#23 A Brave Death

Thursday afternoon, I got a call from a friend. My old college mate, Mario was dying. He complained of a headache just a day earlier on Wednesday morning. Made his way to hospital but by afternoon, he was in a coma. Doctors said something about his cancer spreading to his head causing internal brain damage. Chances are, he will not recover. It was just a matter of days.

“ What cancer?” I asked.

“The cancer he’s been battling since early last year.” came the answer.

I was embarrassed. I had not kept abreast with the ongoings of many people I used to know.

“Can you come?” asked my friend.

“Not now. I’m overseas. I will see him as soon as I’m back.”

“Hurry..”

Over the next two days, I thought about just what I could possibly say to Mario, literally on his death bed. It has been at least 4 years since I last saw or spoke to him. I had no idea he went through countless facial reconstruction surgeries last year to remove the cancer on his cheek, or that he couldn’t talk for three months. All I know was that he was one of those cheerful ones. The kind that seemed to carry jokes with him everywhere, spreading laughter as he went. It seemed a cruel twist of fate to mute such a person.

The plan was to visit him on Saturday. But by Friday night, I still had no idea what I was going to say to him. But it didn’t really matter in the end. Mario died on a Friday afternoon before I ever had the chance to see him.

On his Facebook wall, the endless post of encouragement and support gradually turned into words of condolences.  An hour later as I was driving home, a text message came in.

“Mario passed away.” said my friend.

“I know.”

“His funeral is tomorrow night. Shall we go together?” said my friend.

“OK… See you then.”

Over the next two days, as I went through the details of the last years of his life and death, I realize that there was so much more to this man than I ever know from college.

I learned of his great courage in facing this rare but fierce cancer that hand literally consumed his life overnight. Even as he was going through chemotherapy, he refused to give in to sadness, insisting that having cancer doesn’t mean you stop laughing. His mother told him to pray to the Goddess Guan Yin to heal him, but he refused. He said that if he prayed and Guan Yin healed him, it would not be fair to others who deserved it more. He would not ask for intervention from God if this was his fate.

“He is no longer in pain. My son is in a better place now.” said Mario’s mother with a smile on her face at the funeral . I had never seen a mother grieving for her son with so much peace and acceptance in her eyes.  I guess Mario inherited his courage from his mother.

He was my age, born just 2 weeks before me. And yet here he was, lying in a wooden coffin. It felt surreal staring down on him through the coffin glass. The embalmers did such a good job that if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was just in some deep sleep. I stared at his face, half expecting him to suddenly open his eyes to give me one of his trademark grins I often saw in college. But he was most assuredly gone. It was the reason we were all there in the first place. Silly me.

We sat around and watched as the priest burned paper money, paper houses, paper cars and a myriad of appliances, as offering to Mario in his afterlife. A friend joked that we should burn a few mobile phones too. He was always a gadget geek. Mario would have appreciated it. I nodded with a smile. On the day he died, Mario left behind his parents, his two younger sisters and dozens of friends who would forever miss his jokes and banter.

It amazed me to listen to what people had to say about him after his passing. I was reminded again that ultimately at the point of your death, you will be loved and missed not for your abilities or achievements, but for the love and joy you impart to those you come in contact with in your life. In death, I also found new respect for him. He had faced death with a kind of dignity and courage that I can only hope I will have when my day comes.

The service ended around half past ten. We said our goodbyes to each other and one last goodbye to Mario. I headed home and hugged my wife, just a little tighter, just a litter longer that night.

May God’s grace and mercy descend upon you. Rest in peace Mario.