Life and Death

Last week while in Chiang Mai, I brought along a new book for bedtime reading.

Tuesdays with Morrie is a book about the author's professor who was suffering from a terminal illness, and his last moments before death. I'm never one for self-help nor inspirational books; I think they state the obvious and are for people who cannot discipline themselves, so much so that they rely on books to tell them how to live life.

Not that I absolutely adored that book - it wasn't like Morrie overcame a huge obstacle in life, he was just putting it into perspective. But its simplicity and little quotes about love, family, life and death threw me into quiet, reflective moods. Not a good pick for a bedtime story. On top of late nights after our tours, the book ate up whatever free resting time my brain yearned.

Not every part of the book was for me though. There were some quotes I agreed with, some I put on a mental KIV list, and some that fell into the dark corners of my mind. What it was though, was a stark reminder of my grandmother's death, it's consequences, and human nature.

This is what she left behind:

The familiar kettles that we used to drink plain water from

Gate of her place. It's been sold, so this is my last memory of it

Mama's room, empty.

After she died we went back to her place and I snapped a few pictures. And I thought I'd just jot down what I've been meaning to document, about my journey with her on her passing. Just something to remember her by.

***

The Calls
I was out for a meeting. I remember that the office sat on top of a car showroom. And after the presentation ended when I checked my phone against the backdrop of fancy cars, I saw the missed calls from (in order):
1) My mum
2) My dad
3) My sis

Usually the missed call list goes in this order:
1) My mum
2) My mum
3) My sis

Odd, I thought. Faint alarm bells ringing.

Called mum, who broke the news. Mama had passed away that morning.
What? How? I asked.
She didn't know much. Call your father, she said.

And I did.
It was an awkward, yet most heartfelt conversation I would ever have with my dad.
He's a traditional man of few words and his harsh parenting ways had created a rift between us. Yet I found myself spewing consoling words.
You take it easy, I said. What the hell, where did that come from, I thought in hindsight.
My father gruffly replied his thanks. Even in mama's death he was still the stiff, unemotional parent. But we understood each other.

Called my sister. She picked up after three tries.
She was sobbing.
I had predicted that. She was the closest to my mama, sometimes to my envy (like my dad, I was always distant). She'd bring her out for manicures. Dropped by her place to pick her up for food. Chatter about stuff and keeping the old lady basking in attention.
She's gone, she spluttered in between breaths.
I didn't know what to say. I was bad at this. I'll see you at the funeral, I ended the conversation, aftering mustering some sentences of what I hoped would be consolation.

The Wake
One thing about being one of the elder grandchildren was that sometimes the adults were less careful with their words around me. This meant that I was privy to their hushed gossips and unmasked intentions. I was happy to have this 'benefit' bestowed upon me and I used it to my advantage at gatherings - to be able to alternate between the adults and the cousins whenever one group suited me better for that day's mood.

I regretted having this flexibility as we were idling about before visitors came. One problem that because her passing was a sudden one, mama didn't leave any will behind, which raised a lot administrative questions among the adults. They launched into a conversation revolving around money. The costs of the wake, of the cremation. How proceeds of selling the house would be split. Of mama's love for jewellery and the value of her precious stones and gold, and how that would be distributed. Of her habit of stashing money everywhere and anywhere, so the person in charge of cleaning up her room had to scrutinize all areas.

Maybe they were just being practical. Maybe these were pressing issues that had to be discussed. But as I sat there, plainly eavesdropping, I couldn't help but feel exasperation. Was all of this necessary?

***

Mama was a Christian, as were most of my aunts and their families. The Christians believe that the dead are off to a better place and therefore we have no business feeling sad when someone passes on. This was a relief, for the wake lacked the type of graveness and sorrow that lingered in most wakes.

The mood of the wake for the rest of the days was light, as the grandchildren helped out with the snacks and beverages while the adults continued on their banter.

On one of the days, Mum enthusiastically grabbed her camera and got our family to pose for a picture beside mama's coffin.

Why, I protested. This is weird.
I did this with your grandpa too. It's good to remember death. I even took a picture of his face.

And so we lined up in a row of four, our hands clasped in front of us. (It seemed the most appropriate pose - if you put your hands by your sides you tend to smile.)

That's when I asked, so do we smile or not?

The answer: You have to look serious, but not sad.

The Cremation
I remember most vividly about the day of cremation: that the ceiling was really high and had a very grand yet simple feel to it.It was an architecture of wooden planks and white paint, which gave me a feeling of serenity.

We circled her coffin as we tossed flower stalks onto it - the final time we would see mama.

Is that jade real, one of my aunts whispered.
It looks like it is, someone replied.
What, I thought they wouldn't use the real thing! Came the hushed reply in an urgent tone.

As the pastor led us through a series of hymns, I couldn't help but think about life and death. Is mama watching over us? Where does one go when one dies? Are we celebrating her life? Or is life a constant battle and death is us losing?

"And then one day I'll cross the river,
I'll fight life's final war with pain"