When pain causes death, madness, and superstition

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. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Logged in as Hissi Alem. Edit your profile. Log out? Required fields are marked * Message* Δ

A Child’s Journey Through Grief

A Child’s Journey Through Grief: Memories of Loss The day my father, Alem Dellele, died is etched in my memory as a blur of emotions and confusion. I was only seven years old, and the early morning wake-up call from our friendly neighbor marked the beginning of a life-altering event. I don’t know what was worse—the day my father died or the day he was buried. That morning, my mother collapsed in tears, surrounded by adults who shared in her grief. As a child, I was deeply confused but aware that something terrible had occurred. I remember Alemseged, a tall and compassionate man, who held my hand and ensured I wasn’t alone while everyone attended to my mother. He had been around a lot in the months leading up to my father’s passing, and his presence provided a small but significant comfort. I will never forget my mom’s initial intense reaction. It is a visual that is forever engraved in my memory. My father’s death at the age of 36 left a void that would never be filled. The day of my father’s burial is another memory shrouded in gloom. It was a typical chilly October day in Germany. The walk to the burial site felt interminable, and I was tired. The loud screaming and wailing voices of mourning are sounds that I can still hear when I close my eyes. I was terrified but unable to express my fears. What was happening? Why was everyone screaming so loudly? The Ethiopian way of mourning even shocks adults who are not accustomed to this ancient tradition of public grief. I had never attended a funeral before, and now I was thrust into one of the most intense traditions. Death and mourning in Ethiopian culture are significant public affairs, and the community comes together in elaborate traditions. However, I felt utterly misunderstood. All I wanted was to have my Daddy back, but I lacked the words to express my desire for his return. What I didn’t understand then, because death had not been explained to me, was that this was the day of no return. Life would never be the same for me. I was too young, confused, and overwhelmed to comprehend that death was final, at least here on this physical plane, in this lifetime. I was left alone in my grief that day, and the day after, and all the days that followed that horror. October 7th, 1986 became the day grief entered my bones and soul, my very being. I became one with grief on that day, marking the beginning of a journey through loss that would shape my life forever. Do you remember when your parent passed away? Can you recall them not returning home? Share your story in the comments! 2 Comments KirstenFebruary 9, 2025 at 11:51 pm | Edit “Grief entered my bones and soul, my very being”. This is beautifully articulated. As children we don’t have the life experience to consciously understand and make sense of what’s happened to us. So grief becomes part of us, and we grow up around it, making it harder, the further back in time our parent’s passing was, to untangle the grief and bring it into the open to deal with it. Thank you for sharing your story and the photos of you and your lovely daddy xx Reply Hissi AlemFebruary 12, 2025 at 7:08 am | Edit Oh Kirsten, thank you so much for your heartfelt message! It takes true courage to face what we could not face as children. I am honored to have you in my circle. Hissi Reply Leave a Reply Cancel reply Logged in as saleem@prismpixel.com. Edit your profile. Log out? Required fields are marked * Message*

When your world seems dark and scary

When your world seems dark and scary I hated being alive after my father’s death. Everything seemed senseless. He was gone. Where did he go? And why couldn’t he return home to be with us? These questions haunted me and remained unanswered. My mother, deeply engulfed in her own sorrow, became too fragile for me to approach with my concerns. Consequently, I had to learn to suppress my needs and emotions. She dressed in black, kept her hair short, and spoke infrequently. Our home turned into a place of darkness and despair, devoid of any adults to comfort us, as we were far removed from family and friends. Why did we remain in Germany instead of returning to Cuba, anyway? What were we doing here, all alone and miserable?    I longed for my godmother, friends, and the warmth of my beautiful island. Despite asking, my mother gave no answers. I despised our apartment, the bitter weather, and the distant nature of the people around us. There was no laughter, at home or elsewhere. Germany felt like the perfect setting for endless sadness and mourning. I became a depressed “little adult”, preoccupied with my mentally unstable and emotionally distant mother. Her grief over my father’s death left her trapped in sorrow, rendering her unable to truly survive. Despite being alive, she wasn’t really living. It was sad to watch her being broken. I felt betrayed, having no one to support me in my grief.  But that was secondary now. I needed to keep my mother stable and alive, else we wouldn’t make it in this life. It is profoundly tragic for a child to lose one parent physically and the other emotionally. Though I felt like an orphan, I couldn’t express it openly, as people wouldn’t grasp it. They would often say: “Well, at least you still have your mother. She’s so young.” They just didn’t know how to console a seven-year-old who had lost a parent. I had nowhere to direct my grief. Life can be mysterious. I didn’t die but started to escape into a magical world of daydreams, creating a fantasy filled with happiness, laughter, and freedom. I spent hours listening to music and dancing in my room, imagining a carefree childhood. It’s astonishing what tragedy does to a child’s mind. Sometimes, my memories are blurred because my developing brain chose to forget and dissociate as a means of survival. Would this lonely and dark life ever end? Was it safe for me to envision a brighter future? A small spark of hope remained, and it kept me moving forward. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Logged in as Hissi Alem. Edit your profile. Log out? Required fields are marked * Message* Δ