Bonus Time
My grandmother passed away Oct. 22, 2008. She was 92. The priest during the first Friday mass said that beyond 80 was bonus time, so my mom things that we shouldn't really be mourning but since we're Chinese and we don't want people talking behind our back about respect and tradition, we're putting on our mourning looks and telling the world we're sad.
I wasn't particularly close to my grandmother. We were always at odds about one thing and another. I remember vividly when I was a kid around 4 or 5 years old. I was a voracious eater (matakaw in short) and anything new in the fridge was free game with me. So I saw some oranges and I went for them. My grandmother scolded me and told me that those weren't for me but for my dad. After that I realized as young as that age that she never really liked me, because what was one orange, right?
And as young as that, I would have weird dreams that would drive me to panic attacks (I didn't know what it was then). So I would want to see my mom and talk to her about the craziness I saw in my dreams but she wouldn't let me. Kicking, crying and screaming I would try to get to my parent's room but she would just stop me. She insisted that I just was going to bother them with my foolishness.
Years later she would annoy my by admonishing my choices of boyfriends, like the Filipino one I had a few years back. "Why in the world would you want a boyfriend not from the same race? What was I thinking? That's not a good choice". Then years later with my last boyfriend: "why won't I get married yet? Isn't he old already? Just get married and get it over with". Those were the hardest questions you can ever get from an old lady would wanted explanations but was deaf and I couldn't speak deep philosophical Chinese-Fookien to appease her curiosity regarding her granddaughter's spinster sensibilities.
Finally during her last weeks in the hospital bed, we would have screaming matches as to why she should have her dextrose stuck to her veins. She would hit, scream, rip and push her way out of my heart. I would go home the next day after a night of sleeplessness and stress to sleep the whole day and wake up dazed and confused as to where my life was heading. During the last days of her life when she needed blood badly and the doctor told me about that which is inevitable, I would cry my heart out to the pillow and to the special nurse (who my smart friend, Boo said, is so used to seeing loved ones of patients crying in front of them).
In the end, I thought I would be fine. I thought her death would just bring closure to just another passing ancestor. I never did cry as much as I did when my grandfather, who was the love of my life, passed. But for some reason, I walked through life in a daze. I did some crazy things that I never thought I would do. I have consciously closed my heart and hoped that it won't break anymore than it has.
The other day, I thought I heard her sigh, I raced out of my room to see what made that sound. When I got to her room and saw and empty bed without a mattress my heart once again, shattered to many pieces.
I wasn't particularly close to my grandmother. We were always at odds about one thing and another. I remember vividly when I was a kid around 4 or 5 years old. I was a voracious eater (matakaw in short) and anything new in the fridge was free game with me. So I saw some oranges and I went for them. My grandmother scolded me and told me that those weren't for me but for my dad. After that I realized as young as that age that she never really liked me, because what was one orange, right?
And as young as that, I would have weird dreams that would drive me to panic attacks (I didn't know what it was then). So I would want to see my mom and talk to her about the craziness I saw in my dreams but she wouldn't let me. Kicking, crying and screaming I would try to get to my parent's room but she would just stop me. She insisted that I just was going to bother them with my foolishness.
Years later she would annoy my by admonishing my choices of boyfriends, like the Filipino one I had a few years back. "Why in the world would you want a boyfriend not from the same race? What was I thinking? That's not a good choice". Then years later with my last boyfriend: "why won't I get married yet? Isn't he old already? Just get married and get it over with". Those were the hardest questions you can ever get from an old lady would wanted explanations but was deaf and I couldn't speak deep philosophical Chinese-Fookien to appease her curiosity regarding her granddaughter's spinster sensibilities.
Finally during her last weeks in the hospital bed, we would have screaming matches as to why she should have her dextrose stuck to her veins. She would hit, scream, rip and push her way out of my heart. I would go home the next day after a night of sleeplessness and stress to sleep the whole day and wake up dazed and confused as to where my life was heading. During the last days of her life when she needed blood badly and the doctor told me about that which is inevitable, I would cry my heart out to the pillow and to the special nurse (who my smart friend, Boo said, is so used to seeing loved ones of patients crying in front of them).
In the end, I thought I would be fine. I thought her death would just bring closure to just another passing ancestor. I never did cry as much as I did when my grandfather, who was the love of my life, passed. But for some reason, I walked through life in a daze. I did some crazy things that I never thought I would do. I have consciously closed my heart and hoped that it won't break anymore than it has.
The other day, I thought I heard her sigh, I raced out of my room to see what made that sound. When I got to her room and saw and empty bed without a mattress my heart once again, shattered to many pieces.