When Mrs. Doubtfire Died
I don’t remember where I was when I heard that Robin Williams died. What I do remember is what I did.
When Robin Williams died, I rewatched The Dead Poets Society, one of Williams greatest films. I then subsequently posted my activity on Path, with the caption “Rest in Peace Robin Williams 🙏”, which I thought was sensitive and relevant enough to get lots of likes and reactions.
In other words, I leveraged Robin Williams’s death for my own social clout.
From a young age, I had always had a complex relationship with death. My parents often remind me of the time when my grandfather died in Indonesia while my family was in the States. My parents and my sister were curled up together on the couch, the corded phone cradled next to my mother’s ear, all three of them bawling with grief. I walked into the living room, took one look at my family crying, and did what I thought was a normal reaction: I turned on the computer and played a computer game.
It wouldn’t have been a pretty scene; The 5 year old Haikal, oblivious to the grim atmosphere in the room, happily playing Putt-Putt Goes To The Races on a banged up PC running Windows Vista, while in the background, his family hugging each other for support in the wake of the death of a loved one.
I never properly learned to process grief. My exposure to death was often through a computer or TV screen. I never truly grasped the concept of death, how it would end it all or how it would be the end of your life as you know it. Which is understandable when you’re a kid, but even as I grew up, I never intuitively understood what going to the grave really meant.
Where do you go after you die? For many, that question was existential; to answer was to bring philosophical theories and scientific facts.
For me, I had always knew the answer. The afterlife. At least, the Islamic version of it.
The Islamic version of the afterlife goes something more or less like this: all humans will, at one point in the future, be killed off during the doomsday, then be resurrected to face judgement day. Each person will be lined up to be judged, and the way you know whether you go to hell or heaven is which hand you receive your book of deeds in. You then proceed to cross what is commonly known as the “knife bridge”, which is the bridge to heaven. Some will run over, some will crawl, some will fall off the bridge to the pits of hell below.
This has always been my concept of the afterlife. It was explained to me clearly from a young age, and it’s something I still believe in today. I often think of my thoughts not in the terms of “good” or “bad”, “happy” or “sad”, “spark joy” or “spark anger”, but rather in the simple yet complex terms of “heaven” or “hell”.
I always thought that our mortal death would lead to an eternal life. Maybe that’s why I could never bring myself to grieve.
Death was a more frequent encounter in high school and university. Parents of my friends, high school friends, friends of friends, lecturers, and teachers all passed away.
At the times where I came to the funerals, I would pay my respects (which, for me, would be in the form of praying), sit in the plastic chairs, and ponder my own death. I don’t think I ever cried. Funerals were more of a moment to remember my own mortality rather than a moment to mourn the end of others. It’s a very selfish perspective, I have to admit. And also a perspective that many might consider dysfunctional. Which is fair.
I don’t remember other people’s death. If you asked me right now, whose death had the most profound and memorable impact on me, only one name would surface.
Robin Williams.
Others might say their family members, like their grandparents or their cousins, while others might mention their friends. But for me, Robin Williams is always the first name that comes to mind.
I grew up with Robin Williams. No, he didn’t live in my house, but he might as well have. My parents raised me on Mrs. Doubtfire and Aladdin, on Hook and Jumanji, on R.V and Night at the Museum. I was hooked (no pun intended) on Robin Williams warm persona and bashful mannerisms.
When I grew into my teens, I went out and watched Good Will Hunting and Dead Poet’s Society, I saw a different side of Robin Williams. He was no longer the joyful, radiant ball of happiness; although there were sparks of his warm persona, he looked worn out and exhausted. I felt like I knew him better; that I had got a secret look at a side that people don’t usually associate with him. Of course, I was probably not the only one in the world to feel that way. But I felt a personal connection with him regardless.
When he died, I leveraged the death on social media with no remorse. I posted without considering whether I really cared or not. All I really was worried about was the likes I would get from this post.
I still regret that post until today.
The fact of the matter is that I remember Robin William’s death because I still feel disgusted for using his death for my own personal benefit. I adored Robin Williams, and felt like I knew him well, and yet even losing his presence was nothing more but a means for me to get more clout.
I know I still have problems with processing grief. I’ve yet to shed tears for someone’s death, and I know that probably means that there’s something wrong inside me or inside my head that I need to get fixed. But after Robin Williams, I promised that never again would I post about the death of others. If I was to mourn, I would learn to mourn in silence. Everyone has their own ways of processing, but I know that for me, processing it through social media would not be a good idea. I would get caught up in checking the views or likes or retweets — and I don’t think that it would be good for me or for the memory of the deceased.
I often imagine what it would be like to come to my own funeral. I’d be peeking in through a window, or sitting silently in the sea of plastic green chairs, watching my family and friends come see me off before I leave for the grave.
Would they cry? Would they be sad? Would I be missed?
I wish the answers to all of these questions was yes.
But in my head, my brain has convinced me that I would be an afterthought, a passing thought, a single sad thought. I don’t know if this will be true. I guess, I never really will, will I?
What I do know is that I hope that I learn how to process death before my own death. I hope I can treat others more than an afterthought. I hope I can learn to say goodbye properly.
When Mrs. Doubtfire died, I said goodbye in the most horrible way possible.
I hope I never do that again.
