The Meaning Of Life Is That It Stops
“The meaning of life is that it stops” - Franz Kafka
My dad texted me for three consecutive days about his unbearable neck pain. His neck pain was causing him long, restless nights. The last time I saw him, his eyes appeared hollow, with dark circles creeping down his face.
He calls his doctor daily to ask for a referral to a specialist. Months passed, and no openings. When he finally got an appointment with a specialist, the doctor only offered a consultation and told him he would need to wait an additional four months for the epidural needle in his neck to manage the pain.
My dad’s text read:
“I’ve had enough of this pain.”
I didn’t tell him the night before; I had a nightmare that he had suffered a heart attack. In my nightmare, I pick up the phone without hearing a ring to my mom’s voice between muffled cries, “your father has passed away.” A loud crash suddenly cuts sharply against my ear as the phone speaker drops and scraps against the hard tile floors all south Florida homes have.
I woke up.
The stillness of dawn had barely broken as I frantically checked my surroundings. Alone in my bedroom, my phone only had one message from my dad to a text group with my sister called Healthy Buddies, where we send photos of our daily step count and coffee every morning.
Every morning my dad wakes up at 5 am and walks his daily 10,000 steps to a Cuban coffee shop for not one but two Café con Leche coffees that he drinks, sitting at a small patio table before the sun rises in the stillness of dawn. He says it’s a lot easier to finish his 10,000 steps when there’s a reward on the other side because at least it’s something to look forward to.
“Walk and coffee done have a great day love you.”
Growing up, my dad always talked to us about what survival meant to him. Being born as triplets, leaning on each other for survival, that path seemed predestined for us.
Our mom fell into a coma while giving birth to us. Months passed, and still, in a deep state of unconsciousness, my mom was unresponsive. The Canadian government soon stepped in and wanted to take us away and split us up as newborns into foster care.
Sticking together as siblings, as a unit, meant a greater chance of survival, my dad would tell me. Our grandparents took us in, and so did my aunts and uncles. My grandma was the first mother I ever knew and ensured our survival. My dad tried to punch the government social worker who wanted to take us away, but my uncles held my dad down and ensured his survival.
“No walk today for coffee. my neck. cant move it at all. ”
My mom finally woke up and met us, her children, for the first time when we were already over six months old.
Lately, my mom consistently calls me at the two most inconvenient times of the day.
When I’m mid-step walking up three flights of stairs of my apartment building, arms blistering and bruised red from tight tote bag straps wrapped twice around my arm filled with groceries. I dropped my phone, and it flopped all the way down the stairs. The screen cracked as I tried to answer my mom’s call on the last ring before it hit voicemail.
When I’m on my evening walk, deep in my feelings wandering the park, I usually find an isolated bench next to a patch of grass and listen to the same songs on repeat because I’m emotionally attached and hopelessly devoted to those same ten heartbreak songs. I’m on the verge of tears when I know the chorus is about to play because I go through the same routine daily, but my mom always calls.
Today was no different. “How are you doing? Feeling okay? Do you have enough food for dinner?”
“I’m okay, just here. Yes, yes, I have some food for dinner, I think.”
I didn’t tell my mom the night before; I had a nightmare she passed away. It wasn’t sudden but a slow withering away, almost like witnessing the slow wilting of a flower, and I was present for the last moments.
I thought of how much weight my mom has lost recently. When I visited my parents over the summer, the fridge was empty more than usual. That same night, I was jolted awake by my mom rushing to the bathroom, vomiting the dinner I made for them that night.
“Just having trouble keeping food down. I think I ate too much.” my mom whispered as she sank next to the toilet.
I stood shaking beside my mom in my nightmare as silence thickened the air. A growth of darkness bled out from her stomach, which then turned on itself, consuming her again and again. She became smaller and smaller and eventually withered down and dissolved into nothingness.
“I saw on TV how cold it is in New York today. I don’t know how you deal with the cold, and you must not be warm enough. Do you wear the sweater I ordered from Kohls?” my mom said to me on the phone. I lied, said I was wearing it now, and described how cozy the sweater was.
It was a cold, bitter gray day. The air was too thin and frigid for the typical bustling city sounds, which only magnified the strong gusts of wind rattling the bare tree branches. Overcast clouds billowed overhead like smoke floating from a chimney. I sat on a frail wooden bench in the furthest corner of an empty park.
It was much like the day the three of us visited our grandma in the assisted living facility in Toronto a few years ago during the winter. Bundled up in layers of soft wool sweaters, my grandma sat quietly in a small room alone for most of the day. When we visited, we spent the entire day there making what conversation we could with my grandma between silent hand squeezes and hugs. I couldn’t let my grandma's hand go. We left my grandma bundled up in her soft sweaters in her chair at the end of each day and returned the next where she sat bundled up motionless. Dementia made my grandma so still, and I often wondered how often she left that chair, if at all.
I remember closely examining the room around us. I especially remember how the plain pastel yellow walls crumbled along the ceiling’s edge. A bit of chipped paint revealed the previous pale blue color that peeked from underneath. I thought of how my uncles painted the walls yellow for my grandma, the obvious choice to remind her of sunshine. There were no decorations on the walls except for a single framed portrait of my aunts and uncles; her children. Plastered next to each of their faces are little white labels with their names so she could remember.
“Are you hungry, grandma?” I asked.
“They brought pizza for us yesterday; there’s some over there, but you have some. Maybe I’ll have a little, tiny piece.” She motioned to the corner of the room where a single slice of pizza rested on a thin paper plate on the walker seat. The pizza was ice-cold; the cheese congealed into what looked like a thick layer of plastic with soggy toppings–olives, green peppers, and pepperoni. I picked up the plate, which collapsed into itself in the middle. The toppings flew off and scattered all over the royal blue carpet and blended in with the chaotic, colorful patterns of dots. Squiggly lines peppering the carpet like confetti made it impossible to discern where the toppings scattered on the floor.
My stomach churned. I couldn't remember ever seeing my grandma eat pizza before. I only have memories of my grandma emerging from a sweltering kitchen hot with heat with fresh roti and pumpkin. Sweating up a storm, she collapsed into the single sofa chair after cooking and always asked me to turn on the fan. My grandma always insisted we go ahead and eat while she cooled down in the living room. I couldn't remember ever seeing grandma eat pizza, and I couldn’t stand it.
Shivering on the icy park bench, I thought about my grandma bundled up in soft pink sweaters and the pizza in the corner of the room, cheese congealed and untouched. I thought about how far I shoved the Kohl’s sweater my mom gave me into the back of my closet. Shuffling through my playlist, and landing on my favorite heartbreak song, right at the chorus, a text came in from my Dad to the Healthy Buddies chat.
“Didn’t go for a walk today. No coffee. I'm so fed up with the pain.
