The Pain of Losing

Dear Ata,

I just wanted to say goodbye once more.

I don’t know how to say this. I don’t even know how to begin. I’m pretending to be okay, but the days have never been the same since you left us. I hope and pray that you are at peace wherever your fate has taken you. As I write this, my eyes are filled with tears, and I struggle to control my breath.

Alas—perhaps this is simply what life is.

I was receiving teachings on Chandrakirti’s Madhyamaka when I heard the news that you had been admitted to the hospital. This treatise is an exercise in non-assertion; it does not allow us to fall into the extremes of existence, non-existence, both, or neither. I was among twenty-seven others in the session, yet my mind was far away. I could not concentrate. I was thinking only of you.

When even this profound dharma—known as the king of all treatises—could not console me, I felt that nothing could. Life, as it is said, does not allow us to steer it according to our wishes. So I kept moving, adjusting as best as I could. Adjustment—something I had only read about before—became a necessity.

I still remember the day I went to Thimphu to attend to you. It was June 22, 2021. A friend was driving, my in-law sat in the back seat, and I was beside the driver, playing music. Outwardly, we seemed fine, but only we knew what was happening inside. As soon as we reached Thimphu, my in-law received a call informing us that a patient had been admitted to the ICU. My only wish then was to see you one last time while you were still breathing. But that had to wait until the next day.

We couldn’t tell our mother about the ICU, fearing it would add to her suffering as she was midway through her eight-day quarantine in Gelephu. Later, she told us she already knew but chose to remain silent. She also shared stories of how quarantine had affected people during emergencies.

Two stories touched me deeply. One was of a middle-aged man from Laya who had lost family members in a tragic landslide and flood. Though bound to attend their funeral rites, quarantine held him back. Another was of a man from Tsirang who knew his father’s cremation would be over long before he reached home.

“My son is still alive,” my mother thought—and that belief gave her strength.

The next day, after taking a COVID test, I entered the hospital and exchanged places with my second elder brother, who had already stayed for over a month as your attendant. I entered the ICU quietly. Out of respect for my robe, my bedding was arranged among others. Though I felt uncomfortable due to my vow of celibacy, circumstances left me no choice.

In the ICU, attendants could visit patients every three hours, up to five times a day. The sounds of machines—constant, mechanical, relentless—filled the air. When I first saw you, I couldn’t recognize you. And when I did, you no longer felt like my brother. I say this with honesty and pain. My legs trembled. Tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t greet you properly and had to step out.

For the next ten days, I visited you sparingly. Sometimes, I couldn’t go at all. The sounds of the machines haunted me.

During my stay, I spent my time reciting prayers, visiting wards when possible, offering sungkey and jinlab, and speaking with patients. I witnessed many layers of life—both suffering and courage.

On July 4, 2021, you left us forever.

For the first time, I truly witnessed impermanence—not as a teaching, but as reality. Until then, I had heard of loss, seen others mourn, but never imagined it would come so soon to us. Habitual tendencies had blinded me.

My brother, the mathematics and computer skills I learned from you may now be obsolete, but the greatest lesson you gave me—the impermanence of this human body—will stay with me for life.

As Robert Frost said, life goes on. It is painful to leave someone we love, but it is far more painful when someone we love leaves us. Every time I think of you, I pray—for you, and for all beings.

In the absence of death, I would never have known the true essence of birth.