Grandma
Sometimes I like to joke I feel old. When I see professional athletes whom I remember as rookies retire, for instance. Or when I have drinks with old high school friends and even though nothing feels like it has changed, we startlingly realize it's been over 10 years since graduation, 10 years since starting college, 10 years since we all played Mafia as an icebreaker in our dormitory hall. By and large, however, I'm sure we all feel our best years are still ahead of us. We don't feel old in that regard.
But then there are life events that happen inexorably to remind me I am getting old, the starkest of which is death of loved ones. This Christmas season, as I wrapped up a wonderful semester at NYU business school, I came home to a wake and funeral. My grandma, who has lived with my immediate family for the better part of two decades, passed away one day before I arrived home.
I last saw her, spoke to her, held her hand during Thanksgiving. I told her I will return in three weeks. No time at all. See you soon. She nodded enthusiastically in response. Be safe and work hard, she said. It was all routine. Grandma was blind, had dementia, and essentially no short term memory. She had no context behind what she is saying, but she has been saying it for over 90 years as her seven children and seventeen grandchildren flowed in and out of her life. I flew back to New York without giving it a second thought.
I have steeled myself for the phone call for 10 years. In 1999, Grandma broke her leg, underwent surgery, and then suffered a stroke in rapid succession. The time I visited her at the hospital was when the reality of her possible passing hit me like a ton of bricks. I remember the sterile lighting, the IV bag and needles, and Grandma's pale face outlined in pain, all of which shook me to my then 18 year-old core. She was never the same after that. Grandfather Time soon took her eyesight and her mental health. The last few years Grandma simply ate and slept every day with little knowledge of daily occurrences. My mom was a hero who took sole responsibility for her well being and kept her out of the retirement home, and I am convinced it is why she was able to live for so many years after that debilitating event in 1999.
"Grandma passed away at 9:40am today," Mom said through the phone on December 21st.
Her voice was tight but stable. I didn't say much in response. Mom called a week earlier to tell me Grandma was hospitalized after falling again, this time leaving her left leg completely useless. The doctors couldn't figure out why. There was an internal debate amongst my aunts and uncles about finally yielding her to professional senior care given the immobility, but in the end Mom couldn't do it. It wasn't right. She would simply work harder, clean her more often, carry her slowly to every meal. See? I told you Mom was a hero.
Grandma did not suffer as she died in her sleep, in the home she has lived in for nearly 20 years. There was no cancer, no pain from a terminal disease. She lived a sparkling clean life as a vegetarian and was richly rewarded for it. Warren Buffett has said the purpose of life is to be loved by as many people as possible among those you want to have love you. In that respect, Grandma lived a perfect life. She was 95 years old, surrounded by her family who all loved her unconditionally. I cannot be happier with how this inevitability played out.
We kept the funeral small--family only. Upon arriving, my cousin Tony came up to me, eyes red-rimmed, and put me in a bear hug like never before. That was when it finally hit me. The pain of loss was painted on everyone's faces as my other cousins, aunts, and uncles slowly filed into Rose Hills Mortuary. We sought comfort in each other's company. Some openly racked with sobs as the monk went through the incantations. What does the objective understanding of a painless death after a long and prosperous life matter during the moment? More than anything else, their tears brought out my own in empathy.
I know what was going through everyone's head--replays of the best memories we had of Grandma. We all had unique relationships with her, a monumental testament to the dedication she put into her family. She meant so much to all of us in our own individual way. I was the fortunate one. Grandma lived with me, so not only have I had the most time with her, I have also had the time to adjust to her condition over the years. The other relatives would visit on occasion, but the day-to-day struggles were masked from them. Perhaps that is why their pain seemed so much greater than mine during the funeral.
We don't so much age as lurch from one reality to another. Certain periods of our life contain such drastic change that we must recalibrate the way we live. New schools, new jobs, marriage, children, and of course, death. I am embroiled in one of those periods now as I seek a new career in a new city. My brother is a few months away from graduating college and will be working soon. My mom, who for so long have had either children or Grandma at home to take care of, will have a completely empty nest for the first time. And my dad has begun a semi-retired life, but must still frequently return to Taiwan as my other grandma's health deteriorates through the same merciless wheel of time. Mom will likely accompany Dad on many of those trips.
And our house will be empty. An anchor, now afloat. What a thought! The baton of the previous generation is falling into ours. Maybe one day, I will have my own family, and in the end, be loved by as many possible among those I wish to have love me. Grandma would be proud of me.
But then there are life events that happen inexorably to remind me I am getting old, the starkest of which is death of loved ones. This Christmas season, as I wrapped up a wonderful semester at NYU business school, I came home to a wake and funeral. My grandma, who has lived with my immediate family for the better part of two decades, passed away one day before I arrived home.
I last saw her, spoke to her, held her hand during Thanksgiving. I told her I will return in three weeks. No time at all. See you soon. She nodded enthusiastically in response. Be safe and work hard, she said. It was all routine. Grandma was blind, had dementia, and essentially no short term memory. She had no context behind what she is saying, but she has been saying it for over 90 years as her seven children and seventeen grandchildren flowed in and out of her life. I flew back to New York without giving it a second thought.
***
I have steeled myself for the phone call for 10 years. In 1999, Grandma broke her leg, underwent surgery, and then suffered a stroke in rapid succession. The time I visited her at the hospital was when the reality of her possible passing hit me like a ton of bricks. I remember the sterile lighting, the IV bag and needles, and Grandma's pale face outlined in pain, all of which shook me to my then 18 year-old core. She was never the same after that. Grandfather Time soon took her eyesight and her mental health. The last few years Grandma simply ate and slept every day with little knowledge of daily occurrences. My mom was a hero who took sole responsibility for her well being and kept her out of the retirement home, and I am convinced it is why she was able to live for so many years after that debilitating event in 1999.
"Grandma passed away at 9:40am today," Mom said through the phone on December 21st.
Her voice was tight but stable. I didn't say much in response. Mom called a week earlier to tell me Grandma was hospitalized after falling again, this time leaving her left leg completely useless. The doctors couldn't figure out why. There was an internal debate amongst my aunts and uncles about finally yielding her to professional senior care given the immobility, but in the end Mom couldn't do it. It wasn't right. She would simply work harder, clean her more often, carry her slowly to every meal. See? I told you Mom was a hero.
Grandma did not suffer as she died in her sleep, in the home she has lived in for nearly 20 years. There was no cancer, no pain from a terminal disease. She lived a sparkling clean life as a vegetarian and was richly rewarded for it. Warren Buffett has said the purpose of life is to be loved by as many people as possible among those you want to have love you. In that respect, Grandma lived a perfect life. She was 95 years old, surrounded by her family who all loved her unconditionally. I cannot be happier with how this inevitability played out.
We kept the funeral small--family only. Upon arriving, my cousin Tony came up to me, eyes red-rimmed, and put me in a bear hug like never before. That was when it finally hit me. The pain of loss was painted on everyone's faces as my other cousins, aunts, and uncles slowly filed into Rose Hills Mortuary. We sought comfort in each other's company. Some openly racked with sobs as the monk went through the incantations. What does the objective understanding of a painless death after a long and prosperous life matter during the moment? More than anything else, their tears brought out my own in empathy.
I know what was going through everyone's head--replays of the best memories we had of Grandma. We all had unique relationships with her, a monumental testament to the dedication she put into her family. She meant so much to all of us in our own individual way. I was the fortunate one. Grandma lived with me, so not only have I had the most time with her, I have also had the time to adjust to her condition over the years. The other relatives would visit on occasion, but the day-to-day struggles were masked from them. Perhaps that is why their pain seemed so much greater than mine during the funeral.
***
We don't so much age as lurch from one reality to another. Certain periods of our life contain such drastic change that we must recalibrate the way we live. New schools, new jobs, marriage, children, and of course, death. I am embroiled in one of those periods now as I seek a new career in a new city. My brother is a few months away from graduating college and will be working soon. My mom, who for so long have had either children or Grandma at home to take care of, will have a completely empty nest for the first time. And my dad has begun a semi-retired life, but must still frequently return to Taiwan as my other grandma's health deteriorates through the same merciless wheel of time. Mom will likely accompany Dad on many of those trips.
And our house will be empty. An anchor, now afloat. What a thought! The baton of the previous generation is falling into ours. Maybe one day, I will have my own family, and in the end, be loved by as many possible among those I wish to have love me. Grandma would be proud of me.
