Without Regrets

Sometimes, I wonder why the stories of elders who "sleep forever" some time in their nineties rarely make it to the printing press?

An article from this morning's Straits Times (April 23, 2008, by Judith Tan) remembers the life of a frugal 101-year old mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. A tough "iron lady" in the family she might be, ah ma insists on pulling all the laundry straight instead of ironing them. She kept meat for her family while she ate mostly vegetables herself. A widow at age 32, she raised her three children before she assisted her children by raising her grandchildren. She would carry her sick grandchildren to the hospital instead of taking the bus to save a few cents.

Her cremation gathered not only local relatives but also those from Hong Kong and from Mainland China. Moving from southern China to the "southern seas" here 50 years ago, she has only gone back to her hometown--where she used to own a provision shop even after moving to Singapore--once in 1988, as much as she wanted to go back more often. One of her grand-daughters calls this the family's "only regret".

Stories like this remind me of my own grandparents, 3 of whom are now living their afterlives. I have never met my ah yeh (i.e. Cantonese for paternal grandfather), so let's talk about my ah gong and ah por. From a collection of family gossip over the years, I've come to know that my ah gong (i.e. Cantonese for maternal grandfather) has always wanted to visit his hometown in Dongguan, a mere 2 hour journey from Hong Kong with modern transport links. Regrettably, he has never been back although my uncle now owns a factory in the vicinity, some fate in that perhaps. Neither has he had the opportunity to "enjoy his last moments of life" in his tiny flat, where he raised his 6 children since the early 1960s. My aunts and uncles have always criticised their mother for "not allowing him back into the house" during my grandfather's final days (but let's not get too deep into family debates here). Like ah ma, perhaps not being able to return home was the greatest regret for my ah gong.

As for my ah por (i.e. Cantonese for maternal grandmother), perhaps she has little regrets. Unlike my ah gong, she enjoyed every moment of her retirement years. Going on overseas trips to Thailand, Taiwan, Japan, and even visiting my family and I in Canada, she was "always on the move" and "socialised with acquaintances at every opportunity" as my relatives describe. If she did not go yum jai cha (i.e. Cantonese for having vegetarian dim sum) with her friends from the temple, she would always pick her favourite grandsons up from school and buy them after-school snacks. In December 2006, with barely any monetary savings, she left us full of memories and a draggy, albeit commanding at times, voice that lingers within our minds for years to come. Her surprising independence as an elderly still intrigues me as I remember her.

Regrets. My ah gong and my ah por lived quite distinctive lives in that respect. What the dead thinks may no longer really matter. The regrets that our elders have greater lasting effects on surviving family members more so than on the elders themselves. Perhaps helping your family members live a life free of regrets will leave you dealing with less.