The Pain of Losing

Dear Ata,

I just wanted to say goodbye once more.

I don’t know how to say this. I—I—I’m... I don’t know how to begin. Still, I’m pretending to be okay. The days have never been the same since you left us. I hope and pray that you’re fine wherever your fate has taken you. As I’m writing this, with eyes full of tears, I’m trying to control my breath.

Alas! Maybe this is part of what life is all about.

I was receiving teachings on Chandrakirti’s Madhyamaka when I heard the news that you were admitted to the hospital. This treatise is an exercise in non-assertion, meaning it doesn’t allow us to fall into the traps of existence, non-existence, both, or neither. (For those unfamiliar with Madhyamaka and logic-epistemology, you’ll first need to understand and become well-versed in the conventional terms of these broad subjects, so I won’t elaborate further.) I was among 27 others for the session, but my mind was out of the class. I couldn’t concentrate, thinking about you. When this profound dharma, labeled the king of all treatises, couldn’t console me, I thought nothing could help me at that point in time. I know some of you may not like clichés, but as mentioned, this is life, and you don’t have the right to steer it, so I kept moving according to what life had to offer. Adjustment—that’s what I’ve read in some books and applied out of necessity in such a situation.

I still remember the day I went to Thimphu to attend to my sick brother. It was June 22, 2021. My friend was driving the car, my in-law was in the back seat, and I was next to the driver, playing music. Of course, we seemed completely okay externally, but only God knows what was going on deep inside us. Personally, I was going through mixed feelings. No sooner did we reach Thimphu than my in-law received a call and told me that a patient was admitted to the ICU (Intensive Care Unit). My only wish at that moment was to see my brother for one last time while he was still breathing. For that to happen, I had to wait until the next day; we spent the night at a cousin sister’s house.

We couldn’t tell our mom about the ICU, fearing she might have to go through additional suffering as she was halfway through her 8-day quarantine at one of the hotels in Gelephu. Anyway, she told us later that she knew from one of her relatives but chose to remain silent. She also narrated to us how quarantine had affected common people during emergencies.

Out of many quarantine-related stories, I found two particularly touching. These incidents actually boosted my mother’s energy, or so she told me. There was a middle-aged man from Laya undergoing the same quarantine procedures. If you remember, due to landslides and flash floods caused by heavy rainfall, 10 Layaps lost their lives. The man lost his family members in that tragic incident and was bound to reach them and attend the funeral rites, but he couldn’t.

Another man from Tsirang expected to reach home during his father’s cremation, but 8 days was too long. He told my mother and other people that everything would be finished by the time he managed to reach home.

"My son is still alive," my mother thought and made herself stronger amid the toughest times of her life.

The next day, I took a COVID test to get permission to enter the hospital. Later in the afternoon, I exchanged places with my second elder brother, who had stayed for more than a month as the attendant of our sick brother. I entered the ICU without asking anyone and was ushered near the door by the eldest in-law. However, one of the ladies, who later became a bit closer as she was a relative of my friend, requested my in-law to arrange my bedding in their line since they respected my red robe. By the way, I felt a little uncomfortable sleeping between the women as I had taken a vow of celibacy. Nevertheless, I didn’t feel guilty because situational factors forced me. I didn’t have a choice, as I believed I was a guest for the first few nights. After two days, I found a place in the corner where I met an acquaintance who was an IT officer in one of the ministries. Later, we would share our views on Buddhism. I felt sad for him, too, as he lost his mom, who had been bedridden for more than a year and was supported by a ventilator. As promised, he texted me two months later about his mother’s demise.

In the ICU, attendants are allowed to visit patients after every 3 hours, but not exceeding five times a day. It starts at 5:30 a.m. and ends at 10 p.m. All you have to do is feed and clean the patient.

When I visited the ICU for the first time, I was nervous and fearful at the same time. I wasn’t sure how to face someone close to me, but I made myself strong enough because I believe in the mantra of expecting the unexpected. When I entered the corridor with dozens of attendants, I saw them walking barefoot after keeping their slippers on a rack. I did the same. I could hear the noise of machines as if they were pumping something, followed by other beeping sounds. A few moments later, I saw the patients, unconsciously lying in their beds. I couldn’t recognize my brother at first. When I did, he wasn’t my brother. Sorry, but that’s honestly how I felt. I slowly walked towards him. I couldn’t handle it. I looked at my fellow attendants, and I could only feel my trembling feet, watching them clean and do other related tasks. Once again, I carefully looked at my brother in disbelief. I could feel the pain and relate to him. My eyes filled with tears, and I couldn’t greet him properly. So, I slipped out of the room and sent my in-law in my place. For the next 10 days, I visited him once a day, and sometimes I didn’t go at all. It felt like the machines had started to irritate my ears. Those noises have the power to make you sick even if you’re fit.

During my stay in the hospital, I spent my time reciting prayers for the sick. I visited wards, although the hospital had restrictions, tried interacting with some patients, and gave them blessed strings (sungkey) and jinlab. I learned different levels of life by seeing such patients.

I saw both failures and success!

On July 4, 2021, my brother left us forever. For the first time in my life, I witnessed something that would strike every one of us one day or another. Prior to this, I had seen people mourning; I had heard about the passing of somebody’s parents, friends, sibling, teacher, student, boss, nephew, uncle, aunty, cousin, loving friend, and so on. I never thought this would come upon us so soon. Habitual tendencies had obscured the truth, and I was lost in them.

My brother, those mathematics and computer skills I learned from you have become obsolete by now, but the biggest teaching I’ll value throughout my life is the impermanence of this human body that I learned from you.

I can sum up everything about life like what Robert Frost said: it goes on. It is painful to leave someone close, but it is quite another thing when our close one leaves us. Every time I think of you, I pray for you; I pray for all beings.

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