In the shadow of my mother's passing, a stark truth emerged from the depths of my grief: it seems our worth blooms in the hearts of others only as we draw our final breath. For five grueling years, I was the sole caretaker for my mother as cancer waged a relentless war on her body. Throughout this time, the silence from those she had generously supported was deafening. No phone calls, no visits—just the echo of our struggle against the mounting tide of medical expenses. Forced to leave my job, we scraped by on the meager remnants left after the onslaught of bills. My brother, distant as ever, occasionally sent checks just large enough to cover the mortgage, though his wealth could easily stretch further. Our strained relationship, marred by perceived jealousies and unspoken grievances, stood in stark contrast to the abundant love our mother had lavished on all who crossed her threshold.
She was a beacon of hope and support, not just for our family but for countless students she welcomed into her home, providing not just shelter but a chance at a brighter future. Yet, when faced with her mortality, the outpouring of support I had expected for her was nowhere to be found. It wasn't until she lay in her opal-white casket, surrounded by the stained glass of the church, that people emerged from the woodwork. I, alone, had made the funeral arrangements, bracing for a service attended by shadows. To my astonishment, the chapel filled with those bearing flowers, dishes laden with comfort food, and hearts heavy with gratitude and cherished memories. The outpouring of affection was overwhelming, yet it stung with the cruel irony of their absence when it mattered most.
The world's cruelty laid bare, I returned to my job as a bank teller, cloaked in solitude. For three years, my existence was a solitary one, punctuated only by the necessity of work and the brief interactions of daily errands. In the depths of my depression, a morbid curiosity took root: what if I were to witness my own funeral? Driven by a desire to see who would mourn me, I meticulously orchestrated my own memorial.
And so, I attended, hidden among the grieving, to hear the final eulogies of my life unspooled by others. This act, born from a place of profound loneliness and despair, was my silent scream into the void, yearning for a connection lost in the shadows of grief and misunderstanding but left me in disgust. It was time for me to make my statement.
As I walked up to the podium to speak, whispers and gasps filled the church. A huge lump formed in my throat but I had to swallow it.
“Today, I stand before you to share a simple yet profound truth—a reminder that often goes unnoticed until it’s too late. It’s about love, the most powerful force we have in our lives, and the peculiar timing of its loudest expression.
Have you noticed how often we hear beautiful eulogies, see grand gestures, and witness an outpouring of love and appreciation, but only after someone has passed away? It’s as if our truest feelings, our deepest regrets, and our most heartfelt words are reserved for a time when the person we cherish can no longer hear them.”
Although I had written much more that led to my expression of disappointment in humanity, I stopped. A cold chill came over my body as I laid myself into the empty casket and slit my own throat.