In Memory Of...

He is all of bones and skull.
He is heavily emaciated.
He lies there, gasping for breath -- even while the oxygen mask is clumsily strapped around his head -- fighting for his life.
His breathing is heavy, very heavy. But at least, you can tell he's alive.
His eyes are open, but you couldn't quite tell if he can see you.
You call him, and you wonder if he can hear you.
They say he can. Because he tears when he hears them calling him.
She says that he's crying, because he's scared. He's scared because he knows life is slowly slipping him by, yet he can do nothing to prevent it. He knows people will not be gathering around him, if not for the imminent. He's scared that so many people are visiting him.
He caresses his head, whispers lovingly into his ear, telling him to go peacefully.
His blood pressure drops gradually. 81.
"How long will he last, based on your experience?" They ask my sis.
"Probably not beyond tonight," she says.
A curious visitor looks at him. And looks.
Her gaze stays for a few more seconds. I stare at her. Perhaps, some people just not know what inappropriateness is nor what rudeness entails.
Staring is no subtlety, but oblivion persists.
He wasn't always this weak. He was healthy, he brought us to the beach a lot. But he stopped doing so. We didn't know why then. All we remembered was he was feeling upset. We tried cheering him up by planning a surprise birthday party for him. We thought he would feel happy that we celebrated for him. He shoved us away. He shouted when we brought the birthday cake to him.
Back then, we didn't know what kidney problem was. Or its implications. We were only kids.
His heartbeat is slowing. His breath is no longer heavy. His blood pressure: 78.....then 75.... then 72...then 68.....
He slips away, slowly. He shuts his eyes suddenly and lets out groans after groans. His blood pressure shoots up to 90 suddenly. A miracle?
"That's his last struggle," my sis says. He has always been a fighter. He tries all ways to "cure" himself. Too confident of himself, too cocksure that he's better than the doctor. He wants to live, yet he lives a life of self-destruction, downing soft drinks and fried food whenever possible. He trusts nobody but himself.
She switched off the machine and removed the oxygen mask.
The end. 6th May 2009.
In memory of...
My fourth uncle...

Life hasn't been kind to you.
May you find a better world out there.
A less cruel one.