I have been meaning to update since April when the memories of March were still fresh. But the weeks slipped by and here we are at the tail end of May.
March: the apotheosis of life
March has always been my favourite month. It is the month my brother, teeter and I grow a year older. Teeter and I have traditionally celebrated our birthdays together (because her birthday is the day after mine), and then we celebrate my brother's birthday at the end of the month. Growing older together is somehow more meaningful and worth celebrating.
This year, we had lunch at Lobster & Burger and a durian cake from Four Seasons. We were supposed to try The Three Peacocks for my brother's birthday but Baby Yeo was on stay home notice, so we ordered in from Pizza Hut instead.
In a time we all thought we were taking baby steps to normalcy, I was fortunate enough to celebrate all month long without restrictions. My friends took me out and had cake delivered to me. I ate and ate and ate till I couldn't stomach anymore but my heart was bursting with joy and gratitude.
April: the floodgates to assailing feelings
Then came April.
I never hated the month and I don't think I do but April has become a permanent challenge. I become overwhelmed with feelings of guilt and sadness because of all the goodbyes I've bade in this month.
For the longest time, all I had to deal with was repeatedly saying goodbye to Papa. I don't have the words to adequately explain how I feel about Papa or about losing Papa. Simply put, I lost him at a very early age — an age I could not comprehend or process the meaning of death.
As I grew older and was gradually able to understand, I felt sorry. I felt sorry for the short time we had spent together. I felt sorry when others could speak of him while I couldn't. I felt sorry that the memories we shared were slowly but surely turning blurry.
And then I felt afraid.
I was afraid I would forget him altogether.
Every other day, I think of Papa and hope I get another chance to be his daughter. This is a goodbye I will never say this lifetime.
Two years ago, I said goodbye to Ahma and Apupa three weeks from each other.
I never really grew up with Ahma and, unlike my cousins whom she raised, my memories of Ahma were simple. Every Chinese New Year, she would bake love letters outside the house with the help of my first Aunt who would help to roll the freshly baked egg rolls. I got to eat the ones that didn't make it into the tins. The ones that were too undercooked or in (literally) terrible shape.
She was an iron-fisted lady who wore old-fashioned matching tops and bottoms and ate plainly (porridge, fried fish, salted egg) everyday. In her younger days, she was quick to discipline us when we were out of line. She taught me to thread a needle (but not without calling me suaku!) and then taught me to knit. I can still thread a needle but I cannot sew or knit for the life of me.
When she fell and underwent surgery for her broken hip bone, I saw how her condition deteriorated quickly during her admission at the community hospital. Parkinson's kicked in and shortly after, she was bed-ridden and tube-fed. This lasted three years before she succumbed to pneumonia.
I remember the early hour we rushed to the hospital. We had just been to the hospital a couple of hours before, after celebrating the brother's birthday. We said we would be back the next day. We did except it would be the last time.
When we arrived at the hospital lobby, the staff let us in without any registration. She knew no one else would be at the hospital at that hour.
As soon as we got to the ward, the nurses were removing the equipment that was sustaining Ahma.
Everyone else arrived one after another. I don't think it sunk in when we were waiting around for the doctor to certify her passing. We were still calm until they rolled her body out and into a separate room where we spent some time saying our goodbyes. She was 90.
Two weeks later, as we were learning to settle into routine without Ahma, we visited my Apupa at the nursing home.
My Apupa had been residing in the nursing home for about two years. He had Alzheimer's dementia and it was becoming increasingly difficult for the helper to care for two elderly persons. The decision was to put him in a nursing home with qualified personnels to look after dementia patients.
Every time I visited, I told him who I was at least five times. He never remembered. But whenever I held his hand, he knew not who I was specifically but that I cared.
In that state, he was never a day older than 70. I could never have been more than 18 to him.
I loved him.
He would be the only grandparent I hold dearly. I held his hand when he was still mobile. Otherwise, I wheeled him around. I loved listening to him. Who else would I learn life lessons from if not this 93-year-old man? I laugh a little every time he reacted to my kiss goodbye.
I loved him.
Saying goodbye to my Apupa would prove harder than all the goodbyes I said before.
A mini upgrade to the abode
The mini-renovation works we signed up for began at the end of April. It was a dusty, messy, and expensive process. I have forked out close to $8,000 as a result of the renovations — I paid for half the renovation works, bought a new wardrobe and TV console, and upgraded our old mirror to one with storage. (IKEA has been my good friend far.)
I am trying to enjoy this process more than focus on what I've had to sacrifice (monetarily, especially, because it hinders me from reaching my savings goal). While it is satisfying to see the home undergo a refresh, I have to admit I am not accustomed to spending so much money in this short amount of time.
I have been planning my finances for months now. With careful planning, I was sure I would reach the savings goal I set out at the start of the year. (Consider this one of my New Year resolutions.) The truth is, I haven't been able to save a cent since April and understandably.
I know I shouldn't be so hard on myself but I cannot express how suffocating it is when I have made no progress for two months.
And this is how the past couple of weeks had me feeling some sort of way. And I don't mean in a good way.
Strangely, though, as I was on my evening walk yesterday, I recalled a recent piece of good news that one of my friends got promoted at the workplace. And I thought, "How lucky am I to be able to celebrate my friends' highs and support them at their lows."
Every step I took was with gratitude.
In a time when we seem to be taking backward steps in our battle against COVID-19 (that has raged the world), I was out there completing five rounds around the neighbourhood. (It is my daily goal to clock 10,000 steps if I do not get a HIIT workout in. And recently, I've only been able to bring myself to go for less intense walks.) I smile at the dogs I see on my walk (albeit behind my mask). I look up at the skies and thank God for another day in the bag.
I spend a lot of time with my family. Given, we occasionally still try to yank one another's limb out but we mostly love intensely and sincerely. Aunt duties with Baby Yeo, dog mom duties with Shelty; there is always a lot going on but I wouldn't have it any other way:
an austere way of life
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