I went through our WhatsApp conversation yesterday. It was the first time I’d opened it in a year. November 15th 2017 was the last time we spoke. We laughed about me having to hand wash my underwear and how hard I was finding it adjusting to life in Lagos.
We laughed about a lot of things.
I miss his laugh, his perfect gapped-tooth smile, the way that he bounced on the balls of his feet ready to take on the world, armed with a rebuttal for anyone that questioned him. I never contemplated the world existing without him. Even in his sickness, I was always optimistic for a miracle turn around. But cancer has an unexpected way of creeping up on us, taking us on an emotional rollercoaster where the end isn’t clear. We all know someone who’s suffered from it, but survival stories keep us going so that we never prepare for the worst, and then it happens.
I remember the night I found out. It was a Friday and I was watching a movie with my boyfriend. My phone started to ring and it’s as if my heart knew that something wasn’t right; it started to pick up a pace I had never experienced before. I froze, and then responded “…I didn’t get to say goodbye”. Shock didn’t allow the tears to flow instantly. It felt unreal.
When I realised that I wouldn’t get to see him or hear his voice again, I was broken. I thought of him and the pain he had endured for 18 months, then I thought of our family and how things would never be the same again. The glue that kept us altogether had been taken away and there was nothing to replace it.
Grief reveals itself in various stages. For the first few days, I didn’t leave my room. The messages, phone calls and visits started; my body was present and responsive but my mind wasn’t there. My ‘thank you’s started to sound rehearsed; a monotonous broken record. I wasn’t really thankful, I didn’t want the gifts or the cupcakes. They didn’t magically erase what had just happened. I just wanted my baby cousin back.
When grieving, you begin to observe the variety of ways that it’s done. My mum seemed shockingly pragmatic – her maternal instinct went into overdrive. My dad went quiet – he didn’t have much to say, life had dealt him a few hands of loss before and he seemed sadly familiar with the experience. My sister was angry. One brother battled with a crippling anxiety and the other went MIA for a while, my cousin was his right hand. The rest of my extended family were shattered.
The messages and prayers on our WhatsApp group stopped flowing. Nobody had anything to say that could console such a tragic loss. What I couldn’t appreciate were the people who kept telling me not to cry; that I had to find strength in knowing that he’s in a better place. The bible verses went over my head; to be honest I didn’t care, I just wanted the pain to go away. But it didn’t. The truth is, it doesn’t. You just find a better way to manage it.
We don’t talk about loss and its various stages… We’ve become a generation who mourn when it happens, post a photo on social media and move on to business as usual. We don’t talk about what grief really looks like; the things that we use to fill the void of our tragedy when the calls stop coming in and the visits come to a halt. In looking for something to numb my pain, I would drink excessively. I would smoke. I would eat like a horse one day and starve myself the next. I would stare at the wall for hours. I would have moments where I would shout at God and the next morning blast Tasha Cobbs through my speakers, laying my heartache at the mercy of God’s footstool. I would laugh hysterically at a funny post on my timeline and then break down into a flood of tears. I would work for a week, I would sleep for a week. I was a walking oxymoron, it felt like I was going crazy and at times I couldn’t recognise myself.
I still stare at the wall occasionally, waiting for a phone call from him to tell me he’s hungry…Waiting for a chance to hold his hand again.
I haven’t written in a while but felt a strong need to own and share this story mainly because today marks your 26th Birthday- it’s been 16 months since you left us, that’s 504 days and I still think about you all the time. It’s cathartic for me to write about this experience because I never felt prepared for it. Nothing can ever prepare you for loss.
At this point in my story, I would normally have at least 3 things to advise to those experiencing a similar situation. This time I have one:
1. Go through it. Grief is something that has to be felt, it can’t be avoided, you can’t hide from it. You can’t build a life of distractions and deviate from it. At times you will feel lonely and get angry at those around you who can’t understand or empathise, but don’t stop. Feel what needs to be felt, that is your release – pain will inevitably be part of the process, but time is your therapy. You will smile again, you will love again and soon the fonder memories of your beloved will substitute the emptiness your heart feels. I often wondered whether there’s a good way to grieve and I’ve realised that it varies for each individual and there is no linear process.
I’m finally starting to figure out what my ‘good grief’ looks like, and that’s choosing to live my life with purpose on purpose. I’ll never forget what he taught me, I will always apply his wise counsel. I will have impact and bring light to the darkest places. I’ll finish what he started.
I will bloom.
Thank you Uche. I love you, I miss you, Happy Birthday!
Illustration by Mari Andrew
