Life’s not the same when loved ones leave too soon

We all have questions about life and death. I have a lot of questions about life, how long mine is for, and when I’ll be able to see people who left the party way before time

T ake a look at the fingers on one of your hands. Now, for each one, try to slot in the things you think are a certainty in life. I’ll give you one bonus answer - death.

Let’s twist that question a bit: What are the things you wish you could take back?

There’s one I’d definitely take back without any hesitation: when we found out that my Dad had passed away, it had already been a week since he was laid to rest. Why, you may ask. Let’s just put it this way: my parents have been separated for over a decade, but I knew where my Dad was working. I had chances to go see him, but I just couldn’t make it happen.

You can dismiss me as a heartless fool. I won’t blame you at all. I’m not going to list in any excuses here — valid as they may be. Make no mistake, though: I deeply love my Dad.

The worst part of it? I didn’t even get to introduce him to my only child — his only grandchild. And that invalidates all my excuses.

I felt so numb on that day, August 16, 2013. It was a Friday. I saw the e-mail from Mom, which sent me into a catatonic state. I aimlessly made my way to the office, then eventually broke down some time in the afternoon. Inconsolably. Big deal for someone for whom tears are hard.

And as I came home that night, something hit me: I did remember that I scented a fragrance in my part of the room while I was getting dressed for work earlier in the day. Initially, I thought it was a perfume used by one of my flatmates, but I decided to ask around and sniff their bottles.

Guess what? No one had the fragrance that engulfed me. And I knew what it was — no, I knew who it was, sending a message to me.

As I tell anyone whom I’ve told this story to, I’ll be carrying this for the rest of my life. This will sting me for as long as I live.

Moving on into the afterlife — wherever that may be — is simply inevitable. We’re mortal. People have been so fascinated, fearsome and mystified by death that some do more than just try to prevent it; they think about reversing it.

It’s funny that I suddenly thought of that. Ever heard of cryonics? That science is, in the simplest terms, the low-temperature preservation (read: freezing) of the deceased who cannot be treated with present medicine and science, with the hope that one day, they could be revived if and when in the future, a treatment for their cause of death is found. Think of it as a high-tech graveyard of sorts.

Naturally, there are a lot of obstacles and (legal) issues with it and if we talk about all of them, we’ll be here forever.

I can imagine myself frozen, fine. But I’m just horrified to think of what could happen when I’m revived — in other words, defrosted, like some meat from the freezer. Remember: the average adult human body is up to 65 per cent water. To put that into perspective, get some grocery-store ice cream, let it melt into a total liquid state and then refreeze it... now check out the ice particles that have formed and imagine that to be your body’s cells. (And we haven’t even touched more geeky stuff, such as the cells-need-oxygen-to-functionproperly topic.)

And it’s also nauseatingly expensive. They say life isn’t fair; death is even more unfair.

But generally and brutally speaking, death is, creepily, fair game. We are all bound to

go there. I had a little bout with necrophobia when I was younger, which came to a head one fine evening.

I was on my Nintendo Entertainment System playing a Super Mario Bros game when my character died. For some inexplicable reason, I suddenly felt petrified with what happened, asking myself several terrifying questions. What if it was my turn to kick the bucket? Will I still be able to see my loved ones?

What’s the food like in heaven? (I’m sorry for breaking your reading mood, but since I was young at that point, I admit that this actually came across my mind then.)

I scampered to the second floor and hugged my startled Mom.

She just looked at me, calmed me and said gently, “you shouldn’t be”.

Four years after my father moved on, I’m still searching for questions.

Yes, you read that right; questions, not answers. Questions that I could have asked myself back in 2013. What can I do to help him in any way he needs it? What could he say now that I’m all grown up, and about all the things I’ve achieved? What if something happened to him and I couldn’t see him anymore?

If I had found those questions back then, maybe — just maybe — things could’ve been different.

I could have found the answers. And surely I wouldn’t be feeling this sorry for myself now.

Which is why I don’t like eulogies. As a matter of fact, I borderline hate them.

What’s the use of saying all the good stuff when the one you’re addressing is lying cold? Why can’t we say the things we say at eulogies when that person is alive and kicking? You know one other funny thing? Why is it that, despite the fact that you’ve done more than your fair share for someone, it feels as if you still haven’t done enough for someone when he or she’s gone?

If you’ve seen Doctor Strange, the Ancient One told our hero something very meaningful, yet at the same time so truthfully depressing.

Death is what gives life meaning. To know your days are numbered. Your time is short. Wolverine took that a step further in the

Fallen Son: The Death of Captain America comic book series, when he said that you don’t really get over the death of someone; you just simply have to live with the fact - and the pain that goes with it - that that person is no longer with you. And someday, everything will be better.

Someday. Dedicated to a friend who lost a three-year battle with cancer this week. You will be missed. alvin@khaleejtimes.com Alvin is in mourning

I felt numb that day, August 16, 2013. It was a Friday. I saw the e-mail from Mom, which sent me into a catatonic state. I aimlessly made my way to the office... eventually broke down. A big deal for someone for whom tears are hard