Understanding Death

For many years as immigrants in the US, my husband and I have told friends and acquaintances that we did not have family in this side of the earth. For many years, it was that way- only my husband, my son and I. Not that we really resented it, but it felt a little sad too. Still, we got used to it.

When my son was five years old, he joined a taekwondo class. What was originally intended to be a summer activity became a regular activity for our family. There, we met many families. Two of those had children religiously attending the sessions. After a few months, I learned that the children were actually cousins, their parents being siblings.

The little chitchats, lounging while the kids trained, and quick trips for coffee turned into invitations for us to join them for birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations, and trips to dine out and enjoy theme parks. We became part of their family.

Five years later, the kids have earned their taekwondo black belts. And we officially became their adopted kin. The kids have grown in size, as our relationships deepened.

Then one day, one of the moms gave me an anxious call about her daughter being in the hospital for back pain. This led to series of tests and prolonged hospital stays. Fourteen year old M had lung cancer.

The family had many relatives who were willing to help during those times, but we did our little part. My husband and I would visit on days when other people were busy with their jobs and families. When they asked for prayers, I did my own little prayer brigade by asking family and friends from various places to include M in their prayers.

At first M responded to chemotherapy and all sorts of medication. But the fight was quite short. After 8 months, she passed away.

Both my parents and only one sibling are still alive. I have lost all my grandparents, but I did not really get the chance to be very close to them. M's death appeared to be the death of someone closest to me, so far.

The family requested for people to wear white during the wake and burial. We all obliged, of course. I went to the store to get me a couple of white tops, with a heavy heart and a confused mind.

I knew what happened to Mara would still not sink in. I felt that days might pass and I might bump into her parents in the store, and I could blurt out an insensitive "Did M tag along?", simply because it would not sink in.

During the service for the burial, everybody cried. I cried a controlled sob and held a very anxious heart.

Days have passed and I would find myself questioning the reason for her demise. She was all of beautiful fourteen years: very young, beautiful, vibrant, very intelligent and was certain of what she wanted in life. She could have led a promising life, and all is now lost.

I struggled with these questions until M's birthday came, just a few weeks after she passed away. I looked at the guests. There were tears in their eyes, but as we sang the birthday song and gathered around her cake, there were faint but sincere smiles on their eyes. I knew it was a good sign of moving on, particularly for her parents.

Then I realized that I have prayed for M, for her parents and her friends. I have prayed that they may be comforted and that they may find strength and acceptance. But I have forgotten to pray for me. I have neglected to utter even a short request for me to be able to understand. I knew in my heart that comprehension was far-fetched. But to catch little signs of light is all that I needed to ask for. That could lead me to a few answers.

In graduate school I had intended to write a thesis on alleviating death anxiety for terminally ill patients. Silently, with a little denial even, I was asking myself if such study was actually intended for me, when one day I would need to understand the meaning of death, the fear and questions and many other things that came with it.

I did not get to do the thesis, but now, at least I have come to the realization that all I needed was to ask my God for understanding. Because maybe soon, I will get some answers, or at least a semblance of what I needed to see because just like going through life, understanding death - all its pain and complications--is a very difficult thing to do.