When pain causes death, madness, and superstition
Children who bury their parents at a tender age are thrust into life’s shadowy alleys before they even have a chance to bask in its sunlight. We witness death’s grim visage before we truly embrace life’s vibrant colors. The luxury of maturing into adulthood before facing loss is an alien concept to us. Death will come knocking, ready or not, and no force—neither divine nor mortal—can hold it at bay.
After my father’s passing, the world felt more menacing than the specter of death itself. If this was the prologue, what dreadful chapters lay ahead? At just seven years old, I wasn’t frightened by the notion of dying; living seemed far more terrifying. For two agonizing years, I watched my father battle for every breath, each day more grueling than the last. Our cramped room became a theater of his suffering. He could barely walk in the final months, and our ground-level hotel room was a reluctant haven, sparing him the ordeal of stairs. My father’s weariness was palpable, his lungs betraying him as Pulmonary Hypertension ravaged his body, leaving his heart struggling to keep up.
Nightly coughs punctuated our sleep, his labored breath a constant reminder of his plight. I would awaken, anxious, to check on him, consumed by worry. My young mind couldn’t grasp the full extent of his illness, but I understood suffering all too well, my heart burdened with sorrow. I adored my Daddy and felt a profound sadness that found no release. My mother, overwhelmed with caregiving, had little time for my fears. So, I buried my feelings, questions, and longing for comfort deep within me. Why was Daddy suffering so much? Why couldn’t the doctors help him? Why were we constantly moving? And why had we left Cuba?
Watching my exhausted mother and ailing father was heart-wrenching, but nothing prepared me for death’s cruel finale. Father’s passing plunged my mother into madness and cast me into a surreal darkness. Memories from that time are fragmented, my mind mercifully shrouding many as a means of survival. The most mystifying aspect was my father’s sudden absence. As a child, I couldn’t comprehend death’s finality. No one explained that his departure was permanent. My unanswered questions fostered a realm of magical thinking where my father might return one day, a land of fantasy offering solace in his absence.