The afternoon of April 10, 2017 is etched in my memory like a tattoo. The unexpected turn of events that unfolded before me that day, left an indelible mark on my soul. My brother had been battling cancer. That fateful day was the last day I was going to see his already tired eyes and weary body. Weariness that emerged from the pain and torture of the disease. That wasn’t the worst part. I was by his bedside. I know you would think that’s a good thing — anyone would want to be beside their loved one. I understand the privilege I had to be there. But it was tinged with torture of a kind I never thought to experience. Watching my brother struggle on his deathbed. Watching life slowly then suddenly leave him, watching his body stretch out while he drew his last breath, holding him in a futile attempt to plead with him not to leave, knowing I couldn’t save him but persisting, feeling his body grow cold. And when all my effort failed, bursting into tears, crying like I never thought I could, because I probably only cried that hard as a kid. Being unable to look at his face, hoping that what just happened isn’t true. No! I didn’t just watch my brother die. And then feeling a twinge of blame creep up in my mind, wondering what I could have done differently to prevent it. I walked out of the hospital room in hysteria because my emotions were all over the place, and I hoped if I walked outside, maybe I could come back and see him awake. Yet, in the midst of all this emotional turmoil, I walked back into the room. Something inside seemed to push me forward, compelling me to walk back and face my brother one last time. Perhaps it was the realization that this was my chance to say goodbye. When I looked at his face, he looked peaceful, almost like a smile was about to break out. The pain and torture were no longer there, and I felt like maybe this was good for him. He was no longer groaning in pain; maybe he was happier. But then, there was no way to ascertain if what I thought was true. The pain and guilt rushed through me again. One of the rarest moments when I truly wanted to ask “How are you?” “Are you okay?” was the moment when I couldn’t hear his reply. Death is funny, life is even funnier. We live like we are in control yet we are so fragile. when death comes to shove we don’t get the chance to say ,“Hold on a minute I am not done here.” A sudden thought flashed through my mind: life is futile! What is the point in all of this if we’re all going to end up like this on a day we do not know, at a time we have no idea of? So what’s the use of all the hustle and bustle? There is no point. Even though seeing my brother look at peace gave me a measure of comfort and solace amidst the emotional turmoil I felt that day the pain wouldn’t leave. Over the months that followed, my pain began to take a toll on me. I struggled to come to terms with my brother’s death, and the grief and sadness seemed to follow me wherever I went. The pain was so intense that I began to feel cynical about everything. I started to long for things that would only damage me, not for the pleasure I would derive from the actions themselves, but for the pleasure of no longer caring about life. . It was as if I had nothing left to lose, and everything felt futile. The strength and courage I had summoned on that fateful day seemed like a distant memory, and I was lost in a sea of pain and grief. I didn’t care what happened, and I began to drink heavily every day After months of exploring how many bottles I needed to keep reminding myself of the meaninglessness of life, I got exhausted. I mean, I could have kept going but I had a look down the path I was taking and I couldn’t see any good end. I would always find new lows the lower I got. The thought of exploring further was scary. So I took a step back. Only after this did I come to truly understand that I was making my own life meaningless, by shielding myself from accepting my new reality. Indeed, I learnt that finding the courage to live through unpleasant experiences is the only way to find meaning in them and in life. There is meaning in all of life’s tragedies. For me, I was on the descent to my lowest low when I got a chance to see life with more clarity and to rethink how I react to unpleasant situations. These experiences didn’t make life meaningless or; they are what they are: life… living… My experience made me think that the intention and effort we put into making life worthwhile are useless. I had this sentiment because I saw practically how life could come to an abrupt ending. It could be sudden or unexpected, or it could be slow but still abrupt in the sense of having not done all we wanted to do. Rather than think this way, it is worthwhile to put in effort to live deliberately. Can we still call it living if we aren’t doing it deliberately? If we just let ourselves descend lower and lower because life didn’t give us what we wanted. I found the courage to get back into the game called life knowing that I would be fine regardless of what I go through. And when the time comes when I will quietly depart from my body, all of my experiences will be gone. Like dust carried away by the wind. And I will probably look at my body on my deathbed and think, “Hmmm, that was one hell of an experience.” In the end, we will still be who we are: boundless souls bound to bodies. The meaning I found in my experience of witnessing death happen right before me is that death isn’t necessarily a tragedy That is what Seeing my brother’s dead body looking so peaceful meant to me. He didn’t seem sad or defeated. It was as if he gently let go. There was no pain or struggle. Rather, there was this eerie peace that I couldn’t fathom what it meant. But it seemed to give me a feeling that death is fine.
