#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.

#20 Give What You Cannot Keep

"He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose." - Jim Elliot. 

A profound and inspiring quote that I read today from Jim Elliot. A man who lived and died in the name of his faith. It makes you think very carefully about what truly is important in life and what your priorities are. 

I used to ask why is it that we couldn't live forever. Why must we die. Like anyone else, death was something unwelcomed and to be feared. 

But as I grow older, I realize that without the knowledge of death, we could never appreciate life the way we do now. What we know will always be there will end up being taken for granted. What we fear to lose, we behold and cherish while still present. The fleetingness of life amplifies the beauty in the things we do.

Have you ever had moments in your life where for a very brief moment, even if it was just a few seconds, you thought you were going to die. It has happened to me a few times while driving and once on a plane. I came out alive (obviously) and kind of laughed about it after that. But in every one of those instances, I felt compelled to call my family and hear their voice. It gave me great joy just hearing their voice or seeing them again because for a brief few moments earlier, the thought of being losing them was very real in my mind. All the other troubles, worries and concerns I had been carrying everywhere with me didn't disappear, but they certainly felt less critical.

I guess in that sense, death is the ultimate reality checker. Just look at what it did for the late Steve Jobs. People are forced thing carefully about what they want to do, knowing the life they have is fleeting. For people like Steve Jobs, it was doing what he loved best, and what amazing things he did indeed for the world of technology. 

For Jim Elliot, it was doing the Great Commission, even to the point of death. He will not be as well remembered or as celebrated as Steve Jobs. But for his amazing faith and courage, I do believe he gained something he could never lose. 

#14 Before You Go

To a friend.

I walked around the airport aimlessly, thinking about what you told me the night before.

I was going to say I’m sorry. But truth be told, I don’t really know what to say. What is the appropriate thing to a dying person? Is there ever something appropriate to say? Death isn’t something I’ve been very familiar with.

There were so many people busy shopping for souvenirs to bring home with them. The café’s and shops so busy, so bustling with life. So jarring in contrast with the subject in my head – death.

I remember how nonchalant you seemed to say “I’ve come to accept it.” It both amazes me, and sends a chilling cold down my spine. I try to imagine how you feel at this point in time, but I cannot possibly gasp it. God only knows the kind of turmoil and pain and despair you’ve had to go through to come to this point of being able to simply say “I’ve come to accept it”.

It’s true. We all eventually die anyway – so fleeting is life on earth. The reminder of death sure has a way of slicing right through life, instantly revealing to you what truly is important and what is not. What really matters and what does not. How petty it all suddenly feels, chasing the things we chase. The thing you spend so much time fighting for suddenly doesn’t seem like the thing you really want when you know it will all amount to nothing when you go.

I’ve been thinking very hard about what to say to you. Even as I type this, I still struggle. I only know I must say something to you, for all that you are and all that you have been to me.

I try recalling some of the things I read in the book Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. His coach was dying a slow death too. He had the chance to sit with him every Tuesday until the day he died. Talking about death every Tuesday was morbid. But it gave both of them deep meaning and insight into life. I hope you will still find meaning in these last few months.

It's days later, I find myself standing in front of an urn holding the ashes of my mother’s brother. He had died earlier this year of a stroke after an argument with his wife. They were afraid to tell my mother – afraid she would not be able to take it. Rows and rows of shelf held the ashes of so many people, some long gone, some only recently. Their pictures were placed right next to their urn, so that you could see how they looked like. Other items were also placed next to the urn – paper cars, drink bottles, crosses, cigarettes, one even had a Harley Davison motorbike. I guessed these were either things their survivors wanted them to bring to the afterlife, or things that they liked when they were alive. It felt somewhat eerie, being among so many dead remains. But it also felt very solemn. A grim remind of how short life really is for all of us.

I listen to my aunt and mother as they talked about my dead uncle. I could see the sadness in their eyes. Truly we live on in this world through the lives of those we touched. And those whom we touch go on touching other lives - a long chain of lives touching other lives, making a difference, making a change.

I walked out of the building, staring at the giant sign board. Memorial centre; how apt a name – a place you go to remember someone. My thoughts turn to you, unsurprisingly. I did mention I wanted to remember you properly. Slowly, the words started stitching themselves together. This much I have gathered I want to say to you;

I wish I could give you a good warm hug and tell you I’ll be there every step of the way till the very last step. But I cannot. So it would seem these thoughts are the only thing I can offer you.

Your heart is filled with love and charity. Even without ever meeting you, I know this. A selfless soul, ever putting her wants and needs second to the people she cares for. Many will call you silly and naïve. But I know God will call you a cheerful giver.

A painful thought comes to me; they say that God loves blessing a cheerful giver. And yet, here you are dying at such an age in such a manner. Where is Gods promised blessing? Recently, someone said to me he can never understand God. How can he allow so much injustice and suffering in this world? How he could let good people suffer and die while bad people live and prosper? He was talking to me about the crippled beggar near our table. But I thought about you.

I’ve never met you. But I have spent the last 2 years corresponding with you. I’d like to think I do know you, in some ways. I’ve never heard your voice, but you generously revealed your inner voice to me. I’ve never seen your face, but you always spoke freely and honestly with me, that it felt like we’re close friends anyway – people who genuinely cared for each other. We’ve never actually gotten involved in each other’s lives physically, but it still felt like we touched each other’s lives.

Thank you for your friendship. It felt real to me. Thank you for your words and your praises. They soothed my heart. Thank you for being a testimony to me that there are truly loving and selfless souls in this world – people who give and give and refuse to stop until they cannot give anymore. People who still put others before them, even as their own lives are literally at the brink of ending and not breathe a word of it; it gave me great hope and removed a lot of my cynicism. I will remember you always, long after you are gone. I will whisper your name – your real name - quietly to myself in remembrance of you - you who loved relentlessly, and gave unreservedly.

May God in His love and mercy, descend on you and give you peace, keeping you safe in His arms till the end of days. Perhaps one day, in the afterlife, we will finally meet.

Till then my dear friend