Let's just die.

I hate people. I hate life. I hate university. I just want to shoot myself.

In summary, I'm a bitter, old hag. Whiny, First World brat. What's new?

I'm doing a mental health unit, this semester, actually. I get the feeling I'm going to end up nuts by the end, self-diagnosed with jizbillions of conditions. I already I think I'm something like manic depressive. My tutor mentioned something along the lines of these people having a tendency 'to internalise all their problems, not discuss it, and just lose it at some point'. Something like that. It sounded like me. Then everything does, when you do this sort of course. I could probably convince myself I'm pregnant. Immaculate conception. 

So I had a bad thought recently. Well, it seemed like a bad thought, but I'd like some feedback. Not dying for it. I've gotten used to you people not saying much. The views increase, but alas, all is silent on your front. I swear there are echoes sometimes.

Anyway, I was in a lecture the other day, and the lecturer was discussing all these statistics about the demographic of Oz and all. She talked about birth rates and death rates. Our birth rate isn't too bad, but from what I could deduce, our population isn't growing due to birth, it's more that we live longer. Hurray.

She then showed us these tables on the top causes of death throughout the last years. It varied some, with us 'curing' stuff and other conditions replacing them. Our lecturer very briefly mentioned that the moral is that we're all going to die of something. You cure one, something else comes along. 

I don't know why, but this just stuck in my head.

My thought, in summary: why don't we just let people die?

I've worked in aged care twice, as y'all know. Two different places - one in an affluent suburb, another in the ghetto that is where I live. It's the same thing.

Old people on drugs being shuffled about in this mind-numbing routine, around a prison like setting. They're not really there. Some have loving relatives that come all the time, but too many just sit and stare their days away. They're washed and changed and fed and put to bed like babies. They don't remember things on a daily basis. I'm sure the nurses and PCA workers care for them - I like to think that most people who go into the profession don't do it for the dough. I don't really know if there is a lot of dough involved, actually. I know I cared. Regardless, even if we assume they do care, the point is, it's still a job. It's hard to appreciate the company if you know they're getting paid. For a relationship to be meaningful, you need to be able to share your burdens on equal footing. You can't have a policy or boss dictate the terms and conditions. And yet, for the most part, that's the only kind of relationships that most of these old souls have.

And what is the point?

Aren't we for quality of life, over quantity? 

It's not that I think that we should just stop taking care of our elderly and let them rot. And I can't bring myself to propose a step back seeing as we've come so far.

There is something beautiful about how we traditionally take care of them. You in the Eastern world know what I mean. We keep good old grandma and grandpa in our big family home, forever and always. They get to watch their offspring blossom and expand into an empire. We take care of them, not an institution. Yeah, they may see the doctor frequently, and get given meds. But they're not freakishly doped up, you know? And we're always there. To the end. No one dies alone in a foreign room, staring at an empty ceiling, attached to tubes.

And when they reach 70, 80, 90, or 100, whatever affliction takes them, it still feels... healthy. Normal. Does that make sense? We fight for the lives of our elderly, but not to the point that they live an almost artificial existence. Our elderly, no matter how they decline, are regal. Not neglected. And in that sense, growing old is beautiful.

It's just not the same here.

But as I said, I don't mean that we should stop the drugs now. I just think that we need to stop trying to cure certain conditions that take old people. Alleviate pain, yes. Prevention, yes. But stop trying to fix 'death'. 

JUST LET THEM DIE, FOR GOD'S SAKE. 

LET THEM GO.

Stop holding onto people who aren't even there.

Is that a bad thought?

It's not just that. I remember in year 11, when I was doing literature, we were just starting on Frankenstein, and our teacher asked us if there was anything wrong in trying to banish death. 

"Who doesn't want to live forever?" he asked. 

I pulled a Hermione, for some bizarre reason, with my hand just shooting up. I was the only one. I don't think it's because I'm the only one who had this view. Perhaps the others just hadn't thought about it, or were smart enough to try and keep their opinions at bay.

Of course my teacher beamed.

"And why not, Laila? How could you possibly turn down immortality? Imagine all the never ending fun you could have."

I don't remember exactly what I said, but I remember floundering a bit. I couldn't find the words, but it just felt wrong at the time. I thought about it later, of course, and I realised that a life with a time limit is a meaningful one. When our days are numbered, every now and again, we wake up and realise that we have to make 'em count. Not always, but you know those random YOLO occasions. In this weird way, if we don't die, we have nothing to really live for. When you feel like you have all the time in the world, you don't really take the time to savour it, right? 

I donno. Just a thought. I realise this post is kind of pointless. No one is going to read this and care enough and nothing will change. 

I think this was just for me to make a mental note: at some point, I have to die. 

At some point, the battle to stay alive isn't worth the fight. 

I'm a nurse in the making, guys. Take a good look at your future ;)

Peace in,

Laila

Money, money, money.

On the 14th of November, a father was admitted into hospital. The doctors performed tests and gave him a report, and they were ready to release him. His family - wife, two daughters, two sons - were about to come visiting, but he calls his oldest son to tell him not to worry. He tells his son to just come by himself to pick him up, there's nothing wrong, why cause the hassle of hiring a van to get everyone to town?

So off this boy goes, catches a bus to town to pick his father up. The story gets a bit awry here, but from what I've heard, on the way out, his father had his first stroke. The boy is there to see it. He's around for the second stroke, he's around to see his father die. I heard he fed his dad, too. When he set out that day, with the intention of bringing home his father, he didn't realise it was going to be a dead body.

His younger brother too, still in school, did not realise that when he left for school that day, that was the last time he was going to say bye to his dad. The girls, too, went about helping their mother wash the clothes and make lunch, they didn't know that some of those clothes and some of that food were not going to be worn or eaten.

You probably want to know what was on the father's report, right? Well, it said 95% of his kidneys were gone. 

The thing about kidneys is that they don't just go. They don't just fall apart like that, one day. It's a gradual thing, and there are signs, signs that the father must have noticed up until the moment he was finally admitted into hospital. So why, you wonder, wouldn't he go to the doctors earlier, when these signs first cropped up? Why didn't he tell anyone earlier?

Money. He didn't have the money. Doctors appointments in Sri Lanka are pretty darn expensive, and his family just didn't have enough. He could have asked someone, right? Mentioned it... our side alone, my mother has three brothers and three sisters. Surely someone could have dished up.

About two years ago, we went on a holiday to Sri Lanka, and that proved to be the period where our family was conned, and we lost all our money. Not just that, but this 'business' involved the wealthier members of our family, so they too, went down with us. It was on that holiday that my dad told my uncle, who had reluctantly admitted that he needed some financial help, that he would aid him in any way possible. But my dad never got to, because, as I said, the money was all gone by the end of that holiday.

It makes me sick. Don't get me wrong, I'm not calling for a revolution, to burn all the money in the world and live in this happy chappy, airy fairy utopia, where love makes the world go round, and everyone just gives, gives, gives. I know the communist dream is only that - a dream, because in practise it never works. But that doesn't make me feel any better about the inequities of this world. All he needed was a bit of money, and maybe this never would have happened. But then, huh, what's meant to be is meant to be, right?

And still money is the problem. None of his kids are working, nor does my aunt. The oldest daughter, besides being a bit fussy, can't get married because they don't have the means to meet the requested dowries from the umpteen suitors that have come along (completely unIslamic, btw -_-' ). The son has just finished some major exams - O-levels, A-levels? all the same to me - and we're trying to get him to come here, but again, you have to have a certain income to sponsor someone to come over, which is also true of his sister. We're working on it, but it feels like no one has enough. The youngest is still in school, and I guess everyone's going to try and contribute to the tuition and school fees.

On Thursday (the 28th), my sister went overseas. She had this money saved up for a party we were going to host for our friends at the end of the year, but we decided it was better used going overseas. I haven't spoken to my cousins, yet. They're grieving, and understandably, talking on the phone is not the first thing on their minds. And besides, what can we possibly say from over here to make it okay? When someone's mourning, the best thing is just to be there, you know? And however you need to help should manifest itself without you having to offer pre-written, conventional condolences.

I admit I was a bit jealous. Not in the sense of, God, I hate her, why does she get to go? I want to go, it's not fair, my life sucks, I hate the world. It's more like, gee, I wish I could go, but I ain't hatin' on nobody because I can't. It's strictly a moral support trip, and everyone has been saying that if we had the money (again! >.< ), they'd have sent me too, so I'm not holding it against anyone. 

And then this nasty voice starts up in my head, going something like this: Well, will you look at that? When Number One finished school, not only did you guys go on holiday to Sri Lanka, but within that you also went on Umrah. And yet, when you finish school, not only is there no overseas holiday, not only do you just mostly wallow about at home, but there is the added list of  demands - get a job, get your license, tutor your sisters, clean this, do that. And they're even talking about marriage. They just can't wait to get rid of you, huh?

Really hate that voice. 

Anyhow, I don't really know why I blogged this. I told Linchy I would blog something, and I've been meaning to, but I couldn't figure out where to start. So here is Something. My life as of recent. 

I'm not as depressed as this sounds, awnestly. My uncle, he will be missed, but we watched a part of his funeral on Skype, and I actually saw him, and I expected something ghastly and emaciated, but in fact, he looked almost beautiful. Glowing. Nur, they say, right? Isn't it supposed to be a good sign? I put my trust in God. And I know my sister will be helping my cousins, even if I can't. I actually have another cousin coming in two weeks or so. And I've also been given this new resolve - I actually am really attempting to get a job, for me, now, because I want to save up and go to Sri Lanka at the end of next year. New Year's goal, I guess.

And, one more thing: this is so cheesy, but make sure the last thing you say to someone before you leave them, whether it be before you go to school or work, to sleepover at a friend's place or go on a grand trip overseas, make sure it's nice, okay? My mother, she kind of had this experience, in this post. One day, she said her salaams and went to school, and when she came back, it was to her father's funeral. Just like that. You never really know when you're going to speak to someone for the last time, so try, always try, to end it on a good note.

Be happy :)

Peace in,
Laila

The Fall of an Empress // Gender Bender

These last few days have been ... tumultuous.

On Thursday the 15th of August, my grandmother passed away. 

It wasn't a surprise. She'd been on her last days for a while now. And truthfully, I hadn't been worried about her, but my father. My father... is really attached to his mother. I mean, really, more than any of his siblings. And I was afraid of how he'd take it.

On that night, I had just turned off my laptop, when I heard the most frightening sound ever. Of my 18 years, I had not heard my father cry once. But on that night, he wailed, and I don't think I'll ever forget it. Fathers are supposed to be the 'rocks', yeah? The foundations? Well, mine were shuddering and crumbling. When I cried, I cried for him, I think, more than anything.

My grandmother had 87 years. She had 7 kids - 13, actually, but five of them were caught between miscarriage and still birth. Her 7 kids, they made 24 kids - and there's a chance there may be more. She lived to see some of her grandkids make up to 19 great-grandchildren. She lived to see her legacy spread across the world; we have been/are in England, in Dubai, in Japan, in the US, in Australia, in Bangladesh, in France. 

At first I thought we didn't really have a connection, my grandmother and I. There was a language barrier. I mean, understood Tamil, but the words were awkward on my mouth, and every time I tried to put in effort to speak, my cousins would started their hyped up teasing: "Oh, oh, guys, come on - look, Laila's going to start speaking. This is going to be great."

So obviously, I'd instantly shut down. But I had tried to speak to my grandmother, the only other problem was, she could never hear me. I donno. Some say I have a quiet voice, but I don't think it's that quiet - in fact, my friends would tell you the contrary. But my grandmother, no matter how loud I talked, she couldn't hear.

So I thought, you know, we're not close. Everything I know about her, my cousins told me, and I envied them for the connection they had, but I was also glad to be hearing the stories she told them. Because she was a spunky woman.

I've always known her as teeny tiny and all wrinkly. I used to think her blue eyes were a thing of old age - you know, sometimes eyes go all... rheumy? I think that's the word. But anyway, her eyes weren't rheumy, they were naturally blue, and sharp. A startling feature for the average Lankan. 

But it was her height that was funny, because she was so tiny, and yet so commanding. My cousin told me this one story, back in the very very very old days, when my grandmother was a young mother, pregnant, and alone in an incomplete-house on a hill. My grandfather had gone out. A bunch of 'rowdies' came along, and they started banging on the front door, trying to freak her out and get her to open the door. What's more, there was a back door that wasn't actually fitted and lock-able, and they could've easily gotten in.

But my grandmother, she didn't panic. She didn't try to fix up the back, thereby alerting them to its weakness. She just yelled at them, through the door, while they taunted and teased. And while they stood at the front door, banging away, she poured chilli powder through the grate at the top of the door. They ran away in tears, apparently, and rightly so.

That story never ceased to make me laugh, but I was never surprised. This is a woman, who, in her weak 80s, never allowed any of my gentlemanly boy cousins, who hovered about, to help her down the stairs. This is a woman who hated slow drivers, who had a serious need for speed.

And I did have a connection with her. Just because she was my blood, just because she was the mother of my father. Just because even though we'd never been able to converse normally, she always had this special nickname for me, just me, and as small and trivial as it may seem, it was still there.

I heard that leading up to the days of her death, people flocked from all over the country to her house - her house. It didn't have a street number, it was literally named after her: Aneesa Villa. Practically her palace. These were the people who'd she helped, advised, encouraged, and befriended.

And they came to our house, too. In the last two days, visitors have been dropping by non-stop, people I didn't even know. I don't think it's just because of my dad - I think it's just her.

So I don't really pity her, nor do I mourn her too much. I know she's in the best hands, God's hands. I pray for my dad to have strength, but my grandmother - masha'allah, she had a good run, and insha'allah, she's heading to a better place.

There was another shocker, though. This one not tragic, but more... o.o I donno. Bizarre?

Yesterday, around midnight, when the last visitors were leaving, Kiko was finally freed from the room we'd had him locked in (for his own protection, mind you). After eating and drinking, he started making this really weird sound. I've heard it before - it's that other worldly sound that I hear cats making sometimes, outside, like, a mix between a baby and a meow. I wasn't worried, because, having heard other cats do it, I figured it was something natural. But I needed to quell it, or my parents would get mad.

So, as we all do, I Googled it.

The sound was to do with them being in 'heat'. Oh, cool, I thought. Cat just needs to get laid. Well, I ain't stopping him.

Then I was reading through other details of being in 'heat', and I noticed there were these 'symptoms' that in fact, Kiko had had in a supposed illness that we presumed, a few weeks ago. I was like... whoa o.o Poor dude. 

Then I realised that in fact, when speaking of cats in heat, they always referred to the cats as... she.

...

So, ladies and gentlemen, Kiko is now, in fact... Kiki. I keep thinking of all the times we teased 'him' about being such a pansy, such a girl. I think about all the times we assumed 'he' was having an identity crisis, when 'he' constantly preened 'himself', allowed 'himself' to be dressed in pink. I think of all the conversations I had with 'him', after 'he'd' come back from some proving-my-manhood escapade, and I'd assure 'him' that lots of girls dig a sensitive guy.

...

Also, in the morning, when I looked outside, I saw her snoozing with some other neighbourhood heartbreaker. My first thought was: DAMN, she works first.

Then when Prince Charming hung around all freaking day, just sitting and sleeping around where precious Kiki was sleeping, I, um, got a very bad/awkward/kindofexcited feeling. 

I think the cat is pregnant o.O

Do I know what to do? No. Did I Google it? Yes. Did it have an answer? Duh.

The big one was always 'have her desexed'. I can't do that. The very notion makes me sick. I mean, I know it's normal around here and everything, but to me it feels all wrong, like, who are we take that natural part of an animal away from them, just because we can't handle it?

So it's going to be stressful, and it's going to be insane, but I think I'm just going to let nature take its course. I hope it works out...

Peace in,
Laila