A white lie turned grey

For every beginning there is an ending. As I sit here writing in this darkened room, all I hear is the sound of the slow spinning fan and the faraway dog hauling, triumphantly with innocence. So I begin to write towards the end.

Earlier yesterday, I received a call from a friend who had tried calling me for quite some time, but I was preoccupied with my assignments and school nonsense. Often I told her I would return her call, which I always naturally forget and left the issue unsettled. Worse still, I even lied about being busy and that I won’t be available until the next week so she won’t call until then. However the next week was literally next, but she called again today. We were on the phone for only god-knows how long. Though I was in a middle of a lecture, I decided to talk to her as she sounded different this time, with a sense of urgency and desperateness. She sounded intense.

She told me of her dying mother, who was suffering from breast cancer. It was malignant and from her voice I knew it was fatal. Unlike my friend, I didn’t cry. I walked to the top floor, where it was more quiet and listened to what she had to say. She told me of how difficult it is for her to have to watch her own mother go through chemotherapy and heard from the doctor that her mother has only one month to live. She told me she wanted to commit suicide and couldn’t live on like this. I was speechless as I hear her sob between her own words.

She also told me about her sleepless nights and sleeping pills. Two nights before she tried to finish a dosage of cafergot she bought from the pharmacy. In a split second I wish I was there beside her so I could slap her into reality and then hug her so she knows she is not alone.

She sounded better after letting all her problems out as I reminded her of her younger sister and brother who would really need her in their lives; and how she should be much stronger than this though I doubt my own capability in standing, myself, if I were in her shoes. More than this, I had no right to. My hands trembled after the conversation. If only I had talked to her earlier, I could have spared her much desperation. If only I had answered her calls earlier, she would know that I am here for her.

I went home then and called my mother, just to know how she was doing; and by the simplicity and gentleness of her manners dispelled my feelings of forlornness. I never told her about the call that night and said everything was fine. Sometimes, I ask myself what I would be capable of if I were to lose my mother. Certainly I will cry. But I guess I will move on. All of us have to. Life goes on…faham?

When at last I found myself alone, I would have sought the sleep I so much needed, but the emotional scenes of the day chased each other in agitating confusion through my hormonal systems, and so I sat defeated by the window, to crave counsel and help; and as I waited I sank into a deep slumber, which then I realize dawn climbing over the wall and creeping through the unclosed curtain.