Grandma’s kids are lined up to visit over the next few months, each staying with her a few weeks at a time. An uncle flew in a few days before my dad and I left, and another aunt has arrived since.

Grandma says the house will be empty when my uncle leaves, completely forgetting that my aunt who’s already there has given up her life to be with her indefinitely. We joke that she’s just another maid to grandma now. Her memory remains patchy; sometimes she’s lucid, sometimes she’s lost.

Leaving was hard. My aunt hugged me long, told me she’d miss me through the lump in her throat, and promptly went to the bedroom to compose herself. Knowing it was the last time I was going to see her, I hugged and kissed my grandma as much as I could. It was an effort not to cry. Even the maid wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand, but none of the other men did, and I wonder if they would have, had they not been in the presence of other men.

As we were leaving, she handed me a red envelope, and told us to visit her again soon. It was a relief to know that she’s still unconscious of her terminal condition, but the reminder that I would never see her again broke my heart.

What a strange feeling it is to know that she’s still alive on the other side of the world, while I’m here, unable to be with her. For now, I’m happy and relieved that I had the chance to express myself to her, and film her, and capture her image.

Grandma loves her parrot. We carry it around for her, and she sleeps with it on her bedside table. Whenever she talks to it, I can never really tell if she really is talking to her parrot in an act of senility, or whether she does it to humour us.

A note on the translation: The name “Fat Bird” is really “Fat Woman Parrot” in Chinese. The word “parrot” is a homonym for the last part of grandma’s name, so “Fat Woman Parrot” sounds like it’s referring to her as well. That’s how she got her nickname as “Fat Woman”.

This is grandma on a good day. I love to see her smile and laugh.

Grandma was born in Hong Kong, but she fled to Chiu Chow during the Japanese invasion by climbing a mountain with her only son slung on her back. For some reason, she feels a lot of pride about Chiu Chow even though she wasn’t born in that city, and always points out people from there¹. As a result, she can speak both Cantonese and the Chiu Chow dialect.

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1. She says she recognizes them by their faces. [↑]

Grandma appears to be suffering from memory loss. Although maybe suffering isn’t the right word, because she doesn’t even remember that she has memory loss.

She’ll ask us the same question several times in a row. Or she’ll introduce me to someone, even though we not only met two weeks ago, but I’ve taken pictures of them together and showed her. Yesterday, she looked at some nicely wrapped cakes, and after unwrapping one for her, she forgot she was hungry.

Sometimes she speaks in endless cycles because she forgot what she said 10 seconds ago: “I know how to pick real-estate. Look at this place…it’s in an upper-class neighbourhood. I bought it 40 years ago, and it was one of the first places with elevators. That’s because I knew how to pick real-estate. Look at this place…”

It makes me wonder what it must be like to live like this. John says I don’t forgive people because my memory is too good, especially when it comes to emotions and experiences, where I can relive things to the smallest detail.

In a way, we’re relieved she doesn’t remember anything. It may be the only the reason why she doesn’t know what’s going on with her illness.

And to be honest, I think I’d be better off this way too.

The doctor told us she has another 5–6 months. Her colon is so enlarged from the tumor that it’s thicker than her spine, and the procedure was just a temporary solution to prevent further blockages.

How strange it is to “know” how much time there is left. I guess that’s why they call it a deadline. I had already assumed that this would going to be the last time I could see her, but that won’t make it any easier when I have to leave.

I’m grateful to the people who have been sending me their regards. It’s a nice comfort. One of the best pieces of advice came from Charlotte, who told me to “not leave anything at all unsaid to her…leave no questions unanswered, and to not withhold any affection you feel for her”.

I had come to Hong Kong with the intention of telling my grandma how important she was to me. Finding the right words in Chinese to express exactly what I wanted to say.

But trying to speak with her has made me realize that she doesn’t care about any of that. She’s a very practical woman, almost to the point of tactlessness. For almost her entire life, married at 14 and as a single parent of seven kids, she’s had no time for words or feelings.

I’m here, and that’s how she understands how I feel.

Grandma’s at the hospital. She woke up this morning with pain all over her body, but more severely in her lower abdomen. They quickly drove her to the doctor, and it turns out there’s been a blockage in her colon. This afternoon they performed a procedure to expand the colon, and it went through without any complications. She’s resting at the hospital for the night, and my family is taking shifts to stay with her.

I’ve been stuck at home all day. Everyone else has been at the hospital and they decided to leave me behind. I’m on immune suppressing medications and the hospital is full of germs; getting sick myself is the last thing I need, especially when it means that I wouldn’t be able to see my grandma, as her immune system is even lower than mine right now. I would only be in the way if I was there anyway.

I’m scared. I’ve never dealt with any kind of sickness like this before. The only people in my family who have passed away were always far away in Hong Kong.

And now I’m here.

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.

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.

1. Admittedly, this was the hardest thing for me to get used to. Something in me would keep screaming, “PUT THE DISHES IN THE SINK”. [↑]
2. And as a Taoist, I’m generally derisive of rituals. [↑]

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.

1. “I used to have even more”, she tells me. [↑]

 

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.

I’m on a plane somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, in the middle of this 16000km journey. 18 hours of flight time, one layover in Chicago, and two meals.

My grandmother in Hong Kong is dying. She’s been diagnosed with colon cancer, and started chemotherapy last week, slipping in and out of awareness due to the cancer, the treatment, the medications, or all three. So when my dad told me a few days ago that he was booking a ticket to fly out to see her, I had to take the opportunity to go with him.

This is the woman to whom I mailed the first paycheque from my first job. The woman who gave me the jade necklace I never take off. The woman who came to Canada by herself to find an education for my dad, when the only English word she knew was “delay”. The woman who taught me how to hold chopsticks properly. The woman I’ve looked up to my entire life.

I don’t know how I’ll react when I see her, because I don’t know what condition she’s in. The details have been vague.

The circumstances aren’t great, but I’m thankful to have this opportunity to go. I’ll be able to bond with my dad. I’ll get a chance to see my uncles and aunts and cousins. I was going to go last year, but the trip was canceled due to unforeseen circumstances.

In a way, the timing is right. I already have my passport. I was able to get more than three weeks off work. My colitis has been diagnosed, and I’m taking medication that will allow me to eat very well and not worry¹. I have all the camera gear I need². And I’ve been feeling so jaded with life lately, it’ll be good to get away, a little bit of much needed exile.

Before driving to Toronto, I dropped Dolly off at Joel’s house³ The fish has a delayed feeding tablet. Extra prescriptions have been filled. The plants have been watered. Projects have been put on hold, both paid and unpaid, and plans have been canceled. Even Naveed called me during the drive, and invited me to Rosella’s first birthday party, but I’ll have to miss it. I don’t like to do things so last minute, but I have no choice.

This will be the first time I’ve ever gone when it wasn’t Christmas. It’ll be warmer, that’s for sure, and I’m going from a brutal Canadian winter to relatively tropical climes.

As a woman in her 80s⁴ with such a diagnosis on a different continent, it’ll probably be the last chance for me to see her.

It feels like soon isn’t soon enough.

1. I have yet to calculate the adjustment for the timing of my medications, since Hong Kong is 13 hours ahead, and the dosage for one of them is carefully tapered over several weeks. [↑]
2. The last time I went to Hong Kong, I wasn’t into photography yet, so I borrowed my dad’s camera and didn’t know how to use it. [↑]
3. He owes me a favour for taking care of Sprocket for six weeks while he was in Australia last year. It’ll be interesting to see how she handles living in someone else’s home, along with Sprocket and another dog. [↑]
4. No one really knows how old she is, because they didn’t keep birth records in Hong Kong for girls when she was born. I’m guessing somewhere around late 80s. She just tells everyone that her birthday is on Christmas to make it easier. [↑]