My father’s brush with near-death
Aunty Juliet and uncle Aloy were our neighbours. Juliet was my mother’s second cousin. Uncle Aloy, Juliet’s husband, was a great friend to my father. Both were from similar backgrounds and were civil servants. They were the most educated men on our street. Both were well respected in my home village.
Aloy and my father worked hard in unison for the betterment of the community. They lobbied the government and the local council to address issues affecting the neighbourhood, petitioning the authorities to get electricity to widen and tar the street. You may be surprised to hear that until I was an early teenager in 1970, there was no electricity in our neighbourhood. Our street was a gravel road until my father and uncle Aloy took action.
A few years later, Aloy was transferred to Kalutara, a regional town some 55 kilometres away. His family relocated to Kalutara with him. But both friends kept in touch. Our family were invited to their annual church feast at their new home, an event when relatives usually got together.
It was difficult for a family of five with small children, a journey that would take three separate buses to get there. My father honoured Aloy’s invitation and travelled alone on the festive Sunday, representing our family.
After the event, my father did not return home in the evening. That night, a neighbour at Aloy’s and Juliet’s party gave us bombshell news. My father got sick at the party and was taken to hospital. He has had a heart attack. He was in intensive care.
That night, my mother hardly slept. I was too young and naive to realise the seriousness of what had happened to my father. My mother saw us ng day and travelled to my father's hospital. That evening she returned home tired.
The party was joyous, with many relatives and plenty of food and drink. My father had enjoyed a few drinks. Suddenly he found it hard to breathe. He had cried out that his heart was about to explode. Fortunately for him, the local hospital was next door to uncle Aloy’s home. It was the next property. They immediately carried him to the hospital.
My father was in good hands in the hospital and stayed there for about ten days. My mother travelled daily to the hospital, trekking more than 110 kilometres on the round trip to see him. It must have been very tiresome for her to travel on three rickety bus routes each way. She must have spent at least six hours on the road every day. In the evenings, she made vegetable soups for my father to be carried on the trip. This she did diligently and faithfully for the next ten days until my father came home.
Uncle Aloy and Aunty Juliet, who lived next door to the hospital, were a tremendous help in the quick recovery of my father. My mother rested in their home during her daily trips.
Aunty Juliet’s mother, Rosa, who lived in our neighbourhood, was at the event when my father had a heart attack. He had cried out that he did not want to die, that the pain was unbearable, and that his children could be fatherless. And that his eldest boy was yet too young to take responsibility for the family. It broke my heart to hear this from my grandaunt Rosa. At the time, the weight of these statements was a bit beyond me.
I was twenty years old, my sister sixteen, and my brother was twelve at the time.
My father returned home after about ten days. It turned out that my father has had not only heart disease but diabetes, pressure and high cholesterol levels, unknown to him. These diagnoses came out during the tests during his recovery time in the hospital.
My mother, the fixer of things, got into action. She put him on a strict diet, boiled vegetables, no red meats, no sugar and no hectic activity.
My father had to take insulin injections daily to treat his blood sugar levels. He was careful not to do that in front of us. Accidentally, I saw him inserting the injection needle in my parent's bedroom. It was an awful scene that has edged in my memory forever. However, my father never complained and did forego these inconveniences for the family.
My mother was determined to make my father healthy again. She never relented on his diet. I felt terrible eating tasty Sri Lankan foods and meat cooked with spices and coconut milk in front of my father. He ate insipid boiled vegetables sitting on the same dining table. A few times, I pleaded with my mother to allow him to have an everyday meal once in a while. My father liked his food, and it must have been a terrible sacrifice for him to forego his favourite foods.
But my mother’s resolve worked, and my father recovered sufficiently to be active in no time. In record time, my father lost weight and became a slim man. His experience at the threshold of death became a decisive moment in my life.
I determined that I would take care of my body and be healthy. I am fortunate to have not inherited any of my father's diseases. I have tried to be healthy both physically and mentally. I have remained slim all my life and will do so for the remainder.
I had a surprise handout from my father’s sickness. My mother was adamant that my father should not ride his Lambretta scooter and expose himself to unintended consequences. So I got the scooter by default, a lovely gift to be had when I was just twenty years old. It was like owning a Ford Mustang back in the day.
Thanks to my mother’s great care and foresight, my father lived another 26 years. He did not have any other brushes with death until his last. He worked until his sudden death at 76 years of age and lived his life to the full. He continued to be loved by his neighbours, relatives and friends. When he died, he had seen all of the twelve of his grandchildren. He travelled to far corners of the world to Australia and Canada and saw his descendants live happy lives.
I wonder what would have happened if my father did not attend uncle Aloy’s party on that fateful Sunday. There was no hospital next door to my home.
Where are the characters of my story today?
Uncle Aloy and Aunty Juliet migrated to New Zealand following their children who lived there. Both have passed away. I keep in touch with their eldest son, Ashley, a big brother to me in my old neighbourhood, who now lives in retirement in Rotorua, New Zealand.
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