She laid there, not entirely in her senses. I remember the sound of her gasps and my sister trying to place the oxygen mask on her. My mum, in pain, and likely very confused, kept refusing the mask. I remember thinking that maybe if I went up to my mum, who was at death's door, and said, "Ma, wake up. It's my birthday," she'd magically snap out of it. I wish I had taken that shot but seeing her like that was frightening. Not knowing what or why this was happening on that day put my nine-year-old brain in limbo.

That's the last memory I have of her. This January 16 marked her sixteenth year of passing, and also my twenty-fifth year of existence. Sixteen years have passed and I've lived this moment more than sixteen times with the same confusion and fear nine-year-old me felt. You'd think after such a long time, I'd learn to accept it.

I know now that she was terminally ill for a very long time and her death was inevitable, but I didn't back then. I didn't know I'd regret not visiting her in the hospital more often after school. In fact, that's the only regret I have.

So, that brings me to my question, what do I do on my birthday? How am I supposed to feel?

In short, I'm conflicted. With two voices in my head constantly battling each other, the day always takes a turn no matter what. One tells me that I ought to celebrate with friends and family, the other tells me I should grieve to my heart's content. The latter is always stronger. 

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The responsibility of taking care of ageing parents

Every year I get into a week-long fight with my relatives over not cutting a cake at midnight. Even though I hated the cakes and being the centre of attention, I couldn't hurt the ones I love because of something they don't entirely understand. They had no selfish or malicious intent, but the voice in my head tells me, "You told them how much you hate this and don't want this. You told them you wanted this day to be like any other, nothing special."

I know that even after such a long time, I don't like celebrating my birthday yet. A part of me feels that I have the right to be sad if I want to, and I don't owe it to anyone to fake a smile, at least on this day.

Given her death was bound to come, I wish she had died sooner. I wouldn't have small memories to reminisce upon. Wanting to forget your mother just so you don't feel the pain anymore is selfish and not something I'm proud to feel.

Life and death coexist. In a sense, a birthday is a fleeting moment of joy and we go back to our normal lives the next day. Death, on the other hand, has more of a long-lasting impact. You feel their absence every day. You think about them for a split second and when the tears blind you, you go back to focusing on something else. Over time, you move on. As for myself, time hasn't fixed anything.

Puja does nothing but read Gaiman and drinks unhealthy amounts of coffee. Send her cat photos at facebook.com/pspspspspspspspspspspuwu/