This is for the ones with a hole in their hearts shaped like someone they love
The view from her apartment, taken by me (Pentax K1000, ISO400)
After the funeral, I tried free-writing for the first time in my life. In the weeks to follow, reading what I had written brought an aching pain every single time.
So I shelved this, into a folder within a folder within a folder.
I never thought I would share this with the world, but now I’m ready to read it and feel what I felt then.
This has been left as it was without editing — except for the brief definitions of Singaporeanisms here and there, and the inclusion of my photography.
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Grief brings out the best and the worst of people.
I hate talking in clichés, but I now know this to be true. It pretty much summarises the past 5 days. I have all these words and feelings and complete sentences buzzing around in my skull. I’ve been trying to sleep for the past 2 hours, but her smile keeps floating into my head, her laugh, the way she pronounces things, the way she felt, her smell, her silences in recent years, how she looked in the hospital, how Mum and Big Uncle said she cried, how she told me she’d still be around when I got back from Sydney the very last time I saw her on the 7th or 8th of March.
I first thought about writing what I felt and thought, a few hours after Byron face-timed me. I wasn’t feeling wave after wave of sadness like I am now. I don’t think I had fully accepted it yet. Maybe because I hadn’t seen her in person, so in some way, it felt like it hadn’t really happened. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I brought pens and a notebook with me on the plane, so I could think about it and write during the flight. I didn’t.
Instead, I watched ‘Half the Sky’ and cried because the women in that documentary reminded me so much of her. It’s ridiculous but I can’t even remember what I watched next. I tried sleeping, but sleep was out of reach for most of the flight. All I remember doing was listening to music and keeping my mind as blank as possible. I remember looking round at everyone on the flight — the families with small children, the two Aussie girls on their way to Vietnam, the stewardesses — and thinking that they didn’t know what it was like to be loved by Mama, and that they didn’t care that it hurt me so much to lose her.
Right now, so much is crashing around in my head. I don’t know what to put down first. Or if I’m doing it right. I don’t know if this is just word vomit or free writing, or if this is something I actually want anyone or everyone to read.
Mama died at 12pm (Singapore time) on 13th April, 2013. It was a Saturday — I was sitting around on my bed with a pile of clean laundry that I hadn’t put away for 2 weeks. I had just showered after getting back from the gym, and I think I might have been reading emails and doing some poking around on the Internet. It amazes me that something so earth-shattering could occur, and I can barely remember what I was doing at the time. I fear that I might have been looking at shoes online. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself if I was looking at shoes when Mama took her last breath.
Was she in pain? Did she think of me? Was she trying to stay so she could say goodbye to all of us?
Her wake was held immediately after. Dad texted me to tell me what was going on. I was worried about Mum and the boys, and according to him, Mum was devastated. Dad said that her wake was going to be held that night, so she wouldn’t have spend any time in the morgue — alone. Not much of a silver lining, but, I am grateful for that all the same. I tried to binge on a 2-person meal of butter chicken, basmati rice and pappadums for dinner. Could barely eat half a pack of rice. Gave it all to Kjersti.
Big Uncle told us on the 2nd day of the wake (Sunday), that he had just arrived at the ward to see her around lunchtime. He shook her arm gently and asked if she was awake. She nodded twice, and closed her eyes. He shook her arm gently again. This time, she cried and tried to take a deep breath. He looked up and saw her blood pressure and heart rate flat lining. He called for the nurse, and 2nd Uncle came in. The rest of what happened that day is what Dad told me on the way to her block in Pipit Road. Big Uncle tried to call Mum, but he couldn’t get through. He must’ve tried her mobile and our landline so many times. Finally, he got through to Cavell. C came thundering down the stairs and yelling that Big Uncle was crying over the phone. According to Dad, Mum and the boys rushed to the hospital to see her for the last time. Byron texted me on the way to the hospital, and told me to get on face-time because she was in critical condition. I still thought (or maybe it was blind hope) that she was going to be fine, and that she would be all right in the end. When I got Byron’s call, the connection was fuzzy, so I moved downstairs after trying to move around in my room to get a better connection. This took about 2 minutes. I finally got a clear connection, and Byron showed me Mama lying on the bed. The tubes and drips and things were gone, and she looked like she was sleeping. I don’t know if I was trying to kid myself or if I really had no idea what was going on. I don’t know how I could possibly have been thinking that she was asleep or better. It only hit home when Byron said that she was gone. He showed me around the room — Darren was crying, I caught a glimpse of Big Uncle and 2nd Uncle. On the other side of the bed were Mum and Cavell — they looked like they had been crying but were more or less composed by now.
I can barely remember what she looked like when we said our last goodbyes. That was only 12 hours ago. Why can’t I remember? Does my brain want to forget it? I tried to remember so hard — I went over to see her so many times even though I nearly couldn’t bring myself to do it every time. Do I try to remember what she looked like when I was little? Or when I was older? When she was healthy? The very last time I saw her alive? Or the very last time I saw her at all? I saw photos of her in Keng Yong’s holiday album — Desaru and Cameron Highlands I think. There weren’t enough of them. One of them made me cry — she was sitting behind 3rd Uncle right at the back of the bus. Everyone was smiling and trying to be in the photo, except her. I only found her because I was looking for her. It’s just like her to shy away from photo taking and hide in the background where no one would notice her.
I never knew or thought about Mama having a private life — a side of her that she kept to herself. Mum told me today that she kept secrets, and she didn’t like people to pry or look through her things. Maybe that’s where I get that.
I laughed when they told me she went on trips with her friends. I have fond memories of her closest friend, Auntie Chwee Kueh, so named by me at the age of 3. She used to sell chwee kueh (rice cakes) and feed me whenever she saw me. Auntie Chwee Kueh told us that she went on a casino cruise ship with Mama, and that she was shocked that Mama gambled big with $500 every single round. She won lots, and didn’t really lose much because she knew when to stop herself.
Self-control, a semblance of it at least, I got from Mum and thus from her.
The corridor leading to her apartment, taken by me (Pentax K1000, ISO400)
Friday, 19 April 2013
We went to Mandai Columbarium again today to visit Mama’s ashes and to burn offerings for her 7th day away from us. Big Uncle had bought a large paper house with a gym on the roof, lots of bedrooms, a marina with 2 speedboats, 2 garages with cars, a maid in a traditional Chinese servant’s outfit, and strangely enough — a Sikh security guard. There were also 2 large shopping bags of clothes and shoes for her, and a whole lot of Hell Money and joss sticks to burn. 3rd Uncle had printed and cut out a picture of Mama at his wedding — she looked fatter there, and unsmiling. She wore her white collared shirt (I think it had floral embroidery on the collar), and had a flower (a white rosebud, I think) pinned to her front pocket.
There are hardly any photos of her smiling, but I am grateful to have one that was taken on Dad’s birthday last year. I think one of us took it without her knowing. I’ve tried taking photos of her before, and she smiles and laughs until she feels or sees the camera on her. I can understand why she would be so uneasy in front of a camera — I am sometimes too. At the same time, I think it might also be because she was never used to people paying her much attention.
Big Uncle had also brought a pack of vegetarian beehoon (rice vermicelli) with fake charsiu (barbeque pork) and fried beancurd skin, the dead-man’s cake, a little packet of tealeaves and a plastic baggie of crackers. 3rd Uncle bought a small bunch of flowers and a bottle of her favourite 7-Up. Mum and her brothers set up a small Ikea table right in front of Mama’s cubicle and placed all the food and drink on it with a pair of chopsticks resting upright in the beehoon (like how Big Uncle usually says never to do — I guess this time, we were trying to feed the dead). Big Uncle made us all eat a pinch of the dead-man’s cake — ‘for luck’, he said.
On the way home from 3rd Uncle’s house, I found out that Mama was called:
秀玉
Xiù Yù
Or Xiu Geok in Hokkien.
Mum told me in the car today, as we were going down the ECP around Suntec City (where there are nice tall trees with feathery leaves), that she remembers everyone (her grandmother and aunts etc.) calling Mama this. ‘秀’ means beautiful, elegant or delicate. ‘玉’ means jade.
Her name on her IC is pronounced ‘Zhuo Jun Zhi’.
According to Mum, in the old days, it was common for people to be given an alias or pet name. Everyone would call them by those names all the time, with their birth names used only for official things.
Mum also told me today that Mama and Gonggong weren’t forced to marry, and that Mama was tall and slim and good-looking back then. I always thought that they had married because it was arranged for them, and that Mama never had a choice.
I have always been confused between Ahma and Mama. What does it matter which side of the family she’s on? I’m still a part of them. I had never bothered finding out before, because it was (is?) simply not important to me.
On the way home from Mandai (on the SLE I think?), I asked Mum what the difference was. She told me she didn’t know either, but that Mama just seemed/sounds so much closer.
I have to agree. I don’t think I can call anyone else that.
I have to admit that for several days, I wished it were Dad’s mother instead. But then I realized that Dad would be sad then, and I don’t want that either.
It doesn’t hurt so much tonight — but I think I will miss her everyday for the rest of my life. I will hope to see her walk through my door every morning, and every time I am sick. I long to hear her pronounce my name in English or Hokkien, and I long to hear her laugh and to see her smile. I wish I could smell her clean powdery fresh laundry scent — I think the closest thing I’ll ever get is from small dustings of ‘Prickly Heat’ (a powder used for insect bites). I yearn to feel her soft squishy skin (that I used to laugh at — and she would laugh at me laughing at her) and knobby fingers and knuckles. I wish I knew how to make the whole fried chicken like she used to. She was such a good cook. I wish she could teach me how to do housework. I wish she could see me get married — knowing her, she would give me an angbao or try and congratulate me clumsily. She would find it so difficult to hide how happy she was and how proud — and it would end with her hiding in a corner of the room, not appearing in photos. I can see myself wishing that she were around to teach me how to care for my babies. I find myself already wishing she were around to hold them and name them.
My Chinese name is:
诗微
Shī-Wēi (first pin-yin tone for both)
‘诗’ means poetry, and ‘微’ could mean small or happy or pure joy.
Put together, it means poetic/eloquent and happy/joyful.
Mama didn’t name me. Big Auntie did. But I’m sure Mama approved fully and thought my name was beautiful. I’m sure she thought that I grew into my name, and that it suits me better than any other. I miss her calling me ‘ah Wei’, her voice ringing through the house.
I want to be as good as what my name says I can be. I want to be as good as what Mama believed I could be.
Her favourite “kwali”, taken by me (Pentax K1000, ISO400)
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
Today, I made MaPo Tofu. It translates literally to ‘Grandmother’s Tofu’, and although Mama never made this dish, I teared up while stirring the pot — no it wasn’t the chili fumes.
I thought, since I’m writing something ‘in memoriam’, I should include some things Mama taught me.
She could not read or write much, I daresay she didn’t know the difference between English and French. But she taught me so much — how to love, how to be strong, how important family is, that the happiness of someone you love comes before yours, how to have pride, how to be a good mother, how to be determined and never stop trying.
It’s been almost 2 weeks. I thought I was all right, especially when I was talking to friends in person, over Whatsapp or Line, going on eBay, wanting to get stoned, thinking normal thoughts again. But then I’m suddenly struck by waves of sadness — in the supermarket, in class, in the bus, when I go for walks to Blackwattle Bay. Every time it happens, I have to concentrate on breathing and forcing myself to stop thinking about it. I don’t know if that’s right — if I should be trying to block it out and gradually forget it. Or if I should just let it hit me and bawl my eyes out, so that it’ll eventually stop happening.
Love from my little cousins, taken by me (Pentax K1000, ISO400)
Tuesday, 7 May 2013
Grief has a nasty habit of sneaking up and throwing its shadow over you when you least expect it. Here I am, speaking in clichés again. I think people do that because they can’t verbalise what they’re feeling at that moment. I know that feel now — sometimes all the words or expressions in the world don’t feel right.
Last night, I opened an email that 3rd Uncle sent me — it was a photo of Mama at her baptism.
I was suddenly overwhelmed by everything — I couldn’t stop crying for at least an hour. Not full-blown wailing, but more like the slow trickling of tears and feeling like my chest was going to explode. I found myself wishing it had been me instead of her, for the millionth time since 13.4.2013.
Byron texted me on Monday, 29 April to tell me that Mum was sad again. She had been to Mama’s house that day (and maybe over the weekend) to help Big Uncle and 3rd Uncle clear out Mama’s house. It makes my chest hurt, to think that the little studio where we spend our Chinese New Years is now empty. I can’t imagine never having a cozy steamboat dinner there again — 8 of us packed around the tiny table, and Mama force-feeding us sea cucumber (blech), fish maw (yum), and a variety of sliced meats. I miss the CNY soundtrack of blaring television and conversations squawked, not spoken.
Byron and Mum told me that they found a big bag of chicken batter powder for frying chicken wings in her fridge. Mum saw chicken wings on the table when she got home, and she started crying. That bag of chicken batter was for me — she remembered how much I loved her fried chicken and she was going to teach me how to cook it when I got back.
At the wake, 2nd Uncle and 3rd Uncle were telling me how much I loved it even as a toothless baby. They laughed as they told me they could never leave me alone with it, or I would have demolished it by the time someone got back. Even when strapped in my high-chair, I would always find a way to get to the plate of chicken wings in the middle of the table.
Mum and Big Uncle also found some vacation photo plates from China and Hong Kong — the kind that tourist traps dish out (literally) as photo souvenirs. I’m sure they laughed. I did. I feel the buzzing thrill of pure joy sometimes when I think about her wandering around Singapore and across the seas on her own. I feel like I’ve inherited the wanderlust, and I love knowing that we have something else in common.
Tonight, missing her makes my throat hurt, my eyes overflow and my chest feels like exploding. My stomach is in knots and I hate the little droplets of tears that stick to my lashes. I hate the accumulation of snotty tissues and the peeling nose that comes from buying cheap tissue paper. I hate everything about her being gone. I have to keep reminding myself that she doesn’t feel the pain anymore, but somehow there is no comfort in that. I saw on Gayle’s Instagram feed two days ago, a picture that she had reposted. It was a quote by A.A Milne, ‘How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard’. I take more comfort in this than anything anyone can ever say to me. I feel blessed and privileged to know what it feels like to love and be loved so deeply and unconditionally.
Talking to Big Uncle, taken by me (Pentax K1000, ISO400)
Sunday, 19 May 2013
I dreamt of Mama in the early hours of Saturday morning. I don’t know if it was the heady mix of peach schnapps, sangria and margaritas that got me dreaming like crazy, but my dream was insane and in technicolour.
I was on this huge road walking in between food courts, salivating at all the food. There were a lot of rickshaw/trishaw drivers on both sides, and one of them was George Clooney. I spoke to him for a bit, I can’t remember what we talked about, because I looked around and saw her.
She had stopped to talk to a female/male? rickshaw driver — one of her many friends I think. I started sobbing and walking over to her.
Then in the limbo stage between sleeping and waking up, I dreamed/hoped(?) that I was walking towards Simei MRT from Block 131. I was walking past the first coffee shop, and I saw her walking towards me from a distance away. I think I must’ve started crying for real then, both in my dream and in real life. We were walking towards each other — when she saw me, she did that toothless smile that I love, and waved at me. She was wearing a red shirt with her usual shoulder pads, her black pants and carrying her black handbag.
When I got to her, she put her hands on my shoulders like she always used to, and asked me why I was crying. I don’t know why, but in my dream, all I could say was ‘Mama’. I couldn’t tell her anything else.
After I woke up, I sent some Whatsapp messages to Mum because I had to tell someone who knew what it felt like to miss her. I immediately regretted it, because I wanted her to be able to get over it. I said I was sorry for telling her, but I had to tell someone. She replied after a while — she said ‘It’s all right. You can always tell me whenever you feel sad’.
Spent most of the day crying on and off and trying to get over it. I tried watching old episodes of Globe Trekker. Went out and got eucalyptus-scented Kleenex. I thought, ‘if I’m going to be sad, I really need to get some good stuff that smells nice and soothing and won’t rub my nose raw’.
It’s funny, but Lynn keeps telling me that she knows what I’m going through. I’m sure she feels sad as well, but I really don’t know if it’s the same. She seems to be able to detach herself from other people so well, and I find it hard to believe that we are similar in so many ways. She tells me that grief will hit me later, when I least expect it, and that I should talk to the counsellors in uni because they are nice, old ladies. Her reasoning is that ‘since we’re already paying for it, we might as well use it’!
I’ve been thinking about it, and I think that the Chinese came up with elaborate rituals and things to do for a person after their death, as a way to get over it and deal with it. I want to believe in the spirit world so badly, just so I can go see a Tang Kee (spirit medium) and see if she’s doing ok. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like I need her to tell me she’s alright, that she’s somewhere nice and warm and that maybe I’ll see her again someday.
Isn’t that awful? The only reason I wish I had the faith in Jesus required to go to heaven, is so that I can see her again if it exists.
I can’t remember if I’ve written this down before, but after her service, her young pastor told me that she’d mention us from time to time. At that point, I started crying again, so I couldn’t talk to him anymore.
The next morning though, I forced myself to ask/interrogate him, because I knew if I didn’t, I would regret it forever. He told me that she said she talked about us all the time — she told him that I was in university overseas and that she was proud of me because I was so smart, smarter than she ever would be. He told me that she prayed for us all the time, and that she hoped that we could all be Christians and believe too. It’s just like her to wish for something or want something so badly, and never dare to tell us.
I’m finding out more and more things about her as time goes by. I’m also finding out how much she loved me — more than I can ever imagine.
I don’t know when I’ll be able to eat chicken wings again without a wave of sadness hitting me, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to listen to or sing ‘Give Thanks’ without wanting to die. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to talk to anyone about this. I don’t mean telling people snippets of what I think, or about dreams that I have. But really talking to them about this — telling them what it’s like to feel like this at night and in the morning and when I’m alone. I don’t know if anyone else would be able to grasp just how much she loved me and how much I love her. I don’t know if I can even verbalise what I’m feeling — all of this writing doesn’t feel like it’s enough. I wish Pensieves were real and that I had one. Then my memories would not fade, and I could revisit them again and again, in technicolour.
The last photo I took of her (Pentax K1000, ISO400)