Paul died at 5:05pm last Thursday afternoon; from that moment on, he was 45 years old forever.
I can still remember last time when we met at Costco, he was still a hectic loud new father, babbling about the going-ons of his life despite the cold wind, holding the baby tightly against himself. His first operation on his brain tumor was on 3/10; no one would expect his death in a merely less than 2 months, not even his doctor.
This is not the first death I have encountered. When my grandfather died, I was aside; he died at the age of 72. On the 35th day after his death, I wrote a piece when I was home alone. Memory has faded to a point where I cannot recall what I actually wrote in there, the only thing I'm sure is that there was a pretty faint melancholy given the limitd interaction with him.
I wasn't around when my grand father on my father's side died, when my youngest aunt died, or when my grandmother died. The aunt also died in her 40s, another pathetic case.
On Thursday night, I went to the hospital. No idea why I went, just felt like going, like to see him for the last time. There will be a funeral, but that is different. Paying tribute at the hospital feels personal.
We got there at around 8:30. Paul's wife Karen was weeping beside the bed alone at that time. Friends gathered in the library of the Hospice section. There I saw Michelle, the couple's daughter, a little more than 1 yr old. She was still ignorant of the loss, crying for milk or diaper. People were gossiping, mostly about the progress of the events; but nothing really mattered much now. Paul's sister was abouut to arrive at JFK airport at 21:20; she had been here for weeks, and as soon as she went back, she decided to come back again; still she wasn't able to see him off.
We waited in the library for a while, before some one went into the room to console Karen again. Moments later, we walked to the room. I prepared myself for that, the sight still quite dazed me. I could manage to recognize Paul, but no longer that dark-skinned healthy talkative Paul; he was so pale, without a trace of blood. Suddenly I felt relieved, it felt like Paul was still around, what was lying there was just a soulless body. I used to fear ghosts, but at that moment I wouldn't be scared if Paul was really around; I would like to see his soul detached from the tortured body, and start babbling again in his strongly accented Mandarin.
We stayed till Paul's sister came. By that time, it had already been more than 6 hrs after Paul passed away. Honestly, that was the first time I have ever seen a corpse that has died for so long, and that sight was quite impressive. My eyes fixed on Paul's hands, on which there had already developed two huge stains caused by
livor mortis, when the group was praying. That sight is going to stay with me throughout my life I guess.
Paul surely didn't want to leave so early; after more than 40 years of nomading, he was just about to start his happy family life. He loved his wife so deeply, that he was questioning himself "What about Karen?" ("Karen怎么办呀?") when he was in deep coma. Now Karen is going to leave this land of broken heart, bringing Paul's ashes with her, back to home. We can only hope the best, to both of them.
