It’s been nine months since my nephew died. At 41 years old, he died in his sleep as the result of a heart attack. The only days he missed working out at the gym was Sundays; however, undiagnosed hypertension caused him to have a massive heartache as he slept the morning of December 9, 2017.
Sometimes it feels like it’s been nine minutes since I got that wretched phone call telling me he was dead. I was still sitting on the side of I-20 West shaking uncontrollably nine minutes after I got that call. Or maybe I had started driving again; I don’t remember. Time stood still for me that day and to be honest, I don’t know when it started moving again.
Sometimes it feels like it’s been nine hours since I got that wretched phone call telling me he was dead. By that 9th hour, I was still fielding phone calls in my sister’s stead, responding to text messages, inbox messages, and emails, and replying to Facebook posts from people across the country wondering if it was true. They wanted to know if he had really died. I didn’t know some of the people who called me on Facebook Messenger, but that day, I wasn’t upset by the fact that they had taken the liberty to call. He was loved so deeply by so many people.
Sometimes it feels like it’s been nine days since I got that wretched phone call telling me he was dead. By the 9th day, we had already had his funeral, but the fact that he was gone was still unreal to me. I sat on the second pew in the center of St. Peter Missionary Baptist Church in Sarepta, Louisiana, so I know it happened, but it was all so surreal. I heard all the beautiful things that were said about him. I heard my family choir sing. I pulled my two cousins aside who were in charge of the music that day and told them to keep things upbeat because I didn’t want any sad songs being sung. We were there to celebrate his life. We sang congregation songs. There was a two-minute limit for tributes to him that day, but who could speak about him for only two minutes?
Sometimes it feels like it’s been nine weeks since I got that wretched phone call telling me he was dead. Nine weeks after his death, the numbness had truly set in for all of us. One of my first cousins had died during that time so combined with Arthur’s death, we were all numb. I remember going to her funeral, but for the life of me, I didn’t recognize the woman in that casket. All those years of depression and abuse had turned her into someone her own family didn’t recognize. She is buried near my nephew. I wouldn’t know exactly where because at nine weeks, I still hadn’t gone to the cemetery.
Sometimes it feels like it’s been nine months since I got that wretched phone call telling me he was dead. Today, it is nine months since my nephew died. Nine months is 39.133125 weeks. Nine months is 273.93188 days. Nine months is 394,461.9 minutes. Some of those weeks, days, and minutes have been so excruciatingly painful, I thought I would die myself. Not one time have I questioned God as to why He took him because I don’t question God’s will, but there hasn’t been a second of that time when I haven’t wondered how I can go on with him. I know I have to, but I still wonder.
Sometimes it feels like it’s been nine years since I got that wretched phone call telling me he was dead. It feels like it’s been forever since I last talked to him. It feels like I haven’t seen him walk through the front door of Mama’s house for Sunday dinner in nine years. It feels like it’s been nine whole years.
I’m sitting in my nephew’s living room right now and on this 9-month anniversary of his death, I continue to be sad beyond belief. I’ve fallen back into a somewhat normal pattern of living, but I still find myself lost. I still find myself wondering where he went. A very close friend put it best when he said, “It’s like Arthur went out the back door and just never came back.”
Perhaps one day, I’ll come out of the fog of grief and this vicious level of mourning will subside, but today I’m still underwater. I’m treading water, but not on the surface. I can see the sunlight above, but for now, I’m treading under the surface. Today, I’m still treading.