A phone call at 6:00 AM woke me this morning. It was Cheau Lin with news of her grandmother.
I still remember, with a quiet sense of excitement, the first time I met Cheau Lin’s grandmother in Melaka. I had heard so much about her and couldn’t wait to meet her in person. When I finally saw her, she struck me as someone who radiated kindness.
She had a round, compassionate face, but her drooping cheeks and deep wrinkles told the story of a life filled with hardship. She was the quintessential grandmother—the kind that only a lucky few among us have had the privilege of knowing, and the kind that the rest of us wish we had.
During our first conversation, I was asked to shout everything I wanted to say—she had been deaf for quite some time. I suggested to Cheau Lin that they should get her a hearing aid, only to be told that she already had one—but out of vanity, she refused to wear it in front of guests.
She made small talk, but since she couldn’t hear my responses, our conversation was one-sided, mostly filled with reminiscing about the good old days and complaints about growing old. It felt a little odd having to shout “AH MA! HO BO!” to a tiny old lady, and I never quite got used to it.
As time passed and my visits became more frequent, she opened up and became less formal. I often found her sitting in her favorite rattan chair, lost in thought, as if she were reliving the past in her mind.
When she needed to move, she relied on a four-legged walking cane with a front basket, which usually held her handkerchief, an assortment of trinkets, and packs of 555 cigarettes.
Later, she moved to Shah Alam to live with Cheau Lin’s brother, where her mother and sister-in-law could care for her.
Then, about a year and a half ago, she suffered a stroke that left the left side of her body paralyzed.
I rushed to the hospital as soon as I heard the news. Though she could no longer speak coherently, she grunted and pointed with her right hand. When our eyes met, I could tell she recognized me.
The doctors couldn’t do much. They suggested that the family bring her home.
She could no longer chew solid food, so her meals– mostly milk– had to be pushed through a syringe into a feeding tubeleading directly into her stomach. It must have been agonizing– she tried to pull the tube out whenever she could.
I was given packs of her unopened 555 cigarettes since she couldn’t smoke anymore. I tried lighting a few out of curiosity, but they felt like smoking needles—harsh, piercing, and unforgiving. I thought to myself, it must have taken a tough lady to smoke two packs of these every single day.
Her condition never improved.
The last time I saw her alive was a week and a half ago when I accompanied Cheau Lin to Shah Alam.
Her once bubbly, expressive face was now a ghostly reflection of the woman I had first met. Her muscles had wasted away, her body weakened from months of immobility. She had also lost a tremendous amount of weight.
I called her name. I looked at her.
Blank eyes stared back.
It was too much to bear.
Earlier this week, Cheau Lin told me that her grandmother had contracted pneumonia. We both knew that the end was near. And deep down, we also knew that when the time came, it would be a relief—a release from the months of suffering she had endured.
This morning, she passed away in her sleep.
The world has lost a kind, gentle soul.
“Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in Me. In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also.”- John 14:1-3