My grandmother passed away last Saturday at 415pm, at the ripe age of 85. It did not come as a complete surprise considering that her kidneys have not been doing well and she had a history of asthma. Everyday, she would take a cocktail consisting of more than ten pills, and she would swallow down the pills without complaint. Sometimes, life seems so frail, for it to be sustained by a handful of pills…... Even though her death did not come out of the blue, it doesn’t make it any easier for any of us to swallow. She had always been stubborn and a fighter, and in recent times, had made a miraculous recovery from the icu ward from a viral lung infection. The doctors were not optimistic at all when she was first admitted, and she surprised them. She just wanted to go home, I supposed, and her willpower just overtook her body and decided to make a full recovery. I remember the night I visited her when she was first out of the hospital. She had just had her hair washed for the first time in a couple of weeks, and she was so happy. She was never one to put on a cheery disposition, but you can just see it in her eyes, that joy. Mindy, my 4-year old niece, was the apple of her eye, and was on her best behavior, nuzzling heads with her and offering her Yakult (they had a long time feud about that). During the course of that hospital stay, and the week following her return to home, I learned more about my grandma than in the last 30 years. She was especially chatty once she started feeling better, and I made an effort to improve my terrible dialect to try to converse with her. Looking bad, I really regret not making the effort earlier to try to talk to her more. Living with her for the last tens of years, it had always been a perfunctory “Morning ah ma”, “Have you eaten yet Ah ma?” or “good night ah ma”. I never made the effort to find out more about her life story, and the last dash to make up for lost time was too short. Why did I not try to know her more? My memories of her are scattered, as well as the emotions accompanying it. I remember her cooking food for us when I was young, and she’d make the best soups. I remember that every time I go back to the states after a short vacation back home, she would force me to take a red packet from her even though she did not have much money. She would always say “shun feng, shun feng (have a safe journey)”. She was in the house a lot in recent years, given that she was getting increasingly lazy and her legs no longer are capable of supporting her weight. I remember being annoyed with her when she told my dad that I was coming home too late (she lived in the room on the first floor, so I would always wake her up when I come back in the middle of the night no matter how I try to be quiet). Looking back now, I realize that she was just saying it out of concern. How foolish and immature I was back then! I remember that when she was staying in Renci (for rehab purposes), my sister and I would visit her once every week. One day, the instant I sat down with her, she had tears in her eyes and told her how fillial we are to keep visiting every week. Instead of feeling good, I felt bad, because I did it out of it being a responsibility rather than a yearning.
Now that she is gone, it struck me so hard that I have been taking her for granted. I had always thought she would live forever. The fact that she, one day, might be gone had never been considered in my head until recent times. And losing her, it’s like losing that rain on a hot day you always take for granted in Singapore. You never miss it until it’s gone. And this time, she is really gone. I know because I was by her side as the sickness slowly took control of her body. I know because I saw the color vanish from her face as soon as her heart stopped beating. I know because the warm hand I once held in my hand, had slowly become cold with time. I know because I had looked over her peaceful body at the wake. I know because I saw her body vanish behind that metal door to a sea of fire. I know because I had picked her bone with my own hand to place it lovingly into her urn. I know, as sure as rain, that she is gone. And I wasn’t prepared for that heart-wrenching pain that follows. And it followed me everywhere I go, ready to erupt from time to time. I never talked to her much, or laughed with her much at all, but her presence had always enveloped me unknowingly. The warmth of her presence, I never realized how dependent I was on it until this very moment. And the bond that ties us together, that family bond, I have never felt it stronger than now. I was close to her, even without me knowing of it consciously. Which leads me to a whole string of “I should have…”. I should have held her hand more, I should have tried to talk to her more, I should have spent more effort on her when she was still healthy. And it kills me. The last time I saw her when she was relatively healthy, four days before she passed away, she was still grumpy about the haircut she got. “It’s too short!” she grumbled. And it was true. The hairdresser had shaved one side of her hair off, probably a trendy insight from youngsters these days. “But grandma, don’t worry! It will grow back in no time!” was my confident reply. But I was wrong. It will never grow back now.
On the day before she passed away, I bought for her the famous oyster omelette from Simon Rd. Oyster omelette has always been one of her favorite dishes, and I wanted to bring her some. When I saw her, my heart stopped for a second. I knew something was wrong. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, and it was the general lack of energy that scared me. She wanted her children to be there, so we tried to rally up everyone. I had told her that I had bought her favorite dish especially for her, and I wasn’t sure if she had heard it, but with her last remaining ounces of strength, she got up to eat the oyster omelette. I know she wasn’t really hungry, and I am not sure whether she wanted to eat it because she wanted to eat her favorite dish, or that she didn’t want to waste my effort, but either way, I was touched that she ate it. She looked so frail, sitting in that wheelchair, nodding off to unconsciousness, that it drove my heart in a constantly high strung state. The next morning, she couldn’t wake up anymore. Yet, part of my heart was hoping for a second miracle, for her to suddenly get better and have that joy in her eyes again that I missed. My aunts keep insisting that she can still hear us, even though she was in that deep slumber with her truncated breathing. Grandma, did you hear me when I whispered in your ear that I love you over and over again when you were sleeping? I really hope you did, because I never did tell you that when you were alive and well, When your heart stopped at 415pm, part of me died with you, and I realized finally how close you were to my heart.
Today, when I left the wake after everything, my sister and I saw a pair of bright yellow butterflies fluttering around the wake area. I am not exactly sure what drew me to them. We had never liked butterflies at all, but I remember that the first thought I had when I saw them was “what a beautiful sight”, and for a split second, my heart was complete again. I can’t really explain it logically, but I just know that it was a symbol of my grandmother being reunited with my grandfather. They fluttered around the area before flying real high till we can’t see them anymore, and I hope they were flying back up to heaven, where they belong.
