Dear Josh,
It’s currently one a.m. and I just got back from my second cousin’s grandmother’s wake. This is the same cousin who ordered a cake from us from we were raising money for your foundation. His mum, my aunt, is also same aunt who asked my mum about you during Chinese New Year. We heard the news of his grandmother’s passing in the afternoon today and collectively decided that we had to go for the wake tonight. His grandmother lived to 99. She is a nice lady who I saw as much as my extended family though she is not related to me by blood. Real easy-going, kind eyes, always smiling lady.
There were a lot of thoughts running through my mind. When my family heard that she had passed, my dad kept saying, “We have to go to the wake. I want to send her off on Wednesday. She’s a very nice lady.” It might have been selfish, but I was thinking, “Where was this attitude when Joshua passed?” Where was the “we have to go” and “he was a nice boy”? We’re not blood-related to this lady but we’re all sending her off. What about your daughter’s boyfriend? “We can’t go back” was what my dad said to me on the night you passed. I think I’ll always resent them for missing your wake and funeral.
I was sad at her passing, but she had lived to 99. You didn’t even get 21. I was sad that she was gone, but sadder that I made it to her wake but not yours. How does that make sense? I partly blame myself for allowing that to happen – missing your wake. Was I perhaps so tolerant of my family constantly placing my emotions and wellbeing in the backseat that they thought I could miss something like that? Did I allow this to happen over the many years of me never complaining or throwing a tantrum or standing up for myself and my wants? In the end, it is I who will harbor this regret for the rest of my life.
We spent about three hours at her wake. I sat with my cousins and we talked about whatever came to mind – movies, books, TV shows, light gossip, and moral dilemmas. I could recognize the quiet grief in my cousin and his family’s faces. It seemed like my cousin wanted to talk about his grandmother. He showed us the picture of him, his sister, and her, and told us that he cropped her face out of it for the picture they used at the wake. He also said her last gift to him was allowing him to stay home in the toughest week of his army training (he applied for compassionate leave). As he talked about her – as brief as it was – you could see the grief in his expression. I gave him a longer hug before I left the wake. Actually, I hugged his sister, dad, and mum too. I felt like we all shared a different hug from the rest of the relatives. Our hug was a silent acknowledgement that we’re all grievers in the same boat.
I was surprised my cousin shared this, but he said that he missed seeing her for the last time. Instead of visiting her at the hospital yesterday, he chose to go out for dinner with his friends and thought that he’d visit her the next morning. She passed at 7a.m. the next day and he never got to say goodbye. As he told us this, there was the familiar look of regret in his face. I’ve seen that expression in the mirror.
After we left, my brother remarked, “They look like they’ve kind of accepted it. Like they were talking and laughing and all. I mean, she was 99.” And I didn’t know what to say to that because yes, she was 99, but she was also their mum and grandmother. There’s no way anyone accepts death that quickly no matter how old the loved one is. There also no way they could have just sat in a corner and wept the whole time – though that would have been acceptable. I think it’s a common misconception that grief only looks like crying and malfunctioning. Grief can also look like chatting and laughing. But I guess you wouldn’t know that unless you’ve lost a loved one yourself.
At one point, while I was sitting with my cousins, my uncle came over and asked how I was doing. I gave a standard response – thesis completed, Lego in progress – and he said, “You look like you’ve lost weight. Your face is (makes a hand action around his face to signify “slimmer”).” When I shrugged it off, he said, “Are you eating properly? Take care of yourself,” and gave me a knowing nod. I could see it in his eyes. He was saying a lot more than he did, telling me that he understood the reason I might not have been eating well. Look at that, his mum just passed and he is concerned about my wellbeing. I felt like that was a touch of grief as well – a mutual understanding of distress.
I was going to split this post into two, but I’ve written posts longer than this and you have read them all the same. If you do meet my cousin’s grandmother (I’m not too sure because she’s of a different religion), please go say hi! She watched me grow up and is a very, very nice lady.
Can’t wait to see you again. I love you more, always, and forever.
Love always,
Sha
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