First let me start by saying I am not an overly emotional being and this is not meant to be an emotional post. Instead, its merely an observation of my reaction towards death and how I've learned to cope with with accepting my impending demise. The early years of my life had be spent in such a polished, monitored and highly censored environment that I did not fully grasp the concept of death until around age eight. That was when my grandmother passed away, an event that had left my entire mother's family visibly shaken. I, however, was unsure of the situation at the time. I asked my mom what's wrong with Ma and she explained to me she went to an eternal sleep. A few days later I remember being in my room, thinking of what was told and suddenly, gushed with emotions and cried deeply for what felt like hours.
I had finally conceptualized life and death, the basics of the cycle of existence. As I got older I became fascinated with it. I constantly questioned these polar opposites in the spectrum of life. I wondered why people chose to live when they lived such poor, painful lives. Similarly I questioned why people chose to end their lives even though they seemed to have it all.
No one, not my mother, father, teachers or friends could ever answer these questions. But then again, I'd never dare ask such questions least I be discipled the "Guyanese way" for such nonsense. However soon before I knew it, my curiosity got the better of me.
See my father, being more or less a prominent community figure in his time had, since the 80s felt it was his personal duty to serve as an unofficial protector of the neighborhood. At least this was his reasoning for owning several guns. He had practically never used them apart from maybe firing one once in an effort to protect a neighbor from her drunken son. But nonetheless they would lie there in a small safe hidden in the back of the closet in my parents' room. When I discovered them I found myself constantly "playing" with them. Such simple, deadly weapons. One day, amid my neitzscheistic thoughts I wondered what death would feel like. I went into the closet like I've done hundreds of times, pulled out a gun and placed it at my head like I've seen in the movies. I thought for a second and wondered what it would feel like firing it straight first. I aimed at my bedroom's door, closed an eye and fired. The kick back was so intense, my weak hands were instantly numb and buzzing. My ear was painfully echoing from the eternal reverb of the ringing buzz. My lungs felt as if it was closing in, my eyes peppered with the sting of burned gun powder. Basically, that single shot had left me with an uncanny fear of guns since then. Oh and if you were wondering there was a solid hole through my door.
After that experience I chose to bury these impulses and urges to understand death and instead, live and think like a normal child. This lasted a few successful years. I completely my primary school studies(grade school American equivalent), earned a spot at the most prestigious Secondary school in the nation(Queen's College) and even spend a few summers touring with my father(he was the captain of a Freight Liner for an international shipping company).
However, on March 19, 2001 my life was forever changed. It was elections day in Guyana and as policy, I didn't have school. A year prior my father suffered a heart attack and required a triple bypass surgery. He moved back to Guyana to recuperate but the only thing that seemed to follow was stress. A recent split between him and his brothers had resulted in bad blood among each other. This day specifically one of his brothers visited. They're conversation quickly turned sour and soon each were in a violent fight. I was just waking up, still sleepy as I investigated the argument. By the time I intervened my uncle had left. My father was breathing heavy but assured me he was fine. I went out to the patio to stretch when I heard a loud thud. I ran back to find my father lying there, another heart attack! I called the 911, my neighbor, my mother, everyone I can think of. He stuttered his last words out to me, "I love you son" and died in my arms. That night I cried myself to sleep, woke up in tears next to my mother and cried myself to sleep again. I did not eat for a week and at that very moment, hated the world for it's unfairness.
My siblings felt the same way, evident by my brothers' vicious attack against my uncle on the last night of my father's wake. To me, at that very moment, it felt the world had gone man and we were the only sane individuals left(though quite the opposite). The next day I found myself venting my anger in a speech infront my father's casket. I still remember staring at the body, ghastly white and cold to the touch. I remember constantly saying, "this is not my father, my father is not dead...please way up dad, please let this be a dream..." I had cried every last tear and felt as if I had purged my entire soul in the process. I'd been a front seat passenger in the death of my father and saw it all. Even today its still fresh in my mind.
However, within mere a week of my father's passing my grand father(my mother's father) died. My mother was shattered. Two of the greatest men in her life had passed within 5 days of each other. I on the other hand had found myself unable to express any emotion of grievance.....
To be continued
