Chapter Eighteen

when goodbye lingers too long

I figured it was time to evolve; hence, a rebrand. Welcome to the Ebeleverse—a soft space where books, thoughts, culture, and quiet obsessions stretch out and stay a while. I share what I’m watching, reading, feeling, or quietly obsessing over twice a month. Expect a cozy mix of reflections, recs, soft commentary, and digital love notes from my internet corner to yours.

Hi friends,

How are you? Happy Easter!

Photo by Mark Tegethoff on Unsplash

I’ve been contemplating expanding what this newsletter originally set out to be. As much as I love books, TV shows, and the random observations I share, it was time for some growing up. I spend some hours daily talking to myself—a favourite pastime. What if I gathered this and shared it with my audience?

Hence the little note up there. I hope you enjoy this rebrand. As always, I’m going where the wind takes me. Let’s see if we will enjoy its lightness.

What I’m about to share wasn’t my initial plan. The event of the past few days made me introspect and decide that one way I can handle this pain in my heart is to write about it. My family and I have been navigating the deep, tender waters of loss. Writing through grief is never easy, but sometimes necessary - not just to make sense of what we feel, but to honour those we love.

Thank you for being here, reading and holding space with me today.

I apologise in advance if this will trigger memories of the loss of a loved one.

Here we go…

My grandmother died on the morning of Easter Sunday. The musty smell of her room from the diabetic foot she endured, her open mouth, closed eyes and cold arms still fresh in my head. We had guests sleeping over because we planned on having a Thanksgiving Mass and mini-party in honour of her 88th birthday - a date we weren’t sure of, but my mum had told us we needed to celebrate Mama on or after Easter Sunday.

Mama’s birthday cake

Everything was ready. We had visited the market on Holy Thursday, an experience I must share, to buy all the necessary ingredients. Her beautiful cake, baked by a family friend, was on the dining table next to her room, her dress ready, and the invites sent out.

She was making a choking sound at about 2 am. It was distressing, so I had to check on her. At first, I thought she wanted to vomit because it was a usual occurrence. She acknowledged my presence, and I stayed till it subsided a little before heading back to bed. My sleep was restless. When 5 am came, I got up to prepare for morning Mass. I noticed the silence in the house. We always attend the first Mass together, but I guess my mom changed to the second one to accommodate our guests and grandma.

I knew my day wouldn’t be the same as soon as I heard the hurried footsteps coming up the stairs and my aunt telling me to check on grandma.

She was still. My heart knew she was gone. Her lack of pulse and coldness confirmed it. At that moment, I wanted to shield my mother from the grief that would consume her, to soften the blow, to adjust my grandmother in a better posture. I signalled for someone to help me set her well before I called my mother in.

She was quiet for a while before she asked, “Why did Mama do me like this?” The intensity of the wail that came out of her still lingers in my ears. I removed my wig, jewellery, and sat down. Easter Sunday Mass forgotten.

Till I left for work later that morning, I was numb and confused. There were decisions to be made, people to call and questions to ask. My mom changed the Thanksgiving from birthday blessings to a celebration of life and insisted we have the party. There was no celebratory bone in my body. Instead, irritation because our house became full of church members who had heard from the parish priest, the first person my mother called.

I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to stand to listen to sympathy or condolences, so I left. I had shed a few tears at this moment, the tears that could come in the brightness of day. My friend came over immediately after I texted her, and she made me laugh to forget the ache in my heart. We quickly settled into organising the house for the party.

The dam finally broke in the darkness of night, my comfort space. I was asking God to forgive her and my uncle, who passed away a year ago in the same month. At least, mother and son would be united.

As I pondered the best way to write about my grief, this question came to me: Would you rather be told over the phone that someone is gone, or witness the slow fading away?

As someone who has experienced both types of death in the last year, I will choose the phone call any day.

“When someone is snatched suddenly from living, how do you tell your heart to not guilt you for not saying good bye?”

Phone calls and final days…

My uncle had been in and out of the hospital for months. When the first surgery was successful, we were happy for the new chance at life. This was the uncle who cared about all of us, the one who checked in frequently, who could relate with us on our level. We loved him deeply.

I never thought about death and my uncle sharing the same sentence. It was always life. He is strong, a fighter and will overcome. We talked frequently on the phone. Although his voice dropped a few octaves, I still didn’t think of death until that dreaded call came before the 3rd of April, 2024, struck midnight.

I was thrown off balance. His death took pieces of me that I am yet to recover or ever have again. I felt like a zombie; no bearing or direction, just moping. My tears were endless, I don’t think I had wept as violently as I did when he passed.

One thing I regret is not having the opportunity to say goodbye. When someone is snatched suddenly from living, how do you tell your heart not to feel guilty for not saying goodbye? I couldn’t have known. All the things I failed to say to him on my tongue still.

“Just as I began stitching myself together after my uncle’s passing, I found myself watching another slow unraveling- my grandmother’s.”

As healing slowly crept in, I was faced with the possibility of my grandma leaving this earth. It started as a nail infection that gradually developed into a gangrenous foot at risk of amputation. At the hospital, I asked her if she wanted the surgery, she said she wants to go whole. I wish she knew the intensity of pain she would experience from the foot.

I watched my grandma shrink slowly into a small child in size and sometimes in mind.

She had good days and bad days. The days she forgot who was standing in front of her, the days she stubbornly refused to eat by herself until someone fed her, the days when her caregiver had to sing to her so she allows us to change her diaper or bathe her, the days she outrightly refused to be held and the days she laid in an infantile position, curving into herself like a millipede.

Those days frustrated me tremendously. As ridiculous as it sounds, I hid from her on some days even though we lived in the same house. When you care for someone for 15 years, you hide from them sometimes. There are days when caring for them isn’t your priority. It happened seldomly over the years but became frequent during the last months of her life.

Seeing your beloved grandmother move from a strong woman to a child chips at your heart daily. Initially, she was stubborn when we would advise her to use her walking aids. She insisted on walking without assistance until I explained why she needed to use them. From walking sticks, she moved to a stroller with wheels and finally to a wheelchair.

Shit got real in that wheelchair!

As days went by, it became clear. My grandma might not be alive till June. We were saddled with the responsibility of keeping her alive till her ‘birthday’- LOL!

God said she will be alive on the day, but will she open her eyes when it’s time for Mass?

With my grandma, I had the grace of saying goodbye as she transitioned from solid food to liquid meals, as she grew thinner and weaker in my eyes. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to utter those words.

How do you tell a living, breathing being goodbye? I couldn’t stay in her room for more than five minutes without being emotionally exhausted. How could I have formed the words? Instead, she did. Whenever I stepped in, she would ask about my health and work, pray I find a worthy partner, pray I am happy all my days, bless me, thank me and never fail to hold my arm to comment on its suppleness and strength.

When I announced my departure, she waved. She always waved.

I gathered strength from her and started to linger in her presence. I would feed her, caress her hollowed cheeks and smile often. It was a different kind of grief, one I haven’t formed the words to describe yet.

Both deaths have affected me in unique ways, equally painful and sad. Mama’s slow loss was torturous compared to the phone call about my uncle’s death. It brings to mind what is said in the fourth station when Jesus meets his mother on the way to Golgotha: “It is harder to watch the pains of those we love than to bear our pain”. There were moments I wished I had superpowers to deal with the pain. She carried the pain steadfastly; no visible tears, but you knew she was suffering.

I didn’t witness my uncle’s pain, only heard it. Despite it, I knew he was putting up a brave front like the strong, boisterous man he was.

Love is kind, thoughtful, and painful. Losing them carved a hole in my heart that their presence once filled. Mama taught me the truest form of love is simply showing up - holding hands, holding on even when it hurts. It’s a lesson I will always carry with me as I hold space for the people I call mine.

“Neither way of losing feels merciful. Sudden or slow, death still demands payment from the heart.”

My grandma had three names she called me: Aggie, when I checked in on her, Doki, when I tended to her medications and vitals and Soldier, when I lifted her in my arms after she could no longer walk (she knew I meant business).

I will never hear two of those names again.

Maybe love lingers in the names still echoing inside us - the ones whispered in memory, still alive in our hearts and the rooms we once shared.

In the end, whether it comes with a phone call or slowly fading away, grief alters us. I’m learning that love doesn’t say goodbye—it simply changes form. It is invisible and steadfast, asking us to carry it forward in the lives we live because they loved us first.

So I will: with tenderness and warmth, carry their memories in my bones, my breath and my becoming.

Whew! This was heartbreaking to write. I hope it wasn’t too long. Writing this is one way I can breathe easier as I navigate my life. If this resonated with you, or if you’re grieving too, please leave a comment or things you did to make your heart ache less. I would love to hear from you.

Please share this with as many people as possible. Perhaps this may offer comfort to those who are mourning. Thank you for reading!

Until next time,

xoxo

Ebele