Shengliver’s Note: The first time the entry was posted last year, the uncle was hospitalised. A year on, he is no more.

 

I have never suffered the heartache of bereavement since my birth. Three weeks ago, however, death came up so close and stared me right in the face for the first time.

Three weeks ago, after the sports meeting, my mother broke the news that my uncle, my father’s younger brother, had been diagnosed with lung cancer, which is unfortunately terminal.

My uncle’s family and ours lived under the same roof for up to five years during my childhood. The news in the beginning did not perturb me at all, because my uncle has been a chain smoker. He smokes like a chimney every day.

My initial reaction did not vanish until I went to visit him at the hospital the next day. My uncle was lying in bed in a ward. When he first saw me, he managed a weak smile and then coughed convulsively. As all the other family members were filing into the ward, however, he turned away and buried his face in his hands, shedding tears silently. Meanwhile, my uncle’s daughter, a 5-year-old, was frolicking nearby, with the naïve thought that her father was down with just a common cold.

When it was my turn to visit with my uncle, I tried to hold back my tears. I forced a big smile, affecting ignorance about his condition.

Back in the school, I changed seats with my deskmate. I chose to be next to the wall to calm myself down. Every time the hospital scene resurfaced in my mind’s eye, I could not help but burst into tears. When my face was deluged with torrents of the salty liquid, I turned to the wall so that no one in the classroom could see it.

After a few days, I came to realise that it would be of no use dwelling upon the doom. All I can do is be optimistic and hopefully infect my uncle with my cheerfulness on the next visit. I think I treat everyone around kindlier now, and I’ve come to respect every creature, big and small, in the world.

Life is so fragile.