four years
the end of possibilities with my grandfather.
Four years ago today, in the wee hours of the morning, my maternal grandfather slipped out of this world. He was almost 96 years old and had been on the decline for some time. Physically, he’d been reduced to skin and bone, left mostly bed-bound. Mentally, he dipped in and out of lucidity, sometimes making very clear-eyed judgements, other times failing to recognise us when we visited. We knew it was just a matter of time; in the last couple of weeks of his life, I’d moved back into my parents’ flat to be closer to the hospital and available at short notice. The two of us rushed to the hospital that morning but missed him by just a few minutes. He never waited for anyone.
This afternoon, my mother and I headed to the Changi Point Ferry Terminal, where we’d boarded a boat a little less than four years ago for my granddad’s sea burial. We didn’t try to get on a boat again to return to where we’d gently dropped the bundle of his ashes into the water; it was enough to stay on land and look out. We stood there for a little while, and I really do mean a little while.
“Wah lau, so damn hot.”
The sun was beating down, the humidity an uncomfortable cocoon, and it took no time at all for us to be sticky with sweat. So we turned around, went back to the car and went to Jewel at Changi Airport for a belated celebration of my mother’s birthday (which was yesterday).
Sorry, Kong Kong. But you would have found it bloody hot and preferred going for tonkatsu too.
Four years is a pretty long time. It’s long enough to get accustomed to someone’s absence, to get used to making plans without them, to going to family meals without them, to entering the spaces they used to inhabit and know they aren’t going to be there. Life goes on, and there are new preoccupations, new distractions, new dramas that demand attention. I might have expected to mope and pine more for someone who meant so much to me. But I really don’t have the time.
Then again, that’s not how grief works. Grief is much sneakier than that. I’ve come to realise that it’s not so much about absence as it is about the end of possibility.
My to-do list has been a mess since the end of the general election. There are so many threads I need to pick up again, so many things to sort out and catch up on. But I didn’t feel like doing any of that when I woke up this morning, so I just… didn’t. I’ve worked for 17 days straight—at least 10 of them at an intense, hyper-focused level—and I deserve this time to rest and recharge. So I spent today ignoring most of the to-dos, letting myself enjoy spending time with my mum, stuffing ourselves with food, doing a bit of shopping and thinking happy thoughts.
I wouldn’t have been like this four, five years ago. I would have fretted secretly, heaping blame and judgment upon myself, feeling guilty about being lazy, irresponsible, undisciplined, the weakest link. Compared to who I was all those years ago, I think I know myself better and live with more ease now. I have an ADHD diagnosis, medication to help when I need it and, more importantly, the knowledge to make more sense of some of my behaviours, reactions and rhythms. I’ve been to therapy, talked about the things I’ve witnessed and experienced, let myself sit longer with my emotions instead of rushing full tilt into the next thing and the next thing and the next thing. I’ve learnt more about the need to assert boundaries for myself, so I can try to be a better person for others. I’ve acknowledged the need to be kinder and gentler with myself, and realised that I respond so much better to validation than recrimination. It’s affected so much of how I move through my life. It’s changed me—internally, at least, even if no one else notices the difference. I’ve come so far, but Kong Kong isn’t here to meet this almost-37 granddaughter. He will never meet the person that I am now. I will never be able to show him how I’ve grown.
That’s what I mean by the end of possibility. Once in awhile it hits me that not only do I no longer share the same sky as Kong Kong—grandparent, protector, teacher, playmate, partner in crime, friend—but that we will never share the same sky again in this life. That I will never again reach out and find his hand, cool and solid between my fingers. That we will never again binge-watch episodes of Midsomer Murders and talk at the TV. That we will never again get to go out for food, to share a slice of cake and giggle over something slightly wicked. And that really sucks.
I’ve been wanting to write about my granddad, our relationship and what it means—possibly for my second book. It was even one of my New Year hopes. But I’ve made very little progress so far; I just haven’t had the blocks of time and headspace that I need. I tell myself that it’s okay to take my time—that books just need to take the time they take—but sometimes I fear I’ll lose the shape of him, of us, if too much time passes without me getting it all down. That I am hurtling too fast into too much life without him, leaving our “us” behind.
Four years is a pretty long time, but it’ll only get longer. My family still talks about him, laughs about the things he used to do and say, so I know we’ll keep remembering him. Still, I wonder if we’re getting more and more used to laughing about him rather than laughing with him. I haven’t decided how I feel about that.