My aunt tells me that my grandmother is a very still sleeper. Sometimes she gets scared when they’re lying in bed together, because my grandma doesn’t seem to breathe or move at all. I find myself hoping that she goes this way, painlessly and peacefully in her sleep.
But every morning, when she slowly walks out from her bedroom, I’m relieved and happy that she’s with us another day.
I think it was some point between hailing a taxi to meet my Uncle Joe, and the comforting familiarity of finding myself in one of the same malls I was in five years ago, that it really sunk in.
I’m in HONG-FUCKING-KONG.
The constant din of traffic and people reminds me of the way New York never sleeps. It pulsates and breathes, as if it was a body. I wonder how there can be so much life in such a tiny city1. None of my words, pictures, or videos could ever do it justice, because it’s the experience that makes it real. The things that can’t be said. Like the way people treat the elderly. The every day significance of food and eating well. The million subtleties of the Chinese culture.
The temptation to move here is coming on me again, with every street, every sign, every person I pass, every day gone by. Maybe the timing is right, where I find myself not only rootless in Ottawa, but with a sense of forlornness attached to the city as well. I’m beginning to wonder; what can I leave behind? What do I want to leave behind?
It’s the maid’s day off.
To be honest, her brief absence has shown that I already got used to having her around.
But then again, it’s not hard to get used to such a luxury. You wake up and feel like eating something, and she’ll have it ready by the time you’re dressed and finished brushing your teeth. She draws your bath water. She irons your clothes while you wait. She picks up the groceries for dinner when you decide what to eat. Some of the dishes are so complicated that she begins cooking the night before, and has her niece (my aunt and uncle’s maid) come over to help.
Nothing needs to be said when it comes to chores around the house. When a meal is finished, everyone gets up and heads to the living room. The next time you come back, the dishes are gone and the table wiped clean1. I fold my sheets before leaving the house, and when I get back they’re refolded, only neater.
My grandmother has a history of live-in servants, although there haven’t been any wet nurses, gardeners, or chauffeurs for a while. Ever since her children grew up and left the house (or country), she’s only needed one maid at a time. It seems to be a great relationship, as there’s a respect that goes both ways; the maid is extremely good at her job, and we treat her like family. When the last maid died after 30 years of service, all her funeral arrangements were taken care of. In the last years of her life she had gone blind from diabetes, and was then served herself. That’s how we found the current maid, who’s been with my grandma ever since.
One of my favourite rituals2 is the way the maid is given dinner. After all the food is cooked, the maid lays the dishes out on the dinner table, but doesn’t take any for herself. So my grandma will take a plate, pile food onto it, and bring it to her.
I’ve been speaking pure Chinese for almost an entire week straight. Certain muscles in my tongue that I didn’t know existed are tired. People tell me they’re surprised at how good my Chinese is — not just in terms of pronunciation, but vocabulary as well — and wonder how it’s possible without any means of practice. I can’t explain this myself, aside from a constant interest in learning new terms, and a love of Chinese movies (although this is more of a love of Hong Kong, and Chinese movies are my sentimental way of revisiting it). There are also some Chinese terms that have no English equivalent, and people are always shocked when I know them.
Somehow, I can switch between the languages quickly when I’m here. I even catch myself counting in Chinese now, which they say is what reveals your mother tongue.
It’s been a relaxed existence here. Aside from spending time with my grandma when she’s awake, making sure she eats throughout the day, and the occasional visit to the hospital, there’s no set schedule for anything. I’ve only been to this house a handful of times in my life, but I feel remarkably comfortable. There’s no formal need to sit at the dinner table until everyone is finished eating. There’s no obligation to talk to someone. No one feels the need to entertain me. I can nap when I want. I can raid one of the three fridges when I wake up at night and can’t fall asleep. I can walk around in my pajamas all day. I can disappear for hours to write. Like we’re actually family, even though I barely see these people.
My grandma tells me feel at home because we’re “our own people” as it’s said in Chinese. Even though I always understood the expression, I’ve never really felt it until now.
One of the notable differences here is the humidity. The pages of my book are beginning to wrinkle. Towels don’t dry when they’re hung on a line. Even though it’s 20°C outside, it feels more like 15°C because it’s so damp. Humidity is something that Hong Kong is known for, as it’s surrounded by water and filled with tall buildings. It makes me wonder how people deal with mold in their houses.
Ironically, it “rained” two days in a row, but the rain was so weak that I had to ask others if they felt the droplets. Very different from Ottawa, where rainfall goes beyond obvious, and can last for days on end.
The cancer has spread to her bones and several major organs now. We asked the doctor not to tell her, but we can’t do anything against his moral obligation to inform the patient. Either way, she doesn’t know how serious it is, whether it’s from shock and denial, or memory loss.
But she’s awake, and aware, and feeling no pain, which is good enough for me. The most we can do now is to try to make the rest of her life as enjoyable as possible.
She thinks she’s going to be fine. Keeps telling me that she’ll take me to a nearby park when she’s better. As much as it hurts me to know this won’t be possible anymore, it’s relieving to know she’s so oblivious. We don’t let ourselves cry around her, for fear that she may realize how bad it is.
Her face is more sallow, her fingers and legs emaciated, but she still has her thick, black hair1. Aside from a distended stomach, it’s hard to tell that she has such a grim prognosis.
But by far the hardest part is having to coddle her like a child to take her medication. Telling her she’s a good girl if she swallows her pills and rewarding her with ice-cream. That we’re only strict because we care about her. It tears me in half when she gives such a painful look of distaste with every pill we hand her, 18 a day.
She used to be so strong. Now we have to be strong for her.
My family always ask me if I’m dating anyone right now. They assume I prefer Caucasian girls. I tell them I don’t mind either way (the other side of “either” being Chinese girls). That’s when they warn me about mainland girls. Chinese mainlanders are commonly viewed by Hong Kong people as being low-class, crude, and provincial. It’s said that even if a girl from there is pretty, they lose all attractiveness as soon as she opens her mouth. On top of that, they’re gold-diggers, just looking for a way to get money or a green card.
They tell me I’ll be fine as long as I don’t marry a mainland girl.
My grandma used to tell me to find a Chinese girl, because Chinese girls treat their men better, or to find someone who loves me more than I love them. She’s filled with all sorts of funny aphorisms, like “Women are to be loved, not hit.”
In the last few weeks, she’s been too weak to leave the house, but we can take her for walks in the afternoon now. Going around the block takes half an hour and leaves her legs shaking, but she’s happy to be out. Before we go, she gets dressed and puts on her makeup and does her hair. Even now, she retains the class and dignity I’ve always admired in her.
My aunt — the youngest child of my grandmother — has been here for weeks. She stopped taking her clients at work, and has been overseeing my grandmother’s treatments, as well as making decisions on her behalf.
They sleep in the same bed now, which I think is adorable, like regressing to some childhood time, except the roles have been reversed. Yesterday, she told me my grandmother had the best the night of sleep in a long time. She attributes it to my grandmother’s happiness that my dad and I are here.
This has already made the entire trip worth it.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have so much baggage. How my relationships would be different. Which ones would have worked, and which ones wouldn’t have changed at all.
Love, in all it’s multi-faceted wonder, levels, and types, is never a sure thing for me. I may feel it, but feel that it’s fleeting and conditional at the same time. Other people have the luxury of taking love for granted. They assume they’re loved. How comforting it must be. For me, it’s always been a struggle for stability. “We won’t love you if you don’t do well on this test. We won’t love you if you don’t practice piano. We won’t love you if you don’t finish your dinner. No one’s going to love you if you always stay this skinny.”
It feels like I haven’t survived my childhood yet. And I arrive at this fact so many times when trying to figure out the source of my issues that it’s starting to sound like an excuse. Therapy has helped identify my issues, but it’s still taking work on my part to resolve them, along with patience on the parts of others. I’m beginning to question why people would accept and love me. I guess it’s worth it to some, but things would be so much easier if they didn’t have to deal with my insecurities.
I’ve been standing on the balcony of the fourth floor apartment, watching people walk around in the middle of the night. If there’s one thing that’s always defined Hong Kong to me, it’s the constant traffic you hear when you’re sleeping, mostly light buses running on diesel, and taxis. Across the street, the rooms of the St. Theresa’s Hospital are lighting up one by one. The sun hasn’t crested yet, but the streets are becoming busier by the minute as the sky brightens in noticeable degrees.
Practicing Tai Chi usually helps me sleep and center myself, but today it’s only a reminder of how painfully sore my hip sockets are from running around airports with all my luggage. You never truly appreciate the short form until you try practice in a Hong Kong apartment.
I’ve been up for hours now, and I’m exhausted but wide awake. It’s the jet lag, the medication, a restless mind, or all three.
Those who know me know that I’ve always felt that Hong Kong is my homeland, even though I wasn’t born here. But for some reason, it hasn’t sunk in that I’m here yet.
I guess I’ve been going through some hard times. I never really thought about it until someone brought it to my attention. The heartbreak, the colitis, the grandmother, the disillusionment. Somewhat major things, I suppose, that weren’t in the front of my mind. Maybe I haven’t been letting myself think about them. Or maybe they’ve been affecting me without realizing it.
The written word appears to be the only reliable thing I have left. My friends are all away. Everyone’s asleep, and I’ve been crying. I’ve been crying in the heart of this beautiful city.
This city brings my guard down. This city lets me feel.