A-ma
‘In our age of “compassion fatigue,” I think anthropological writing about death has to be, if not an ice-axe to break the sea frozen inside us, at least an ice pick to chip at the conventional forms of representing and narrating the encounter of the anthropologist with death. Chipping away, reconstituting the dialectic between silence and speech, we will learn to take the deaths that take place over there, across borders, as seriously as we take those that take place here, at home.’ By Ruth Behar, in Death and memory: from Santa María del Monte to Miami Beach
I do not know whether this process of writing would present itself to me to heal, or it might eventually lead me to the nothingness of the deepest mourning which I can barely recognise after — how long? It has been more than a half year since my grandmother passed away. But I do feel that this writing is somehow necessary. At least for me. Writing down all these subtle and entangled feelings is something that I assume I have been waiting for this moment to come for such a long time — I have difficulties finding the language to describe what had happened. As if, once I started to write it down, I would have to acknowledge the cold and solid fact that my grandma has gone.
She died in the winter, after the Lunar New Year. People always said that those who were very ill or had not much time left tended to leave right before or after New Year. Perhaps, I assume, it is because that is the chilly season that brings coldness, which is bad for weak bodies. Or, that is, with a more cultural interpretation, is the last kindness that our beloved could give. To leave before the holidays somehow indicates a wish to hope that the sorrow of death shall not linger too long — you have the coming holidays to prepare for — almost like a mildest comfort to those who lost their beloved in the time of reunion. Those who left after the New Year seemed to convey the last message of loving by spending the last reunion with families before the time came. But I never understand all these.
The thing was that I did not arrive in time for her last moment. I was on the other side of the earth busy understanding the lives of others — their reproductive plans, their family life, and in some conversations, we even touched upon the issues of elderly care and the expectations for funerals held by their future children. It seemed to be almost ridiculous to me that, my grandma was gone five days before I was about to go back to Taiwan — that was the time I almost believe I could see her very soon maybe by the end of February after the quarantine. I was told about her death by my mother days after my flight safely landed at the airport on a damp rainy afternoon. I was alone in the quarantine hostel and my mom, my dad, and my brother were video chatting with me while my mom began to speak. The moment she said, ‘you grandma…’ her voice cracked and suddenly I understood what she was going to tell me. I was terrified more than feeling the pain of loss at that moment. Then, for such a long time, I was drifting somewhere between refusing and accepting the fact of her leaving.
Writing about death is a very difficult task that people sometimes rather turn to the memories of the past as the means to consult the sorrow. But I am almost certain that the only way for me to heal — though I do not necessarily believe in writing to heal — is to document what happened in the time frame of my absence so that I could eventually reach a point as my mom told me for so many times — what really matters are the time you and your grandma had spent together. She has lived a long life — my mom told me. I know. I understood that my grandma has been suffering from declining health for a long time. But when the time came, all I felt was lost. The loss of having someone to talk to in my mother tongue. Especially the loss of sharing the closeness and resemblance between my grandma, my mom, and me.
It was a great sorrow for me and I did not hold myself together for some time. I was not able to attend the funeral because of the required 14-day quarantine. Life and death turned out forced to be so lightly put down during the pandemic time — my mom, who just lost her mother and is still in great sorrow more than any other of us — has very limited hours for visiting my grandma in the hospital even in her last few days. The modernised medical system seems to intervene more than ever during the pandemic by drawing a clear and cold boundary between life and death far from the traditional way in my memory — where families gathered at the mourning hall for days, and the masters would come and together we chanted for the deceased. Then we would continue the ceremony for another 7 days, at least. Now I understand that those ceremonies are more meant for the living, not for those gone.
There were agonies, distress, and confusion trembling inside me during the time. Somehow I was so distanced from everything that should be happening to me but didn’t. I did not feel the sorrow come to me like ocean waves like the emotional ebb and flow I once experienced when my grandpa died years ago. All I felt was a great emptiness that froze me from the inside. The emptiness was like a batch of seeds, and time watering the sadness to grow, but on a very slow path. I did not know how my grandma looked when my families wave her goodbye. All I have were the old photos on my phone — which were taken by analogue cameras and I duplicated some of them before I went to the UK. She looked very healthy and surprisingly young in the photo while standing by my mom who was holding me in her arms. In that photo, my grandma was about the age as my mom at present.
On the day of the funeral and the next day my grandma was transited to her forever home of hers — the columbarium, with my grandpa, all I could do was transcribe The Maha Prajna Paramita Hrdaya Sutra alone in the quarantine room. But somehow I felt peace. I made myself a hot tea and sat there for hours. The only moving thing in the room was my pen on the paper and the lights scattering from the window that moved from one side of the wooden floor to another. My mom called me while they were waiting outside for the cremation. She sounded a bit tired but calm. I did not know which made me even heartbroken — the death of my grandma or that my mom lost her mother.
I went home after another week after the funeral, by that time, my mom, was still in her grieving but what slightly cheered her up was the fact that her daughter was home after one and a half years. I felt like everything was just not the same anymore. There was no one I could visit when I went to the city my grandma used to live.
Before I left two years ago, the last time I was with my grandma, she held my hand while I said goodbye to her and promised I will come back. She smiled and said something like taking good care of yourself, and then, she said, next time when you come back to Taiwan, I might not be here anymore. I resisted the possibility that this might very likely be the last time I saw her. I kissed this elder but still beautiful woman who had very soft and fair skin — which she was very proud of giving this biological feature to my mom too — on both sides of her cheeks, and made a promise which I wasn’t so sure deep in my heart but I refused to acknowledge — I will be back and see you again, grandma.
Life still goes on. People said. From time to time my mom sought the signs of my grandma coming back as animals — the pigeons resting on our balcony and the butterflies following us home. One day I dreamed of her. In that dream, my grandma was a bit younger than the age she died, she still looked very old but she could walk with ease. I greeted her as usual in the dream and as if together we were heading somewhere — to a park we used to stroll, maybe. Then she turned to me and said, ‘one day I will leave, and you, please do not cry for this. This is just how things go.’ In that dream, I was a bit shocked by what my grandma told me since she still looked rather healthy and had a long time before dying. Then suddenly I was awake from that dream. For a second or two, I was under an impression that my grandma was still alive and that dream was nothing but a kind reminder of what might happen in the future. The moment I realised that ‘the future was ‘the present’ I burst into tears. In that second I mingled my deepest desire of having my beloved grandma still with me for a longer time with my deepest fear that had already happened — I was absent while she was gone and I could not see her once again as I promised.
Later that day, I told my mom about the dream. We hugged each other for a while. We all know that this was not easy — especially for my mom — to accept the loss of a very close family. But that dream — I did not know whether this is a dream as people said that the beloved one who past away paying visits to the lived ones in the form of dreams — helped me acknowledge the nature of my sorrow of my grandma’s death. In our family, we all comprehended that my grandma has been suffering for so long and death might be a relief, and mercy perhaps, for her. She understood this very well in her last years. While as her grandchildren and her children, we did selfishly hope she could live longer to witness more significant moments in our families. Yet, from that dream and that second of confusingly recognising my grandma was still alive and in a good shape, I realised that my deepest sorrow was not that my grandma was gone nor my absence during that time frame, but that my grieving for the time while she was still healthy and a bit happier than her last days. I was crying so sadly was the realisation of the fact that my grandma had been so ill for years without the capability to walk and live a free and content everyday life. Then the realisation of the fact that now all these had become history. But I shall not be immersing myself too long for her death — after all, she told me that life shall go on, and this is how it is. (3 August 2022)
People say that those beloveds would come back to you as animals after they left. Are they trying so hard to let us learn about loss and love? Or, is this a way beyond language to convey our miss towards those who have been gone? I don’t know whether it’s you, the pigeon who woke me up every morning during my quarantine. Are you this beautiful butterfly that came up to us to send a message? I won’t guess what you might say to me. I know in my heart that our relationship is beyond any written language — like the fact that you didn’t have the chance to learn how to read at your young age — you were the one that I speak my mother tongue. You were the one that also like having shaved ice on summer days. You were the one that once held my hand and walked me between kindergarten and home. You were the one that gave birth to my dearest mother and told me to be a good daughter and don’t be naughty. You taught me that every mother loves her daughter so deeply, just like you, just like my mum.
It has been a while since you left. We do still miss you very much. People say we have to celebrate every holiday with you, ceremonially, in the coming year. Happy Dragon Boat Festival, my dear a-ma. (5 June 2022)
