'Are', in the present tense.

Today you are 30. 

This year I will be 28. The same age when you "left". And did you really leave though? did you choose to? were you ready? Is anyone ready?

Today is not a good day. I will cry, choke up, light candles by your pictures, go through the letters you sent me and cry some more. Not because we'd be celebrating this day together, but because...instead of all the places you'd have seen, code you'd have written, thoughts you'd have shared, there is now a blank space. A space where I'm left guessing, imagining and for the most part conjuring images of your face and body here. I know what to say to you, more than often I say it out loud in my empty room. Thank God for the simulation of 28 years of Gid programmed in my brain. It's muscle memory.

However, It's too much, to have this full blown conversation with you. I can't bring myself to conjure up all the mundane thoughts, unique interpretations of your escapades on the road, at work or online, you'd have shared with me. Because a quick Google search tells me  "you would have" in grammar, is sometimes called "modals of lost opportunities", and rightly so.

So instead, I grieve. 

Grief, like I've read is really the "last act of love I can offer" you. Isn't it deeply disheartening that this is all I can offer you? Then you show up in my dreams as if to say, "I'm here". 

Noone prepared me for this maddening and persistent dissonance. 

Nonetheless, in my dissonance, in this vague in-between of aging with and without you, you are 30.

Happy Birthday Gid. 

You are in my heart. You are 30.

'Are' in the present tense. 

-Apphia D'souza

Disclaimer: I am human. I feel things.

 

Dr. Gabor Mate talks about two kinds of people when it comes to understanding any kind of pain; those who’ve experienced it and those who are trained to work with it. I happen to fall under both categories. My life took an irrevocable turn forever, in October 2014 when I heard about the ‘lesion’ (which turned out to be cancer) in my brother’s brain until four years later on 29th December 2018, when he left the earthly dimension.

Ever since then, I feel like a walking disclaimer; except that no one can see its contents. I walk with the disclaimer that I will never know how to respond when someone uses the word “dead” in a way to express anything other than actual death. I walk with the disclaimer that when someone uses the word “cancer” like it’s just another disease that affects just another statistic, I throb with fear and contempt knowing the damage it is capable of causing in a home. After this loss, the inner light is dimmer and these words now hold the reality of what I’ve watched and lived through. These words that I, too once used loosely now hold all sorts of heavy, new meaning that I can’t brush past without remembering my brother’s strained half smile with his “good side” cause the other side was paralyzed during the last month. I can’t move past words that remind me of my brother patiently leaning against a lamppost (cause he couldn’t stand without support) in Germany, while waiting for me till I ran to withdraw cash. I recall the worry of coming back too late and finding him lying on the ground, but when I rushed back to find him still holding on, still there, I stopped in my tracks. I stopped to take it in. I felt love, excruciating sadness and relief. And for a single second, I wished I could turn back time, to a safer place where he ran marathons and depended on 0 assistance to wear a glove, in the hope that I would have to never witness someone I love and admire so deeply just have to… stay there for me, without a choice or bodily control.

Wishes don’t always come true though, but I wish he stayed longer. Not against that lamppost in Germany, but on earth and in my home.

 -Apphia D'souza

What NOT to say to the grieving

When people say I don’t like funerals, I believe they mean many things. Possibly, they may mean, “It's difficult to witness death” or the feelings that come with it, the societal norms one needs to fulfil, the myriad of surface level verbal exchanges with friends, relative, strangers and so on. 

As I experience the impending loss of a loved one, I come closer to an understanding of how little we know when communicating with someone who is grieving. 

My brother was diagnosed with Grade 4 brain cancer about 4 years ago and since then he has been beating the odds (in average life expectancy) and by living these years doing unimaginably beautiful things with courage that is beyond admirable.

As his sister, I’ve been at the receiving end of constant irrelevant questions, with the top 2 most banal ones: 

1. How is your brother?  

2. How are you? 

Both these questions come from an intention of trying to show concern to a grieving person. 

1. Does it serve the person who is grieving in any way? No. It worsens the blow.

2. Does it serve you because you think you’re showing concern to the grieving person? Possibly.

3. Do you feel better if the grieving person responds with some information; update or sharing because you think you did well by showing concern?

Grief is complicated; it is vast, deep, engulfing and overwhelming.
I have been grieving since the day my brother was diagnosed four years ago, I grieve now and I will grieve until I turn to dust.

Grief is different for everyone; how they process it, what works for them, how long they grieve, what the loss means to them and how they make sense of themselves in relation to the world around them.

Some more not -so helpful questions, statements and suggestions that are counter-productive:

1. Stay strong. (Not sure why I have to stay strong and withhold my feelings when my world is falling apart)

2. Stay positive. (for who? the world outside, for you, for ourselves? And why?)

3. We are praying for you. Miracles work. (Read post below : https://lemonadegirl.blogspot.com/2018/12/the-tomato-miracle.html?m=1 )

4. Let me know if I can be of any help.

To the last statement ^ unless you’re extremely close to a grieving person, you wouldn’t have to make that statement and would already know what to do. You can “be there” physically: hold them, stay with them, and let them cry without judgement. Make them tea, help with cleaning or tidying up the place, with the miscellaneous things that they can’t afford to worry about. Make sure they’re eating and drinking and be prepared to stay by their side when they cry anytime, anywhere. 

If you’re not very close to the person grieving, it is better that you say nothing and continue as you were .There’s no expectation that you should show concern or say/do something to make us feel better.

So, back to the questions you ask, here are the immediate answers you elicit (and are probably not ready to handle):

1. How is your brother?  Answer: Fighting for life against cancer with each passing day.

2. How are you? Answer: Grieving.

Ask yourself:

1. Are you equipped to hold emotional and/or physical space for the person who is feeling immeasurable pain? (Especially on chat?)

2. Have you considered reading up about grief to be of actual help to a grieving person?

3. What do you hope to achieve out of the interaction?

I believe as a human being, I have a palette of emotions, each prominent depending on the phases of life.

Grief is prominent now.

And I belive I have no choice but to honour and acknowledge all the colours that demand to be seen on the canvas of my life.

This blog is dedicated to my brother who came up with its title 8 years ago and told me recently, “I like your blog too”, after I was telling him about a friend’s posts I really like.

I love you,Gid.

The tomato miracle

I've observed in the past few weeks and years, how people generally respond to a crisis, and especially when someone is grieving or anticipating a horrific occurrence.

I want to ask anyone here to imagine this : you've had a bad day, seen something terrifying, witnessed an accident, lost something important and the minute you confide in someone , their first response is : keep drinking tomato juice, it's the cure to everything. Hope it works. 

You've lost a friend, you've broken up with someone, you lost your job, you've made a big life decision and the first thing I'll reply is : Don't worry, tomato is the answer. Hope you believe in its healing power.
Keeping tomatoes in a box specially for you <3

It is an easy cop out in place of nothing to say to someone because you may not know how to empathize.

Did you maybe consider that when a person is losing a family member, the last thing they want to hear is that you're praying for them? And somehow that's is the end-all answer to everything? Like my hypothetical end all answer : tomato juice.

Do you feel the magnitude of pain a completely intelligent,young and capable person who is now losing his physical emotional and mental abilities has to go through while listening to your comments about a "prayer" or "miracle" which is equivalent to me replying to you with, yes you guessed it : Tomato juice.

We all are entitled to our beliefs, I respect yours as much as I would only HOPE that you can see that there's a human on the other side hoping for a sense of comfort and support.

And if you pray, feel free to, but I urge you to refrain from constantly informing us about it like a reminder that these are the only words you could find in the emotional vocabulary.

NOTE: Helping someone in the ONLY way we know, may not be what is helpful for them.
Support in ways that might help THEM, even if it means doing something that you don't always do.
And ofcourse if you don't want to, silence is golden.

You can be assured my tomato  prayers as a response to anything in the near or distant future. :)