L3P2: The Adopted Orphan

September 1981. Noon. 

 

"I have a 6 months baby boy here. Would you like to baby sit him?" A pretty mamasan in her early 30s asked. 

 

Since then, I addressed her as Nanny. I stayed with her for 12 years. 

 

After I completed my primary school, I went back to my biological family for 2 years. Her granddaughter said: "You must call her Popo, (which means Grandma), not Nanny." Since then, I addressed her as Popo. 

 

11 years ago, I was very fortunate to have the opportunity to holiday with her at Taiwan. After the trip, she asked me, “Do you want to be my son, or my grandson?”

 

“Grandson.”

 

“Why?” She asked.

 

“If I be the grandson, I will be the eldest. The eldest grandson will be treated as youngest son. Double blessings. When my son is borne, he will be eldest great grandson, also the youngest grandson. Quadruple blessings!!”

 

Since then, I addressed her as Great Grandma, fondly as Taima.

 

Taima often reminded me on the medical “adventures” that she had with me. In 2008, she had a gallbladder removal surgery. I was there with her. In 2014, she was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer. I managed to get her Malaysia’s most authoritative surgeon, Prof Yip to treat her. In May 2019, she was down with serious stomach ulcer rupture. I managed to get her to Hospital Kuala Lumpur to have the best doctor to attend to her, Dr Yau.

 

“Alan, you have save me thrice.”

 

Thrice. Everything that comes in threes are perfect. Then the fourth came…

 

“Alan, something is not right. Taima is not eating her meals and she is sleeping all day long. Her cough is getting worse.”

 

“Let’s have a video call,” I said.

 

“Taima! Alan here. How are you? Chinese New Year is nearby. I will come and visit you ya! I want you to give big ang pows to my kids ya!”

 

No response from her.

 

“I bring to your favourite Japanese food restaurant, you want?”

 

Again, no response.

 

She was admitted to Pantai Hospital Batu Pahat. It was 2 days before Christmas.

 

The doctor came back with his diagnosis. Superbug infection. She was put on very strong antibiotic course for 10 days.

 

She often complained pain at her stomach. She couldn’t sleep. The pain was so intolerable, she often said: “Just let me go, I want to die.”

 

“Taima, my kids are waiting for your ang pow for Chinese New Year. You will be well very soon.” I tried to comfort her.

 

7 days after the antibiotic course, the bacterial infection was subsided. But Taima never regain her appetite. Two spoons of porridge, the most 3 spoons every 2 hours. Her tormenting stomach pain got worse. Severe water retention on her limbs.

 

“What can we do, doctor? Please help her.”

 

“These are often the symptoms of late-stage cancer patients. You can either stay in hospital and continue the dripping, or you can go home. There is no point for us to diagnose, as it will inflict more pain. We have done our best.” It was doctor’s code – prepare for her death.

 

The hardest choice requires the strongest will. We made the hardest decision to take her home. Hour by hour, we witnessed her life withered away. She could no longer swallow. Her breathing was getting slower.  That is the hardest part of palliative care. To experience her life taken away minute by minute.

 

“Taima, don’t worry. We will take good care of ourselves. Follow the light,” I told her. That midnight, 9 January 2023, she departed to Land of Eternal Serenity. We hosted her funeral exactly in the way she instructed us. This Chinese New Year my kids did not receive ang pow from her. This Chinese New Year, I could not bless her the fruits of my labour. I do miss her. I miss you, Taima. Very much. I was an orphan, but because of you, I have a family.

 

My dear friends, I urge you, I urge you to cherish the time you have with your parents. Because we never know how much time we have. Visit them. Call them. While we can. I am grateful that I have the opportunity to say goodbye. While we grief for our loss, we strive to create a better future for ourselves and people around us. Perhaps this is the best honor we can give to our departed loved ones. And perhaps this is the best way to grief.