October 19, 2025 

Hospital visits are always depressing, and this one was no different. Before his diagnosis, Eddie Uncle often told me, “You know what? One should never consult doctors. Once you do, you’re trapped forever.”

Of course, back then, I’d laugh and disagree, dismissing it as one of his eccentric philosophies. But accompanying him for his checkups over the past two months has made me find some strange truth in his words — not in his dislike for medicine, but in how illness and age slowly consume life itself.

The one virtue Eddie Uncle almost lost during his illness was his patience. The most patient man I have ever met was beginning to lose it. “Hey, go and check if our turn has come,” was his constant order to me.

Every visit to the doctor had varying outcomes, most of them a blow to Cecilia Aunty and the children. I was the in-between messenger, and the good doctor always told me what to disclose and what not to. He was trying to shield Eddie Uncle from the harsh reality of his condition. But Eddie Uncle, who never shied away from hard facts, was often frustrated — I could see it in his eyes.

“What did he say?” was his usual question when I came out of the cabin. 

“All well, Uncle. No need for any admission or any more of those crazy ultrasounds or MRIs. We can go home.” 

His initial reaction would be joyful — he hated spending nights there. But he always knew there was a secret channel of communication between me and the doctor, one he had no access to.

“Does the doctor think I’m not strong enough to face whatever ailment I have?” he asked.

“No, he doesn’t,” I replied promptly — it came out almost like a reflex.

“Ah, boy. I think he’s hiding something — or rather, you are.”

“What, Uncle? Why are you being Doubting Thomas. The doctor hasn’t said anything’s wrong. You’re just being anxious. You’re fine,” I rambled on.

“When you ramble, do you know how you sound?” he asked.

“Don’t even bother to reply.” I smiled. 

Then came the question that caught me off guard. 

“What is your take on death?” Eddie Uncle asked, looking straight at me. 

“Don’t you think I’m too young to think about all that?” 

“Don’t you think I’m old enough to prepare for my death?” His response sounded like part of a well-thought-out plan.

I looked at him while we waited for the billing formalities to be completed. Waiting for billing in a hospital is more stressful than waiting outside the operation theatre. This conversation seemed less painful, to be honest.

Between you and me — here was a man, well respected, who had lived a full life, raised a wonderful family, and probably done most things one aspires to do. But now, as the doctor had told me, he had only a few months left. The intestinal tumour had grown large enough to block his vitals, and tests had confirmed it was malignant. Eddie uncle knew about the malignancy, but not that his time was short.

“Yes, Uncle, I think you’re old enough to prepare for your death.” I saw no point in hiding anything from him. Long ago, when he was in his fifties, Eddie Uncle had explained to me in detail how he wanted his funeral to be held.

He smiled.

“How much time did the doctor say I have?”

“He didn’t say anything,” I lied.

There was a pause. “I know I have something bad and possibly fatal,” he continued. “I think I have every right to know when I’m going to bow down.”

I had never seen anyone talk so directly about their own death.

“What, Uncle? You’re making me uncomfortable now” I said awkwardly.

“Tell me one thing,” he said. “When a couple is expecting a baby, God gives at least eight to nine months to prepare them to welcome the child. Why not give some time — at least a month — to prepare for one’s own death?”

Jittery, I fumbled, “Come on, Uncle. You have more than a month.”

“How much?” he asked.

“Many more years to go, if you follow his medicines and diet.”

“Bullshit,” he said.

There was an awkward silence between us. Then he continued, “Nature, in her infinite wisdom, grants every human being nine long months before stepping into the world — inside the mother’s womb. It’s nature’s way of saying that even for the simplest beginnings, there must be time — time to form, to grow, and to be ready. And yet, at the other end of life’s journey, there is no such period of grace. Death often arrives unannounced, impatient, and sometimes even inconsiderate.” He was sad.

“Eddie Uncle, do you think everyone is as strong as you? Many people wish death to come suddenly and consume them. They’re afraid of it.”

“Who isn’t?” he replied calmly.

Quickly composing myself, I asked, “You mean to say, you’re afraid of death too?”

“Of course. I’m scared of many things. Imagine dying and then realizing, all this while, I was in heaven. Imagine reaching the gates of afterlife, I am asked “Eddie, how was Heaven?”. Imagine all those regrets coming back to haunt me just after my death.”

His words were deeply thought-provoking.

He continued, “There’s no quiet chamber to prepare, no countdown to readiness. One moment we’re here — planning, speaking, dreaming — and the next, we’re memories. Nowadays, expectant parents post their bellies on social media. Why this imbalance? Why must we be prepared for birth but never for departure?”

“I don’t know, Uncle.” I said, keeping one eye on the billing queue, that was moving at snail’s pace.

“Perhaps life itself is meant to be that preparation,” he said softly. “The womb gave us shape; the world gives us meaning. Each experience, mistake, kindness, and regret is part of the long gestation toward our final letting go. If birth requires nine months to prepare the body, maybe death requires a lifetime to prepare the soul. Death, then, is not the abrupt ending we fear, but the silent delivery into another unknown — the next womb we cannot see.”

“Uncle, I didn’t understand a thing you just said,” I admitted. “I don’t even want to think about death, because I don’t think we, as human beings, are ready for everything in life — except death.”

“Exactly, my boy,” he quipped. “Even while knowing it’s the only certainty in life.”

I took that moment to ask, “Uncle, how would you spend the next six months?”

“Six months. Huh.”

We did not utter a word after that.

There was a long silence in the car until we reached home.

As we stepped out, I heard him say, “Come back again tomorrow. I need some time, and we need to talk.”