2015, a year that I'd forever remember for its basketful of bad omen. A lot had happened. From my mom battling the many mild strokes, my only aunty passing, to my mother losing the fight. I'd been emotionally drained
Many a times I'd quieten down my public activities or wore a bold, unbothered public persona, but broke down and cried my pupils out alone from the stress and pressure of imagining what my moms was going through but more so, the possibility of losing her. Fact is, you're NEVER prepared for a loss of a parent. I savored every minute she was alive and at her best, but appreciated what I might have taken for granted more when that changed.
Anyone who knows me would know how I'd not hold a minute conservation without finding a way to thrust her name in it. That is my lady. That is my best friend. Truth is, I'd lost loved ones including my dad several years ago. They were tough losses but nothing slightly compares to moms. I'm my mommas boy!
The day doctors told us that she had a near-zero chance of making it, I'd already overdrafted on the permissible limit to which one should emotionally break down in a certain period. Deep inside, I wanted to accept what science and medicine said but deliberately laid in bed assuring myself that God and miracle are realer. I built this vault of hope that my mother would pull through this. I would wake up from sleep, grab phone to see if there was a missed call or message from Gambia about what I'd been dreading. I was calling my sister several times a day to ask if she'd moved any part of her body, said a word or opened her eyes. By this time I'd been struggling with the last images of the frail, helpless woman who was more than 40 years my senior, laid in bed. I was praying that she walks out of that hospital even if aided by a machine, or AT LEAST SAY A WORD TO ME. Just say my name or know that I was on the phone.
My brother flying in to the Gambia to be with moms lessened the guilt and frustration that she might passed in our absence but not my hope that miracle was still possible. Ten days later, she'd pass away couple of hours after I'd spoken to them and was told her breathing had improved, though with the aid of an oxygen machine. I called back to tell my brother that they make sure she wasn't in a coma mistaken for dead. I was in denial. I was crushed by the hurt in his voice. He must have been exhausted from sobbing and disappointment that she succumbed to the fight. I wish we could have done anything more but we'd given ol' girl every fighting chance to cling on.
If God were to grant me just one favor, I'd ask that HE forgives my mother's earthly shortcomings, transgressions and wheel her through the pearly gates of Heaven, to dwell in peacefully. That assurance, I'd take over anything. That would ease the disturbed thoughts of all the unpleasant fears of the unknown in the grave.
Different people deal with emotional turbulence and grief differently. I withdraw in to my shell because I have the propensity to break down when my soft spot is poked. So to all those who called and/or sent messages, I do apologize for not responding early. That's my weakness. However, YOU ALL eased this period for me. During the moment that I withdrew, I thought I was doing well sedating myself with anything that would help me sleep the pain away only to wake up and pick from where I'd left it. What I realized was that your calls and messages were more comforting, consoling and helpful. They soothed me. I garnered strength from the condolences and prayers, AND I Thank YOU!
To my girl, my mommy, I hope you're in a better place. I do sometimes find myself picking the phone wanting to call you in the mornings, then catch myself. With time, the wound will heal but the mark shall be eternal. And I'm OK with that. I'll be fine, and very sure will continue to have those days and moments for the rest of my life. And that too, I'm OK with. If I had known I wasn't seeing you again, I'd have hugged and squeezed to break a bone, but we settled for a hug! In the next Life I'd still choose you for a mother. I'm my mother's child.
FOREVER YOUR BABY, JO!
Pata J. Saidykhan
