‘A great soul serves everyone all the time. A great soul never dies. It brings us together again and again.’
– Maya Angelou. She was an American poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist. She is best known for her series of autobiographies, including “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”, which brought her international recognition and acclaim. Angelou’s work often focused on themes of racism, identity, family, and resilience. She was a prominent voice in the civil rights movement and her writing continues to inspire and resonate with readers around the world.
In life, there are some losses you never quite prepare for — no matter how inevitable they may seem. Losing my mother recently, barely over a year after the death of my father, has been one of the most emotionally jarring and transformative experiences of my life.
Sitting here, reflecting on this past year, I am struck by the overwhelming mix of grief, love, and a newfound sense of perspective. Writing this isn’t easy, but it’s necessary. Sometimes, expressing our pain through words allows us to discover meaning within our sorrow.
When my father passed away at age 94, just over a year ago, on January 13, 2024, to be exact, it felt like my world had been thrown off its axis. He was a towering figure in my life — steady, wise, and full of quiet strength. I leaned on his guidance more often than I realised. His absence left a gaping hole in the rhythm of my daily life, even though he and my mother had been living with my younger sister.
But in the days and months that followed my mother’s presence, though changed, was still a source of both comfort and heartbreak. She was grieving in her way — or perhaps, not truly grieving.
My mother was already suffering from amnesia and dementia when my father passed. This made the experience even more heartbreaking. She didn’t fully understand what had happened and often behaved like she was still single, living with her parents. Daily, she would ask my siblings to send her home, not realising that home was with us now. Watching her navigate a world that no longer made sense was a pain that words can scarcely describe. My sisters, Sonia Muwi and Pedrin Nagrace, and my elder brother, Paxton Nagrace, took on the task of taking turns caring for her, tending to her needs until she breathed her last.
It was even more heartbreaking to watch her, especially in the later stages, when she became immobile and wheelchair-bound. She lost a lot of weight, reduced to skin and bone as she frequently refused to eat. She struggled to drink water and could barely chew or swallow her food.
Losing my mother felt different but equally devastating. Her death wasn’t entirely unexpected—she had been battling illness for some time—but no amount of forewarning could have prepared my siblings and me for the finality of it. There is something uniquely shattering about losing the person who nurtured you, who was there at the very beginning of your life. It’s as if a part of your foundation crumbles, leaving you to navigate the world without that familiar anchor.
Grief is a strange and unpredictable companion. Some days, I cried over the smallest reminders: recalling the days she was still healthy and active. On other days, I’m consumed by a dull, hollow ache that doesn’t demand tears but quietly sits in the background of everything I do. There are moments of guilt too—wondering if I did enough, if I said enough, if she knew just how much I loved her. But guilt, I’ve learned, is a natural part of grief, and I try to remind myself that love, when shared deeply, is never forgotten. She was 85 years old when she passed.
As painful as this journey has been, it has also been a time of immense reflection and gratitude. My parents are no longer physically present, but their legacy and the lessons they imparted live on in me. My father taught me patience and discipline—the importance of thinking before speaking, of listening before reacting. My mother, on the other hand, instilled in me empathy and resilience. She had a remarkable ability to find light in the darkest situations, a gift I now cherish even more.
I find myself appreciating the simplest things in life, things I might have overlooked before. A quiet morning with a cup of coffee, the sound of birds chirping, or the warmth of a friend’s embrace—these moments have taken on a new depth. Grief has a way of stripping life down to its essentials, reminding you of what truly matters. In the absence of my parents, I’ve learned to treasure the relationships that remain, to reach out to friends and family, and to be more present in the lives of those I care about.
This experience has also given me a renewed sense of purpose. My parents lived meaningful lives, not because of grand achievements or public recognition, but because they touched the hearts of those around them. They taught us that a meaningful life isn’t measured by accolades but by the kindness you extend to others.
As I move forward, I sense a duty to honour their memory through purposeful and empathetic living.
Of course, moving forward doesn’t mean leaving the grief behind. Grief isn’t something you overcome; it’s something you learn to carry. There are days when I feel their absence deeply, but there are also days when I feel their presence—in the way I handle challenges, in the way I comfort a friend, or even in the way I laugh at a joke they would have found funny. They may be gone, but they are still a part of me.
As I write this, I want to acknowledge anyone who is navigating the loss of a loved one. Grief is deeply personal, and no two journeys are the same. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned; it’s that you don’t have to go through it alone. Lean on the people who love you, allow yourself to feel the pain, and take things one day at a time. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting; it means finding a way to move forward with their memory guiding you.
On this note, I would like to take the opportunity to thank the doctors, nurses, and staff members of the Sarawak General Hospital, especially those on duty at the Accident & Emergency Unit, for tending to her when she was rushed there for treatment before she breathed her last. My mother was called to be with the Lord at 7.30 pm on January 30.
On behalf of my siblings, family, nephews, and nieces, I would also like to express our deepest gratitude to Datuk Henry Harry Jinep, Datuk Willie Mongin, the sub-deacons and lay leaders of St Paul Church, Bunuk, Reverend Sika Narong, the sub-deacon and lay leaders of St. Mark’s Chapel, Seratau, members of the Kampung Bunuk Village Security & Development Committee (JKKK), family members, relatives, friends, colleagues, the folk of Kampung Bunuk, and acquaintances — all those who came from near and far to pay their last respects, offer prayers and condolences, share words of comfort, and extend their love and gifts during this difficult time.
In the end, grief has shown me that love doesn’t end with death. It transforms. My parents may no longer be here, but the love they gave me continues to shape who I am and who I strive to be. And for that, I will always be grateful.
As I reflect on the days that have passed, I carry with me both the sorrow of loss and the joy of having been their child. That duality is perhaps the greatest lesson of all — that life, in its complexity, can hold grief and gratitude, pain and healing, loss and love, all at once. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes it so beautiful.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
