What I Talk About When I Talk About Grief

Ramadhan is here! It has always been one of my favourite celebrations because other than the fact I get at least two weeks of school holidays, but I also get to see the people I long the most (read: family and friends) !!!!! Ramadhan and Ied, and all sorts of other religious celebrations are mainly connected to spending time with the loved ones and maintaining and reconnecting relationships with one another. Since I live far from my main family, seeing them together makes me feel super blessed, and just makes my heart go all mushy.

A tradition most families do when Ramadhan is about to start is that they visit the grave of their passed loved ones. My family does it every year, and sadly, I haven't been able to join them for the past 3 years. Sometimes it breaks my heart because I couldn't be there with them, and I also feel guilty because I haven't visited their graves in so long. Who are they, you may wonder? The people I had loved, still love, and will always love has passed away before me.

a My first grieving experience was my grandma's death. I call her Uti Pondok Labu, because that's where she lived. It was back in June 2005, and I received a phone call through the house phone early in the morning. Once I heard the news, I shouted "Uti Pondok Labu meninggal!" inside the house. I can't remember whether I cried or not, I wasn't even 10 years old. I couldn't remember what happened afterwards... Of course we had pengajian, tahlilan, and all that stuff... But what I remembered most after that happened, was that my family wasn't the perfect family I always thought we were (which is fine).

b Two years later, around May/June 2007, I woke up with the news of my uncle and his driver getting into an accident after returning home from Java. My brother, sister, and I went to school normally as things usually go, until I received a phone call that my driver was on his way picking up my siblings and I from school because my uncle and his driver passed away. My siblings and I packed our bags and went to Pondok Labu, where the tahlilan was held. I wasn't that close with my uncle, but we had our moments. If my sister and I were staying in Pondok Labu, he would take us walk with him to buy some classic martabak telor and martabak manis to eat back at home. Or sometimes he would accompany my sister and I watching the tv, while he worked at the sofa behind us. He was a rather quiet person, but he was always there. My mum made a yaseen book for my grandma's and uncle's passing, and my cousins and I had to write our thoughts and prayers about the both of them. I think I wrote something like "she made very good lasagnas and was very cheerful" about my grandma, and I honestly can't remember what I wrote about my uncle. I knew my uncle's driver too. He used to work for my grandma at her bakery business before being my uncle's driver. It broke my heart as well because I have known some of the family helpers since I was a kid, and they felt really close to me.

my grandma on the right

c In that year's school holiday, my dad caught the dengue fever, and so did I. Lucky me (ugh), I had to get hospitalised while my dad didn't. It was my first time being hospitalised and I received the worst allergy shot ever, it hurt so much I cried. Of course, I was only turning 10 at that time. While I was hospitalised my parents did not sleep at the hospital with me, but my house helper did. I couldn't remember how many days after I was hospitalise, my sister came in sick and had to get hospitalised too. I was so happy because I get to share a room with her... but things didn't turn out so well, my sister had to get an operation. What operation, I have no clue... Even until now I have no idea what operation she had to go through. I remember my bed got dragged into another room, where a sick tiny boy kept crying and whining all night. I couldn't sleep well.

I woke up in the middle of the night by the sound of the heavy door opening and my dad's sobbing. He told me my sister had passed away. I didn't understand, but I cried until I felt like I was choked. I cried because I was tired and I couldn't sleep, and that there were so many people outside my sister's room. I walked (I think. Or did I use a wheel chair?) to her room and I kissed her forehead. I was still crying by then. My parents' friends came and they hugged me. I got really tired.

The next day, I had the opportunity to go out of the hospital. I had to go to my cousin's house for my sister's tahlilan. I'm not sure if it's called a tahlilan or something else, but it was the event where people mourn of the deceased. I had my shots still attached, and had to sit in a wheel chair. I didn't want to sit in a wheel chair because I would look weak... but I still had to. When I got there, a lot of people was already crying and mourning. They were circling my parents, mostly my mum, and my sister's body. When I came, I saw my school teachers and they were there too, crying and hugging me. When it was time to bury her, I wasn't allowed to join and instead went back to the hospital. At the hospital, my mum told me I should write my sister's head stone. I didn't understand what she meant, but she told me that my handwriting would be carved onto a stone that will be my sister's head stone. I liked that. I like the idea of my writing being in my sister's head stone. I wrote in different colours in my very ugly and child-like handwriting. The head stone turned out quite nice. A few days later I got out from the hospital, and my house and my grandparents' house were both fogged.

The week after my sister passed didn't get any better. My mum kept being surrounded by the bloody press and it pissed me off so much. My cousins and I had to go to Papa Ron's Pizza, just so that we could get out of the house where the press are all obsessed with. My brother, who was 6 at that time, cried a couple of times because he just wanted to go home. After hours and hours of eating and sleeping at the pizza place, my mum finally picked us up. Writing my thoughts and prayers for another yaseen book suddenly felt so normal, it's heart breaking.

d In 2012, on the first Friday of March, my class had PE in the morning. Before break time, we changed our clothes and heard that our grade 8 homeroom teacher, we called him Popo, was ill and had to be taken to the hospital. I told my friends 'we should visit him after school today'. We did visit him, but it wasn't in the hospital. He died a few minutes after I said that one line. When my friend told me that Popo died, I laughed it off because I knew it wasn't true. He was healthy the last time I saw him, and he has always been healthy all this time. But people from other classes walked quickly towards the amphi theatre, and so did my class. On the way to the theatre I saw one of my teacher's facial expression of shocked through the glass wall. I cried walking. I kept crying and crying and I closed my ears when my teacher told the news. I closed my ears and bit my lips and hoped it wasn't true. I started biting my nails again too.

Popo was a great teacher. He really had hope in my class, especially when it comes to achieving something artistic. He was the one who helped my class during our film festival competition period, and the one who balanced out the humour of our other homeroom teacher who was very serious. I felt more grief when Popo died, I think it's because I was older when it happened. My ability to feel, cope and understand grief was better than before.

e The morning of an important event at my SCUBA diving organisation, my mum announced in the family WhatsApp group that my dog died. Potter has been in the family since 2003, meaning he's been with us for 15 years. He used to live with my grandparents, but after the house was sold, Potter ended up living with my family. When I read the news I literally fell to the ground and cried instantly. I kept sobbing and remembering the things I did with him before I flew back to Bali. Although I was heart broken, I was also very proud and grateful of Potter because I know my family hasn't been giving him the perfect dog life for the past few years. We moved to a lot of houses and Potter had to adjust to each home, and he did it. He managed to cope with the changes and I can't help but feel sorry for him. I loved him so much, he was the one who I talked to when I'm not feeling very nice. Hugging him at the end of the day was something I always look forward to. One of the "people" I was excited to see most when I got home to Jakarta was Potter. He was always there, patiently wagging his tail with his big puppy eyes and grey hair.

Each of the griefs meant differently to me, and it reminded me of very different things too. My grandma's passing reminded me of the time my family loved each other, but didn't really like each other. It also reminded me of the time I woke up in the middle of the night to my mum crying in front of the TV while watching Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants 2... The scene where Bridget found out about the letters sent from her mum and visited her grandma. My uncle's passing reminded me of the time my oldest cousin went to his mother's hometown by himself. I'm not sure why the brain chose that memory, but it must've meant something. My sister's passing reminded me of the movie Bridge to Terabithia. I couldn't remember whether we have watched the movie together, but the movie was released on February 2007... so I'm pretty sure we have watched it together. The ending of the movie showed Leslie's death and how Jesse had to cope with it. Popo's passing reminded me of his son and how he is now a great kid with great accomplishments and hobbies. I am still in touch with Popo's wife and I cry a bit every time she send pictures of the boy.

Out of all the four people, I can only genuinely remember Popo's passing day. It was the day of my Bahasa Indonesia teacher's birthday. Every time her name comes out on Facebook, I remember his death. That's kind of sad. I don't really talk about grief and death with my family, but we try to remember them differently. If it was someone's passing day, we would pray a little bit more than we usually do. If it was someone's birthday, we would have a small dinner. I don't know why we don't talk about it... Maybe it's because there's not really much to talk about. When I miss someone, I cry and write about it. I remember crying briefly because I saw two girls who are siblings having a great conversation, and I start missing my sister. I remember crying because I read my grandpa's letter in my grandma's 1000 Harian book.

I don't really know how to end this post, so I'll just leave it with a dialogue from The Fault in Our Stars by John Green.

“Augustus Waters was a self-aggrandizing bastard. But we forgive him. We forgive him not because he had a heart as figuratively good as his literal one sucked, or because he knew more about how to hold a cigarette than any nonsmoker in history, or because he got eighteen years when he should've gotten more.''Seventeen,' Gus corrected.'I'm assuming you've got some time, you interrupting bastard.'I'm telling you,' Isaac continued, 'Augustus Waters talked so much that he'd interrupt you at his own funeral. And he was pretentious: Sweet Jesus Christ, that kid never took a piss without pondering the abundant metaphorical resonances of human waste production. And he was vain: I do not believe I have ever met a more physically attractive person who was more acutely aware of his own physical attractiveness.'But I will say this: When the scientists of the future show up at my house with robot eyes and they tell me to try them on, I will tell the scientists to screw off, because I do not want to see a world without him.'I was kind of crying by then.” 

I hope this year's Ramadhan will be the moment you step up being a better person, and the time you reconnect with people you have always love, but haven't had the time to say hi to. Make time.