we are all sad people;

My old blog is still existing in some corner of cyberspace, but I've decided to create a new one, just to mark the milestone of turning twenty. So, I thought, new blog, happy start right? No. I've since come to the conclusion that writing is cathartic, especially so when you're feeling an overload of emotions so raw and pain. Recently, I've felt the increasing need to pen down my thoughts, because I'm experiencing this overwhelming wave of emotions. Its like a roller-coaster ride, really. I'll be happy and excited in the morning, and two seconds later, I'll be feeling frustrated and impatient with almost everything.

I know I've yet to recover from ahma's death, and I guess that's the main contributing factor to my erratic state of emotions. I miss her so much, sometimes I wish my life could be set in a fast forward motion so I could see her again. I know losing someone so dear is never an easy thing, and when the doctors told us to prepare ourselves for the inevitable, I thought maybe, it would not be so bad. Seeing her suffering on the hospital bed, oblivious to her surroundings and taking such big, heavy difficult breaths, there was a part of me that wanted her to just go, because it just pains my heart to see her suffer, with no means of calling out for help or comfort.

But when we receive the news that she passed away, just an hour after dad and I left her bedside, it hit me so hard, I could not think and all I could say was "oh no oh no whyyy", and it was impossible to stop crying. Dad raced sis and I to the nursing home, and we got into the "cold room" just in time to see the nurses transferring her to another bed. I would never ever forget that scene. Of her, lying so silently in her favourite green sequinned outfit on the bed, as though she was sleeping. Her mouth was opened though, because of her heavy breathing before she died. Dad knelt down beside her bed and cried in a way that ripped my heart.

They kept her there until my aunts and uncles came down, and til the funeral van came to pick her up for the embalming. I could not stop holding her hands, and kissing her face, because I knew I would never have the chance to do so anymore. There was not a single dry eye in the room. My maid rushed down in a taxi with a blown up funeral portrait of her in her younger days. She was so beautiful.

The funeral lasted for five days, and it was one of the most amazing experience I've ever been through. Grief was inevitable, but there was more. Seeing the big group of Seah family united over this trying period helped lessen the pain in a very significant way. There were some sense of peace and comfort too, as we folded the paper money and chatted over the night. But at the same time, you can sense the dread as the days ticked by.

Ahma looked so different in the coffin; it was her, but she didnt look like her. too. The glass separating her body from our touch seems like the longest distance I've experienced, out of reach from someone whom I love so much. All of us kept going back to the coffin, to look at her, to settle for touching the glass as we could no longer touch her. Sometimes, because of the reflection of the lights, it looked as though she's alive. But it was never scary; there was only a sense of utmost longing.

The last day was the most painful. When they close the coffin, I felt that my heart was being wrenched out. The big group of us stood infront of the coffin, and at my eldest uncle's instructions, we sang "shi shang zhi you mama hao", and two of her favourite hokkien and chinese songs. Singing the two songs made me cry so hard, for I was reminded of her cute actions that always accompany her singing. Every voice shook while we sang, and it was so difficult to sing when you're so sad, but we pushed and sang even louder. Oh, the pain, the grief, the love, the strength.

At mandai, we put beautiful flowers on her coffin. I hope she's happy, because flowers and plants are her favourite things. She loves watering the pots of cactus and money plants we used to keep at home. I almost sat out of her cremation, because I didnt think I would be strong enough for it. But I knew I had to company her through her last journey, and that she would have wanted me to be there too. Her coffin was slowly rolled along the conveyor belt, towards the furnace. The screams and wails were so raw; mother! ahma! ah zou (great grandma)! And just like that, ashes to ashes, dusts to dusts. Strangely, I felt a sense of surreal peace that overcame me, and found myself breathing lighter than before.

We went back after two hours for her bones (yes, it was brittle bones, not really ashes) to bring it to the temple. When I saw the bones in a small container, I could only think "That is left of ahma", and it couldnt be real! It was hard to reconcile the fact that she was flesh and blood and warm five days ago, and now, it was just inanimate bones.

We reached the temple and have her bones put into her urn with some of her favourite jewelery, and then placed her urn beside ah gong's. Years ago, dad was telling me that the empty urn beside ahgong was reserved for ahma, so that they could be together after ahma passed away. I remembered crying and feeling so scared that day. I didnt want my ahma to die.

My ahma is the most imperfect woman when she was younger; she's the epitome of an empress dowager you see on chinese tv dramas. But she loves us so much, and always take such good care of me since I was a baby. As she grew older, her tyrannical ways toned down so much, everybody found her so cute and endearing. Ahma likes to scold me because she said I'm always irritating her. I love smacking kisses all over her face like a million times in a day, love pinching her chubby cheeks, and snuggling next to her on a small bed to chat with her. In all my twenty years, she has always been there, playing such a significant role. And all of a sudden, she's gone and its really like you've lost a part of yourself.

I miss her so much everyday. Even as I'm typing this entry, I'm sitting in her room. The adults had since throw away her bed, and much of her possessions. They said it was the chinese tradition to throw away the things of old people who've passed on. At least the curtains are the same. She used to ask me if I would still dare to enter and sleep in her room when she dies. Here I am now, everyday, hoping to sense even a little hint of her presence. I dream of her quite often, of her alive, of her funeral, of her talking to me... And I wish, oh how I wish, I could kiss her and tell her how much I love her once more, and to hear her voice calling my name in return. I think of her everyday, everywhere I go, and I take it that the growing healthy green plants in her room is a sign that she is happy up there in heaven.

Its a weird thing. I would want to see her photos because I miss her, and would then cry when I see them, and not want to see her photos anymore because I dont want to be sad, but would want to see her photos again because I miss her. I used to make her promise me that she would live to a hundred years old, so that she could witness my graduation from nus, my marriage, and have fun with my children. All I can hope now is that she will be able to see my future achievements from heaven and be proud of me.

Death is cruel, that I am sure. There's nothing comforting or good about it really, even when people say "oh, she's suffering, at least she's off to a better place now." Cause this world is really a better place, if ahma is still with us.  And I'm sure she would want to be with us too. I miss her with a fierce longingly.

But her death makes me realise the need to fight and care for the people I love, and to treasure them with an even greater desire, because we truly take the people around us for granted. I dont know how long my grieving period will last, how long more before I'd feel stronger emotionally. But I guess this is one of life's many lessons, and I'd just have to walk through it. I'm not alone.

you'll live in my heart forever

  

turtle,
15nov10, 230am