The day I felt the coldest, wasn’t when I stepped into a shopping mall on a hot day nor was it the day I visited London when I was at the age of nine.
It was the day I stood in front of my grandmother’s bed.
The moment I was born and introduced to the world, my grandmother was there every step of the way. She took care of me every day as my parents had to work. It became a habit — a lifestyle — for me to visit and drop by her house in the morning and then leave at night.
When I hit seven years old, old enough to go to primary school, she tied my hair every single afternoon before bringing me to the bus stop to wait for my school bus. When I returned from school, she never failed to pick me up from the bus stop and then feed me lunch. “Eat more,” she would always say, refusing to take no for an answer although my stomach was so full it felt like it would burst.
When I hit ten, she would still sneakily pass me money when I visited the house like she always did when I was younger — eyes blinking in a weird rhythm, as if to silently communicate to me, “Don’t let your parents and cousins know! Go buy snacks for yourself.”
When I hit fourteen, I was old enough to be trusted to stay at home alone, so my parents didn’t need to burden my grandmother to take care of me. I stopped visiting my grandmother every day of the week. Every day became alternate days. Alternate days became hospital-visit days.
I didn’t realise how fast time passed and I definitely didn’t realise how much older and weaker she had grown until today.
As I relived these moments, I realised it was her care and unconditional love that always warmed me up. No matter whether was it because I fell in school and suffered a scraped knee or a bad test result, I always had my grandmother to care for me. She was always a strong woman in my eyes and heart. With her, I always felt that everything was going to be okay.
It was the day I stood in front of my grandmother’s bed. Bed-ridden. Diagnosed with dementia.
“Do you recognise who she is?” My mother’s voice echoed off the walls as she spoke in Teochew to my grandmother.
“No,” she replied.
At the age of seventeen, in front of my grandmother’s bed, was the day I felt the coldest.
Written by: Blondie Tan
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