When a loved one reaches the end of life, the hardest goodbyes often come with unexpected moments of closeness and clarity. In this heartfelt account, writer Julie Ngadan reflects on her mother’s final days — a story that speaks to the weight of loss, the cost of farewell — both emotional and financial — and the precious chance to heal fragile bonds before time runs out.
When goodbye came too soon
It has now been three weeks since my beloved mother, Nanomi Walter Baki — a strong fighter who battled cancer with such courage — left me and my siblings.
She drew her final breath in the Radiotherapy Unit (RTU) Ward of Sarawak General Hospital on September 8 at 1.20pm, due to metastatic breast carcinoma to the liver, pleura, and bone.
Or, simply put, she passed away from breast cancer that had spread to her liver, the lining of her lungs, and her bones.
Three weeks earlier, she had called me, saying she was too weak to get out of bed and that her breathing felt tight. I urged her many times to go to the hospital, but she refused.
This was not unusual. Ever since she was diagnosed with stage four cancer two years ago, such episodes often happened — she would feel weak for a few days, then slowly recover and return to her routine. Soon enough, she would be back at my house every week, visiting her two beloved grandsons.
The last hospital stay
Yet something about that moment felt different. My heart was unsettled, and I felt a strong pull to go to her house instead of waiting for her to come to mine. I still remember that evening clearly — my family and I sat down for dinner with her at home.
She was busy fussing over my youngest son, who insisted that his Inik (grandmother) feed him. At one point, he even said, “Jom Inik, gambar sama enggau adek” (Come Inik, let’s take a picture together). Looking back now, I realise how precious that moment was.
That night, I once again reminded her to go to the hospital and not to delay any longer.
“No, I don’t want to. If I go, they’ll admit me. Then I’ll be poked with needles again and again. It hurts,” she said, her face clouded with fear of injections.
But then she added softly, “It’s okay. I have a follow-up appointment with the doctor next week. I’ll ask them to check then.”
That follow-up, which was originally meant just to help top up her low red blood count, instead became the beginning of her final hospital stay — almost two weeks long.
After being admitted and receiving a blood transfusion, she began experiencing shortness of breath, and her bed had to be changed to one with an oxygen point.
The oxygen came on and off — on good days, she managed with just the nasal tube, but on harder days she needed the mask that fully covered her nose.
When her breathing became more difficult, the doctors discovered a build-up of fluid around her lungs.
The fluid was drained through a procedure at her back and, Alhamdulillah, her condition improved. Her breathing eased, and she no longer had to depend on oxygen.
But only a few days later, the breathlessness returned. This time, the doctors explained it was not just her lungs but also her other organs that were failing.
From what I understood, the cancer cells had already spread beyond her breast — and that was what ultimately claimed her life.
A fragile bond restored
To be honest, my relationship with my mother was never particularly close once I grew older. Perhaps it was because we were so alike — and, above all, equally stubborn. Maybe it had something to do with both of us being the eldest, and daughters at that.
Our conversations often slipped into little battles of words, as differences of opinion always seemed to surface.
But this hospital stay felt different. There was a quiet shift between us — no arguments, no tension, only warmth and support.
I remember one day in particular, while I was by her side. We spent the whole day simply talking, laughing, and being kind to one another.
It struck me then that this might have been the first time we’d shared that kind of closeness — after nearly 20 years.
That night, before I left for home, I bowed and kissed the back of her hand. She pulled me into a tight embrace, kissed me, and spoke gentle, comforting words.
Words I hadn’t heard for so long that I could barely remember them, for throughout my adult life she had never once spoken to me in that way.
It was as if she sensed her time was running out. And with a bond that had long been fragile, she had never quite known how to shape such feelings into words.
That day — even now — remains vivid in my mind and weighs heavily on my heart. I often wonder why Allah chose to take her life at the very moment when we had just begun to find our way back to each other.
Yet I know it is not for me to question, for our appointed time is in the hands of the Almighty. As the Qur’an reminds us: “And it is not [possible] for one to die except by permission of Allah at a decree determined” (Surah Al-Imran, 3:145).
Holding on until the final breath
It was just two days before she drew her final breath, I noticed a change in her gaze — distant and empty, as though she no longer recognised what was happening around her.
I immediately called my younger brother in Bintulu, urging him to return at once.
By the next morning, she had already slipped into unconsciousness — asleep, never to wake again.
And in that silence, I finally understood what the elders meant when they would say, “they are no longer here with us, but already halfway into another world.”
During those hours when she lay unresponsive, I whispered again and again, “please hold on, wait until Bujang (my younger brother) arrives, and until Mok (my youngest sister) finishes her work.”
Alhamdulillah, my brother and his family made it back in time to see our mother, even though by then she was already unconscious.
Deep down, my heart already knew she was nearing her return to the Creator, yet I tried to stay strong and keep a calm face.
But when I thought of how our closeness had only just begun to blossom again, the tears came despite all my efforts to hold them back.
My mother drew her final breath just as I had gone home briefly to freshen up. When my younger brother called me, his voice breaking with sobs, it felt as though a heavy weight was pressing against my chest. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face.
When my youngest, who was only four years old, asked me why I was crying, I told him that Inik was gone. He too, then, burst into tears.
Without even managing to bathe, my family and I rushed back to the hospital to begin the heartbreaking process of laying her to rest.
At the mortuary, my siblings and I washed our mother’s body together. I saw it as our final gesture of gratitude for everything she had done to raise us, and our last chance to hold her before she returned to her final resting place.
The price of goodbye
I thought everything was finally over once the arrangements at the mortuary were done. My chest had just started to feel a little lighter, when a representative from Chan Funeral Services gently reminded me of the next step.
With sympathy, he asked, “How would you like to proceed with your mother’s funeral?” and began explaining the services they could provide.
The package covered not only a coffin but also bringing my mother’s body home, a refrigerated coffin, and a respectful display — flowers, her framed portrait, standing lamps, a backdrop, chairs for visitors, and a donation box, and finally, transport to the burial ground.
In a quick discussion, the three of us siblings agreed to entrust Chan Funeral Services with the arrangements.
The total came up to nearly RM3,000. But seeing their dedication and professionalism, I felt it was worth every cent.
Then came a blow I never saw coming. The very next day, my youngest sister and I went to the church to arrange for a burial plot. The process itself was straightforward — just a few questions, a few forms. But the price… it hit me like a hammer.
When they told me the cost, my breath caught in my throat. RM4,000 for a single burial plot — and that was only the beginning.
Digging, covering, and cementing the grave would push the total to nearly RM7,000. My chest tightened. How could a final resting place carry such a staggering price tag?
My mind flew back seven years, to the day we buried my father in this very same cemetery.
Back then, a plot had cost RM1,000. Painful, yes — but at least within reach. I had assumed, perhaps naively, that it would still be more or less the same today. Instead, the cost had exploded to four times as much.
When I asked why, the explanation was simple: we were not local residents of the area.
I was also told that burial costs differ greatly from one cemetery to another. In fact, I heard of one cemetery where a single plot alone cost as much as RM7,000.
A plea for compassion
Why does it have to be so expensive? How will families who simply cannot afford such fees manage? Where would they lay their loved ones to rest? Are all Christian cemeteries this costly?
Is the Unit for Other Religions (UNIFOR) aware of this, and could they help find a way forward?
I truly hope UNIFOR will sit together with churches and cemetery management to address this matter. For families already weighed down by grief, such costs are a crushing burden.
I am not here to cast blame. I only plead: do not make life harder for those already struggling.
To lose someone you love and, at the same time, to scramble for funds just to bury them is a torment I would not wish upon anyone. And yes, it happened to me too.
What choice did I have? Quietly, I told myself that Allah would surely show me a way.
That afternoon, while preparing dinner for my mother’s funeral ceremony, a thought stirred in my heart — to call Chan Funeral Services.
With humility, I confessed that I could not pay them in full as promised. I had expected the burial plot to cost only RM1,000, but reality was far harsher.
After a thoughtful pause and some discussion, their representative told me something that left me speechless: his boss had agreed to cover my balance entirely — yes, in full — without asking for a single sen more.
Alhamdulillah! I sank onto the kitchen chair, overcome with tears of gratitude. In that moment, the heaviness in my chest lifted, and my heart felt at peace.
Carrying her with dignity
All that remained now was to find the money for the burial plot itself. Almost instinctively, I reached for my phone and messaged Datuk Seri Fatimah Abdullah. Usually, I contacted her for work, but this time I asked for her advice on where and how I could seek financial help.
In her humble and ever-caring manner, Datuk Fatimah replied without delay, sharing several contacts that proved invaluable.
Thanks to her kindness — and with the support of families, relatives, friends, neighbours, the church, Chan Funeral Services, and the generosity of so many others — my mother’s funeral was carried out with dignity and love.
I knew my mother’s eldest brother would not have hesitated to bear the entire cost himself — he was more than capable. But I could not bring myself to trouble him again. He had already done so much for us.
For me, it mattered deeply that my siblings and I shouldered the expenses ourselves. It was the final act of love we could give our mother before she left us forever.
From the depths of my heart, I thank everyone who stood by us. Your kindness lit the way through the darkest days and allowed us to bid her farewell with grace.
In the end, a final bond remains in my heart — and my deepest thanks go to the doctors and nurses of the RTU who cared for us until the very last.
