My grandmother “Ah Ma” 我的外婆 “阿嬷”

文摘   2024-11-07 17:00   广西  

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4 November 2024 is Ah Ma’s first death anniversary.
 
I am writing in my walk-in closet where I created a memorial altar on the windowsill filled with photographs of the people and pets I have loved and lost.
 
Next to the photographs is a vase with fresh flowers belonging to Ah Ma, who kept it for over 50 years.
 
I burn sage and light incense daily as a daily ritual to remember my grandparents, my mom, and my two dogs.
 
Seeing them all together provides comfort for me.
 
It makes me believe that they are also together on the other side.
 
Losing a loved one when you are living abroad is perhaps one of the hardest moments as an expat.
 
The regrets that consume you stick to you like a spirit that haunts you intermittently.
 
As an Asian Chinese with filial piety duties, the guilt accompanying the regrets makes it even more tormenting.

 My Ah Ma’s vase which she kept for more than 50 years

 

My second sister and I were raised by our grandparents from birth till we were 12 years old.

Living with grandparents can be embarrassing, annoying, and yet, enriching.

Back in the day, it was uncool to speak in our dialect Hokkien which suggested being uneducated and unrefined.

Whenever I bumped into my friends with my Ah Ma next to me, the moment she started speaking in Hokkien, I pretended I couldn’t hear her by walking further away.

Unbeknownst to my poor grandmother, she would chase me and speak even louder as I walked even faster.

Living with my grandmother also came with the baggage of superstitions and beliefs that sometimes made no sense.

My funniest memory is our bedtime ritual when Ah Ma made my sister and I pray to the invisible “Urine God and Goddess” behind our bedroom door.

She would open the door ajar so my sister and I could get behind the door and kneel before a triangle of nothingness while she supervised us.

With our hands in a prayer position, we had to close our eyes and recite in Hokkien,

“Dear Urine God and Goddess,

We pray that you will bless us with urine in the daytime but not at night. 

Thank you.”

This nightly prayer was supposed to prevent us from bedwetting.

On nights when we had mishaps, our grandmother advised us to pray with more sincerity.

But no matter how hard my sister and I tried, we simply could not visualize what Urine Gods could look like, let alone count on them to stay up all night to watch over our bladders.  

Grandparents inevitably spoil their grandchildren since this is a second chance at parenting.

My Ah Ma who bore 9 children and looked after her grandchildren had an air of calmness and serenity. 

When my mother died in a car accident five years ago, my grandmother was the one who comforted me even though she had just lost her daughter.

 My second sister (left) and I with our grandparents at our childhood home

 

Two summers ago, our family was vacationing in Japan.

 

We had just checked into our hotel room that overlooked Mount Fuji.

 

I was admiring the majestic view when I received a call from my sister that our 86-year-old Ah Ma had just been diagnosed with final-stage colon cancer.

 

The doctor estimated that she had about six months left.

 

We made a family decision to keep the diagnosis from her so she could be home during her final months.

 

I spent the next few months shuttling between Shanghai and Singapore to be with her.

 

In my childhood home, we reminisced about my childhood, her childhood, my mom’s childhood, her recipes, Hokkien idioms, and all the memories I could grasp before she was gone.

 

I wanted to make up for all the lost time I was away.

 

Eventually, the time drew nearer as she grew weaker and visibly gaunt.

 

The cancer had hijacked and eroded her body and mind such that my Ah Ma no longer felt or looked like her anymore.


My Ah Ma and me when I was in primary school 

 

On 2nd November 2023 morning, I woke up in my Shanghai home with a premonition.
 
My mother-in-law was visiting Shanghai, and I planned to spend time with her before returning to Singapore together next week.  

But I had a nagging feeling that I had to return home.

I changed my flight to land in Singapore on the 3rd of November.

When I arrived at Ah Ma’s house, I was relieved to hear her breathing as I laid down next to her and held her hand.

On the 4th of November morning, Ah Ma suddenly opened her eyes and gestured to me in Hokkien,

“My body is spoilt! My body is spoilt!”

My sister and I looked at each other in disbelief at her sudden outburst of energy.

It dawned on us that no matter how hard we tried to shield her from the truth, she knew in her bones that her body was failing her.

I believe she sensed that her time was near.

I went to the kitchen to relay this incident to my aunt.

As we spoke, a huge, beautiful moth with black and white patterned wings flew to the kitchen window.

It stayed and fluttered for a while but before we could snap a photo, it flew away.

An omen?

My aunt and I froze.

We swiftly activated all our family members to gather at our grandparents’ home.

Upon Ah Ma’s diagnosis, I arranged for a family photo shoot and gave her a pair of sneakers. Ah Ma suggested we pose for a photo together.


As four generations of the family started filling the house, my Ah Ma who had been dipping in and out of consciousness unanticipatedly acknowledged everyone’s presence.

 
At one point, she shocked us by smiling and nodding happily at her great-grandchildren before slipping into unconsciousness again.
 
The sun was setting as family members took turns to keep vigil.
 
I held her hand and softly sang Teresa Teng’s 月亮代表我的心.  
 
Twice, she let go of our hands and raised her arms with eyes transfixed to the pull of some unexplained force above her as she reached upwards and gestured from left to right.
 
We looked at one another and quietly understood.
 
She wouldn't be alone.
 
I whispered into my Ah Ma’s ears, thanking her for raising me and that I love her very much.
 
At 7.38 pm, my grandmother peacefully reunited with my grandfather and mom.

My beloved Ah Ma at Singapore’s Marina Bay Sands infinity pool on her 87th birthday, 13 August 2023.
Photo by Wei Kuan Tay (weikuan73@outlook.sg) 




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Chinese translation & Layout: Yan Yan 

Illustrator: Ang Rei. Proofread: Ang Rei & Darias Fang

2024 年 11 月 4 日是我阿嬷的一周年忌日。


我正在步入式衣帽间里写这些文字。


我在窗台处放置了一个纪念台,摆放着我所爱却已逝去的亲人和宠物的照片。


照片旁边是一个花瓶,插着新鲜的花朵,这个花瓶曾属于阿嬷,她保存了五十多年。


每天,我都会焚烧鼠尾草、点燃香烛,以此作为日常仪式来缅怀我的外祖父母、母亲和我的两条狗狗。


看到他们的照片摆放在一起,这给我以慰藉。


这让我相信,在另一个世界里,他们也在一起。


对于外籍人士来说,在异国他乡时失去所爱之人或许是最为艰难的时刻之一。


那些萦绕心头、将你吞噬的悔恨,就如同一个时不时出没作祟的幽灵一般,紧紧附着在你身上。


作为肩负着孝道责任的华裔,与悔恨相伴而生的愧疚感更是让这种痛苦变得愈加煎熬难耐。


阿嬷保存了五十多年的花瓶
 
我和我的二妹从出生起就由祖父母抚养,一直到 12 岁。

和外祖父母一起生活,既有尴尬、恼人的时候,却也很充实。

在过去,说福建话被认为是很不酷的事,会让人觉得没文化、没涵养每次我和外婆走在一起碰到朋友,只要她一开始说福建话,我就会假装听不见,离她越来越远。

可怜的阿嬷并不知道我的心思,她还会追着我,我走得越快,她就说得越大声。

阿嬷一起生活,还伴随着一堆迷信观念和信仰之类的东西,有些时候真的让人摸不着头脑。

我最搞笑的记忆就是临睡前,阿嬷会坚持让我和妹妹跪在卧室门后,向那看不见的 “尿神” 祈祷。

她会把门留条缝,好让我和妹妹能到门后,对着那片三角形的空地跪下,而她则在一旁监督我们。

我们双手合十,闭上眼睛,用福建话念叨道:

“亲爱的尿神啊,

我们祈求您保佑我们白天有尿,晚上没尿。

谢谢您。”

每晚的这个祈祷仪式是为了防止我们尿床的。

要是晚上我们尿床了,阿嬷就会坚持让我们更虔诚地祈祷。

但不管我和妹妹怎么努力,我们就是想象不出尿神到底长什么样,更别指望他们整夜不睡守着我们的膀胱了。

我一直觉得外祖父母溺爱孙子孙女是不可避免的,毕竟这对他们来说是再次当父母的机会。

我的阿嬷生了9个孩子,并且又要照看孙辈,她的身上透露着一种平和宁静的气质。


五年前我母亲在一场车祸中离世时,尽管阿嬷刚刚失去了自己的女儿,但她却依然是那个安慰我的人。
 
我二妹(左)、我以及外祖父母在他们家中
 
两年前的夏天,我们一家人正在日本度假。

我们刚办好入住手续,进入能俯瞰富士山的酒店房间。

我正欣赏这壮丽的景色时,接到了来自妹妹的电话,得知 86 岁的阿嬷刚刚被确诊为结肠癌晚期。

医生估计她只剩下大约六个月的时间了。

我们全家决定不把这个诊断结果告诉她,这样她就能在最后的几个月里待在家里。

在接下来的几个月里,我穿梭于上海和新加坡之间,只为了能陪在她身边。

在我儿时的家中,我们聊起了我的童年、她的童年、我妈妈的童年、她的食谱、闽南俗语,以及在她离世之前我所能抓住的所有回忆。

我想弥补我不在她身边而错过的所有时光。

最终,随着她身体愈发虚弱,明显消瘦下去,那个时刻还是临近了。

癌症侵袭并侵蚀了她的身体和心智,我的阿嬷无论是从感觉上还是模样上都不再像是原来的她了。
 
我上小学时和我阿嬷的合影
 
2023 年 11 月 2 日清晨,我在上海的家中醒来,心中有种不祥的预感。

我的婆婆当时正在上海在我家做客,我原本计划在下周和婆婆一起回新加坡之前,先花些时间陪陪她。

但我心里总有一种挥之不去的感觉,觉得自己必须得回家。

于是我改签了航班,于 11 月 3 日抵达新加坡。

当我赶到阿嬷家时,听到她的呼吸声,我松了一口气。我躺在她身旁,握住了她的手。

11 月 4 日清晨,阿嬷突然睁开眼睛,用福建话比划着说:

“我身体坏了!我身体坏了!”

我和妹妹面面相觑,她这突如其来爆发的劲头让我们难以置信。

我们这才意识到,无论我们此前多么努力地想对她隐瞒病情,她心底里其实早就知道自己的身体快不行了。

这是她在告诉我们,她知道自己的时日无多了。

我去厨房把这件事告诉了小姨妈。

就在我们说着话的时候,一只带有黑白花纹翅膀的又大又漂亮的飞蛾飞到了厨房的窗户上。

它停留了一会儿,扑腾了几下翅膀,可还没等我们来得及拍照,它就飞走了。

这是一种预兆吗?

我和小姨妈都愣住了。

我们立刻通知所有家人到阿嬷家集合。
 

阿嬷确诊后,我安排了一次全家福拍摄,还送了她一双运动鞋。阿嬷就提议我们一起摆个姿势拍张照。

 
随着家里四代人陆续聚满了屋子,一直处于时醒时昏状态的阿嬷竟出人意料地察觉到了每个人的存在。

有那么一刻,她对着曾孙辈们开心地微笑点头,这把我们都惊到了,随后她又陷入了昏迷。

当家人轮流守夜时,太阳渐渐西沉。

我握着她的手,轻声哽咽地唱起了邓丽君的《月亮代表我的心》。

有两次,她松开我们的手,抬起双臂,眼睛紧盯着上方,似乎受到某种莫名的力量的牵引,她向上伸着手臂,从左到右比划着。

我们彼此对视,心里默默明白,她不会孤单的。

我在阿嬷耳边轻声说道,感谢你把我养大,我非常爱你。

在晚上 7 点 38 分,阿嬷平静地去和外公以及我的母亲团聚了。

2023 年 8 月 13 日,我亲爱的阿嬷在她 87 岁生日时,于新加坡滨海湾金沙酒店的无边泳池旁。

照片来自:Wei Kuan Tay(weikuan73@outlook.sg)






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