Choices

Although my grandmother lived on the other side of the world, she made it her priority to visit us at least once every year. The year I was born she had flown away from the balmy, perfect beach weather of the Philippines to endure the harsh, freezing winters of Canada just so she could be there for my birth. My name was chosen by her. She was there for my first steps, first birthday, first day of school, graduation from elementary, until finally one year she stopped visiting. A visit to the doctor’s had revealed one of nature's cruelest creations. Cancer. When she could no longer visit us, we decided to go visit her. Although she was slowly dying, she still carried the warmest smile on her face and was still as happy and upbeat as could be. She told me as we were leaving to come back home she looked forward to the next time we would meet. Except there wouldn’t be a next time.

I remember the feeling I got when the news broke. All the air was knocked out of me, I felt like I had just swallowed a bowling ball. I knew it was inevitable, but the news still stung. Just like a hurricane, one for which you prepare for, the winds still blow you away. Through the saltiness of the tears, the hugs, the mourning I knew I had to make a choice. Exams were coming, and I could stay and study or go and see my grandmother one last time. After the dust all settled I made my choice. I chose to stay.

I shuffled through my brain over and over and over to justify my choice. Time and time again I found reasons, valid reasons that justified my choice. It was like I put myself on trial, and even with the mountain of evidence that proved my innocence the judge and jury still condemned me. My punishment? A burden, placed over both my shoulders. One I could lift, but crippled me and left me weak.

Why did I feel such guilt? I don’t know. I had made the rational choice, the logical choice, still, but it was the wrong choice. I got to see my family over video call, their eyes were swollen and red from mourning, sunken like they haven’t slept in days. They looked like zombies. I could have been there with them, mourning with them, comforting them, helping them. Instead I was on the other side of the world. I stayed at a friend’s for the time my family was gone. They were the most helpful and supportive people ever. Still, at night I slept in a bed of regret, with my head resting on a pillow of insecurity and wrapped in a blanket of doubt. During the day a cloud of remorse hung over my head, and that everlasting burden of guilt lay across my shoulders.

Everything in this world is temporary. Feelings they come and go, and the unyielding grip of guilt that once consumed me has now withdrawn. I’ve been told by friends and family alike that I had made the right choice, that it is what my grandmother would have wanted. Yet, why did my choice leave me in an abysmal, obsidian void of guilt, sorrow and shame?

All I know is that if I had the chance to do it all over, I would have gone.