didn’t know who else to call, other than Mama.
She was told by that friend that pak andak collapsed and unconscious, and was on the way to Hospital Ampang by ambulance. She needed Mama to inform family and to share his immediate family’s contact numbers. Mama immediately contacted her siblings and asked us to get ready for the hospital. The house was a mess, as we literally just moved in the previous day. We had plans to start unpacking, and when this came up, we dropped everything and rushed to get ready.
It was around 10+am, we didn’t even shower that morning. As I was getting ready, I looked over to Dyna and told her “Dyna, I’m scared”. “I know, I hope it’s nothing serious” was what she told me.
Mama, Dyna & Amy took one car to leave for the hospital. I supposed to follow Kakak, with the kids in another car. A minute later Amy ran back into the house and told us “Pak andak dah tak ada”. I ran outside for Mama, found her already sobbing and wailing in the passenger’s seat. It was already hard to receive the news, but it was even harder to see Mama that way. We zoomed to the hospital that instant.
We were among the earliest to arrive and the sucky part about that is that you relive the the new a million times every time another family member arrived at the hospital. They embraced each other, hugged and cry together. Over and over. Stories going around, everyone tells each other their own version of how they received the news, where they were and what they were doing. The fact that they just saw pak ndak merely few days ago during Raya Haji. How could this happen?
I have lost a few family members, and each time brought out different types of hurt. I looked at everyone's faces that day and I can't help to feel so sad -- for my aunt who lost her husband so suddenly, my cousins who just lost a father without a proper goodbye, the grandchildren who never got to see their Atok's face for the last time, Mama and her sisters who lost yet another older brother. Now they only have one little brother left to fend for them, six ladies. They are grown adults, but I don't see that version, somehow. They flock together, consoling each other, trying to be strong despite the shock and deep grief.
I think about my own siblings. No matter how old I am now or how old I will be, the thought of losing one of my sisters is unbearable. It must've felt the same for Mama and her siblings. He is known as the protective brother from the stories I've heard, anecdotes from when Mama & her sisters grew up. Seeing them that day reminded me that no matter how old we become, there are some relationships that never stop making us feel like children.
None of us had any idea that our lives would forever changed by noon, on what we thought just another typical Sunday. Truly, death has a way to make you realize how fleeting life actually is and tomorrow is never promised.
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