projekt draco

I remember his voice. I remember it like it was just yesterday that he said it.

He said, Live life daily like it’s the last; well it’s not like you will actually know it’s the last for you, no?, and he coughed a little before trying hard to catch his breath. His sentences were getting shorter and shorter by the hours as his condition worsened at an alarming rate. Some terminal illness was holding on to his throat and lungs so badly then he couldn’t even take a breather easy.

He was 72 and balding. Wrinkles were apparent on his face and he would always wear this smile on his face as though there was something to be happy about. His frail body frame looked like it was going to break any moment and so it did, when he slipped on his final trip to the toilet and landed himself bed-ridden for life, if that is even appropriate to describe a period of a mere 18 hours. Yet, he still smiled.

It’s not the quantity, it’s the quality, he would always say, referring to the amount of time being alive versus the amount of great time. He knew he didn’t have much time left, and was trying his last great attempt at enlightening a young man — me.

I did not have the chance to ask about his past, his family, nor his name. But during every visiting hours for that day, there would be a scantily-dressed lady who looked like she was in her early 20s, with piercing on both the ears and the nose seated beside his bed, feeding him porridge without fail. I was actually surprised the hospital allowed such dress code, but hey, who was I to intervene with such eye candy?

For a few hours of friendship, he was no acquaintance at all. I could relate to him with regarding several life experience and he was always ready to lend a listening ear. He would be patient and quiet, always listening, and speaking only when he had something valuable to share. Perhaps it was because he had difficulties speaking, or perhaps because he felt it was all too similar to his past experiences. All the while he would just do what he liked to do — smile along — as I could not stop telling my stories. He was like a friend I never had; a long lost friend that felt like a part of me.

I remember some of his finest advice were, Go do it already. There’s nothing to lose, Don’t cherish something only after you’ve lost it. And a few more I had probably told others a few times myself.

When it was high-time for story telling and we sort of kicked off a great topic, it was time for me to be wheeled into the operation room. Understandably, I excused myself, saying that I’ll be back to continue the chat, and for him to wait for me. He merely smiled in return. Yes, just an hour before I would be back chatting with him again. Or so I thought.

He died the hour I was in the operation theater to an heart attack.

I did not have a chance to ask his name, and all evidence of his stay in the ward were long removed before I even regained consciousness. The lady was already nowhere in sight when I opened my eyes.

As I peered over to his bed, there was a sense of emptiness. His smile was still there lingering but he was no longer there physically. As I grieved over his death, I could almost hear him telling me, Hey kid, you wanna live forever? to which I could barely smile. To the vacancy where I was looking, on his bed.

Then I closed my eyes, seeking solace knowing that at least he left the world with no regrets. That he had done whatever he wanted to do, given that the advices he gave me was what he practiced.

He did not.

Thanks for keeping my godfather accompanied during his last hours. I could tell he was very happy when he was with you, that genuine smile I have not seen for a long time. He was a very sad man before knowing you, no thanks to the regrets in the earlier part of his life which I’m sure he would have told you about huh? Yea, if only he had married the girl he liked instead.

Still, thanks. If you’re interested, keep in touch. You can call me Jennifer at xxxxxxxx.

He certainly did not. The remorse that he must had felt for not marrying the girl he liked, only he would understand.

Be at peace, Old Man. May you find peace wherever you’re at now.