As it was Sunday, the restaurant was full and even though we did not have to wait for a table, we had to wait for our food. Aldric, who had a shuttle flight to catch, did well to hide his anxiety. I remember saying to him in jest, “It’s no longer a question of what time is your shuttle flight; it’s what time is the last shuttle flight!” After dinner, I offered to drive Aldric to the city check-in for his flight back to Singapore, saving Victor another long night drive to the airport.
The events over the next two hours were etched in my memory and I remember them very clearly, like they just happened last week. With Aldric still with me in the car less than five minutes away from the city check-in, my mobile phone sprang alive. It was Derek. His exact words were, “Pak Pak, Ah Ma has left …”
Apparently, Alwyn had gone to the home after our family dinner and within minutes upon his arrival by her bed, Mum had breathed her last. I think Alwyn would never forget the moment of actually watching his beloved grandmother take her last breath.
This is how he described Mum’s final minutes: “Her last three to five minutes … there was heavy and fast breathing which gradually slowed down. Then the whole body appeared to come to a stop. Then she very slowly semi-vomited some black liquid which never quite made it out of her mouth and that was it. I think during those three to five minutes, there were still signs of struggle in her face.”
The moment that we had all been anticipating had come. Mum had finally taken leave of her broken body with all its sicknesses and pain. She would feel no more pain in her right knee. She would have no more hearing difficulties. She would not slur anymore. She would not need her walking stick anymore. She would not need to take any of her medication anymore. All her sufferings had come to an end.
In the car, I turned to Aldric and said simply, “Mother has died.” It was a very solemn moment. Quietly, he offered me his condolences. I asked that he be so kind as to pass the message to our relatives in Singapore. A few minutes later, we shook hands as two departing cousins, drawn together after many years of absence by a sad event, not knowing when we would see each other again.
After seeing Aldric off, I headed straight back to the nursing home to meet up with the others who, I was sure, would be there. On the way, I did what had to be done; I called Mr Lim the undertaker on my mobile phone to also meet us at the home. In the past, I had used Mr Lim’s services a number of times and had found him to be very professional and reliable. He agreed to meet us at the nursing home immediately.
Arriving at the home, I found all the others there. Lisa and Belinda had been informed and were there as well. Belinda, whom Mum had bought two small tubs of ice cream for her birthday just two weeks ago, was there to pay her last respects.
I went straight to Mum’s bed and for the first time saw her dead body, motionless and lifeless. It was the first time that I saw my mother dead, after a journey of more than 55 years of my life with her. She was not breathing anymore and her chest was not heaving anymore. Her face had turned slightly grey; a typical corpse’s colour, I suppose. There she was: my mother. Dead.
It was a very poignant moment for me. No amount of anticipation, no amount of counselling and no amount of mental or psychological preparation could have prepared me for that moment of actually seeing my mother’s lifeless body. We had spent years together, especially the last nine months when she had stayed with us. We had done so many things together and it was unreal to me that she was now dead. It had come to an end.
She had cared for me from the beginning to the end. When I was ready to start my very first year in primary school, she had taken me from one school to another, seeking to have me accepted and registered. I still remember vividly one particular morning when we were inside the headmaster’s office of St Michael’s Institution, Ipoh. I remember watching the headmaster shaking his head. Moments later, Mum and I walked slowly out of the school, her right hand holding mine, her left holding an umbrella to shield both of us from the scotching sun. “Where are we going now, mother?” I asked, looking up innocently at her. “To another school,” was her gentle reply. For some reason, I had not been accepted by St Michael’s Institution, and she was taking me to another school to try again. That was 47 years ago.
Even up to the last few days before she died, Mum had continued to care for me in her own quiet way. She would iron my shirts and pants, taking it upon herself to be responsible for those little tasks. Each day when I came home, she would refill my plastic bottle with boiled water, so that it would be ready for me when I went to work early the next morning. Whenever a button had come off from any of my shirts, she would see to it that it was sewn back before the night was over. Whenever I had come home from work after the others had taken their dinner, Mum would take it upon herself to heat up the food for me. That was fourteen days ago.
At her bedside, I spent some time just looking at my mother, trying to soak in the finality of her death. She’s gone from my life. I won’t be seeing her in the kitchen when I come back from work anymore. I won’t be seeing her in front of the television set when I come back in the evenings anymore. I won’t be taking her out for meals anymore. I won’t be seeing her in the morning and asking her how she is anymore. I won’t be watching her as she irons my clothes anymore. I won’t be taking her to Victor’s house for mahjong anymore.
There she was. My mother. Motionless and lifeless. She looked peaceful. Definitely, there was no expression of pain or struggle in her face. Thankfully, her eyes remained closed although her mouth was slightly opened. Although the colour of her face had turned grey, her body had not shrunk and she had maintained most of her facial features, still looking like the mother we all knew. I was glad that her death had come before her body could shrink to the extent that we would not recognize her anymore. I know of some elderly people who had lived on for several months after slipping into a vegetative state and by the time of their actual death, they had literally turned into living skeletons with just their skin covering their bones. They had lost all their original facial features and no longer looked like who they were. Many of them could not even be recognized by their own children and grandchildren. I was glad Mum was mercifully taken away only a week after her coma, sparing all of us the agony and pain of watching her degenerate into a living skeleton.
At her bedside, I knew that the next time I saw her again would be inside her casket. I knew I would not be able to touch her again then, so I took hold of her still warm but lifeless hand for a last few minutes. The same hand had held me when we crossed the road just a week ago.
The same hand had held my tiny hand fifty years ago, when Mum took me to school on my first school day. That same hand had wiped my face just before I went into class, reassuring me that she would be there to fetch me home after school.
That same hand had taught me how to count. “One, two, three, four, five …” said Mum playfully pulling each of my tiny fingers as she counted.
Years later, that same hand had wiped away a tear as she watched me trouped into University of Malaya’s Great Hall in my convocation gown and mortar-board.
On the day my son was born, that same hand had stroked his tiny cheeks and jet-black hair as he slept in his crib, unaware that his proud grandmother was viewing him like a prized chick.
Years later, the same hand had played with the tiny fingers of that same child as Mum recited, “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, shut the door…” How could I forget the shriek of delight in the little child as his grandmother plucked his little fingers one by one, chanting “One little, two little, three little Indians …”?
I continued to hold her hand: lifeless, yet having given so much life to so many others. Through her hands, Mum had given countless moments of happiness for her children and grandchildren.
Finally, after what seemed like a long time, I let her hand go placing it next to her body, but I knew that she had handed me a very precious gift with her life: the gift of life itself. Her life was not without conflict and pain, even in her old age. In spite of the conflict and pain that she had, she gave us her best. Even in her old age. Before finally leaving her bedside, I found myself saying silently to her the only words that came to my mind, “Goodbye Mum. Thank you for everything.”
