We park the motorhome in a campground outisde the city and make our way to the airport to find a direct flight to Singapore. But there isn’t any. I would have to fly West to Vancouver, Vancouver to Hongkong or Taipei, then to Singapore. We come away despondent, then David remembers that I have a flight home to London. If I can get an earlier flight back than the scheduled return flight after our tours, I could pick up a direct flight from London to Singapore. With his usual efficiency, he arranges it with his office manager in England. David says he is sorry he can’t come with me because he has an important meeting in London later in the week and he decides to fly out the same day with me, then return to Montreal after the meeting to meet up with our next group as they begin the tour to New England. Just before we leave, we hear that David’s former general manager, Dave, who had worked for more than 25 years in the bakery with David has had a heart attack and is in a London hospital. On, 14 September, David and I fly out of Montreal and arrive in London the next day, only to be told that Dave had died minutes before we arrived. It must be sad for David, but all I am thinking is please don’t let me be too late to see my mother alive. David goes to the hospital whilst I have a rest in a day room at an airport hotel. My flight to Singapore is at 10PM the same evening. By the time, I arrive at Changi Airport on the 16th, I am a walking zombie.
Through the glass walls from where the baggage carousels are, I see Andy jumping up and down with glee when he sees me. He and my 10-year-old nephew, Agatha’s son, are waving frantically to catch my attention. When I see them, I wave back and blow them a kiss. Bernadette sees me and smiles and my heart slips into a restful gear, like on my last visit. Knowing Bernadette, she would most likely dissolve into tears when she sees me if Mak’s situation had changed for the worse. After gathering my luggage, I push the trolley out and see that Agatha is there, too. For a moment, I hold my breath in suspense, wondering if there is bad news to tell because Agatha has not picked me up from the airport before. I hug everybody and still, there’s no news forthcoming.
“How’s Mak?” I venture to ask, then.
“She’s calmed down a little. They’ve taken her off the traction but she’s still in a straitjacket,” Agatha says.
Her voice is mellower and she has lost tremendous weight. Bernadette, too, has lost weight and both of them look tired. They are the real victims of our mother’s illness, they are the ones who have to look after Mak and be witness to her day-to-day deterioration. Their emotional trauma must be great, as it must be for my brothers. Our mother’s illness has taken a toll on all of them. I know I am the fortunate one to be spared all the daily problems and the continual heartache. It must be far, far more difficult for them than it is for me. Bernadette pushes my trolley whilst the two boys grab each of my hands in an open display of joy that I am home.
“What happened to your car?” I ask Bernadette when we climb in to Agatha’s people mover, a seven-seater vehicle.
“It’s past its 10 years. Had to be scrapped. But the economy has been hit by the depression, and the COE has gone up, so we can’t afford the licence.”
“COE? What’s that?”
“It stands for ‘Certificate of Entitlement’. It’s a licence to own a car. All cars have to be scrapped when they reach 10-years-old. Then there is an open bidding system to get a licence to own a new car. This is called the COE. If we don’t possess a COE, we are not allowed to purchase another car.”
“And how much does a COE cost?”
“It all depends on the bidding. Last month it was $60,000. It could get up to $100,000 or more.”
“What? To buy a licence to buy a car?”
“Uh huh,” both Bernadette and Agatha echo.
As if there are not enough rules in Singapore. I understand that it makes sense to restrict car ownership on such a tiny island which is no bigger than the Isle of Wight, but with three million people on it. But having just travelled the length and breadth of Canada and the United States, I hate the thought of not having a car and not being able to drive. Yet, there is a truly wonderful public transport system here with the buses and MRT being so frequent and efficient. The maximum cost of an MRT ticket is $1.80, which is only 60 pence to travel from the east to the west of the island or from the north to the south, so it’s affordable to everybody. But I wouldn’t like to live here. It might be all right when I am older but not when I’ve still got the wanderlust. I like the idea of getting into my car and being able to drive for hundreds and thousands of miles without jettisoning into the sea.
“After dropping your luggage at Bernadette’s, I thought it might be nice to take you for some dinner at a hawker centre. You can have your favourite Chye Tow Kway. After that, do you want to rest or go to the hospital? I know you’ve been travelling for two days.”
I am astonished at the change in Agatha. She speaks mildly and is so considerate.
“Dinner sounds good. I’ll see Mother after that. By the time I get to Bernadette’s, I should be ready to crash out.”
I am home again. Here, food is the subject of a greeting, a topic of conversation, an exhibition of welcome, hospitality and love. Action expresses more than words do in this culture. If you think in a fixed mindset when you cross cultures and expect things to be done in a certain way, you are destined for disappointment or frustration. You would be far wiser to float freely, to observe but withhold judgment. Now that I am straddled over two cultures, I too have to leave my English persona behind, slip back into being a Singaporean. So Agatha drives us to a food centre by the sea on the East Coast and in the balmy evening air, with the sound of surf washing the shore, we sit and eat our meal. It’s much nicer to eat with people who enjoy their food rather than sitting and eating with people who worry about their figures, careful about how much calories they are consuming, how much fat there is in the food and other such concerns. It is more than 40 hours since I have left Montreal so I am tired, and my sisters’ and my nephews’ voices sound like they are coming from a distance, but the delicious food fuels my energy level a fraction. I need the energy to confront my mother’s deterioration.
The moment I walk into the private room, Mak’s eyes light up momentraily and she says in a voice that is hardly above a whisper, “Ah Phine, ah, you come already.”
“Ahh, Ah Mak still recognises her! That’s good,” says Romia.
Everybody smiles at Mak’s success at recognition, spurring encouragement. It’s the praise given to a child for learning a new word or learning to do something new. This is what my mother has become, a child in an old woman’s body. It is one of life’s ironies, that one can grow older and regress at the same time. Romia, who has grown hugely rotund, is sitting with her and has been there all afternoon. He greets me with great cheer as if we are friends bumping into each other accidentally. He rises from his seat to give me a hug and it’s like being hugged by a bear. I can’t get close enough to him for his belly. Bernadette is to relieve his watch for a few hours, then Matthew is coming in to look after Mak throughout the night. Apparently, Ah Cob does the occasional day watch and one of their wives does part of the afternoons. Now it’s time for me to do my share. It does Mak credit that her family has rallied around to look after her. She has been the centre of our lives and we are the spokes. When the centre goes, how will the wheel hold up?
Mak was already thin when I last saw her 10 months ago, but now she looks thinner still. Her face is drawn, her few strands of hair loose around her shoulders. She looks like a small craft in a huge ocean on the hospital bed, her upper body wrapped in its straitjacket, her legs strapped to the bed. Fortunately, I had steeled myself for this moment, aware of how she might appear, otherwise I might have stumbled onto loose emotions. She looks so frail and weary that I know that whatever happens, I must exhibit joy and optmism in front of her, otherwise she might pick up the negative vibes. I bend down to hug her and kiss her.
“You’re okay, Mak?”
“Better now,” she says.
Romia goes
off with a promise to get his Indonesian maid to cook Titek Papaya and Ikan Pari Masak Asam Pedas for me before I leave. Like Jacob, he never writes or phones but he has made effort to meet up with me when I was in the States or when he visited London. It is really sweet that he thinks of these foods for me because they are Mak’s recipes and the ingredients for them are not easy to find in England.
Whatever spark there has been in Mak has definitely fizzled off, her spirit is now flat. She tires easily, dozing even as we are talking to her. My sisters are talking about their boys whilst they play in the patient’s lounge and watch TV. At first I am mildly surprised that they can be so chatty around Mak’s bedside, then I realise that it is probably their way of coping. They are on the flip side of pain and sadness — and it’s a good ploy to keep talking, to keep busy. So I follow suit.
Agatha and her son go off at nine, and at 10, Matthew arrives. Hugging him is the direct oposite to hugging Romia. Matthew is so thin it seems possible that you might crack him in half if you hugged too tightly. Only 54, he’s already collapsing into his rib-cage and his lower back has a soft outward curve. His features resemble Uncle Kanchil’s so much that it’s startling. But I am getting tired, the sounds in my ears are getting louder and I am losing my orientation.
“I’d better go now, catch up on my sleep. Soon as I get over the jet-lag, I’ll do the night-shift,” I say.
“Take your time,” he says. “Take your time.”
The nurse has been in to give Mak her valium, so she’s already drowsy. I give her a quick peck on her cheek which feels dry and papery. As I walk out of the ward with Bernadette and her son, something occurs to me. My mother has never failed to ask after David when she has seen me or when I come on the telephone. Now, for the first time, she has completely not remembered David at all. It is not a good sign.
My head is till fuzzy when I wake up at mid-day, my body unsure whether it should be acting on Montreal time, London time or Singapore time. The house is unusually quiet, it’s rare for it to be empty; even when the family is out, either Mak would be at home with the maid or the maid would be in on her own. This gives the sense that things are not normal. But I guess Andy is away at school, Bernadette and her husband are at work and Maria has gone to do the day-watch at the hospital since Romia has a meeting. When I had got home the previous evening, I was introduced to Maria, who is small and slight like Dolores but is unmarried. She told me that she and her sister are working as maids in Singapore to pay their mother’s medical bills. It seems ironic that she is here taking care of my mother when her own is ill in the Philippines. I pass my mother’s room on the way to the kitchen to fix something to eat. Her vacant room and bed stare at me dolefully. She keeps it fairly spare, a single bed against the wall nearest the windows, a small wardrobe for her clothes and things. There is a bedside cabinet with drawers and an easy chair next to her bed. There is something sad about an empty room, particularly when its owner is ill in hospital. Suddenly, I feel too dispirited to cook anything, so I walk out in my shorts and T-shirt to a hawker centre nearby and eat lontong at the Malay stall. The steamed rice cakes in a savoury coconut sauce with vegetables and tofu cost only S$2.00, which is less than £1.00. I can’t get over how inexpensive this is compared to what I would have to pay in London, at least £5.50, which is nearly S$15.00! With my expanding waistline, I shouldn’t order another bowl, but I do and make a pig of myself. You can tell I am easily tempted. The same stall sells some kueh dada, which is one of Mak’s favourite, a thin crepe, made green from the fragrant pandan leaf, wrapped around finely grated fresh coconut cooked in palm sugar. In a restaurant in London, one of these would cost £2.40; here at the hawker centre, they cost 50 cents each, which is about 20 pence! I buy the whole tray.
A short five-minute walk has made my t-shirt all sweaty, so I go back to change and then find my way to the hospital. It is strange that every time I return to Singapore, I revert to a mindset as if I am still in the clutches of poverty and am still living in the kampong, so I wouldn’t spend money on a taxi. From one end of Singapore to the other, the taxi would be no more than £7, to the hospital it will probably be £1.50, but I still take the bus. Changi Hospital is very modern, with a lovely atrium, fountain and decorative ponds on the ground level. There is also an air-conditioned food court. Even sick people don’t give up their food in this country! There are patients in their blue hospital garments, sitting in wheelchairs, enjoying hawker food rather than ward meals. I take the lift up to the ninth floor. When I hear voices coming from Mak’s room, I am surprised, expecting only Maria to be there. Romia, Agatha and Bernadette are in the room and my heart starts to drum. Something must have happened for them to rush down here on a working day. They turn to face me when I walk in, their faces tight with despair.
“Mak has taken a turn for the worse. Maria called us. We’ve called a priest to come and give her Extreme Unction.”
A thought races through my mind. I am thinking that perhaps she has been waiting for me to arrive before she gives up her spirit. Our mother is propped up on the bed, her face looking like a skull with flesh, her closed eyes sinking into their sockets. She looks as if she’s being strangled by the straitjacket and all the straps, her breath coming out in small sips. She gives no indication that she is aware that her children are around her bedside. My younger son arrives, but our meeting is tinged with the pall of death. He is so tall now that he has to bend down for me to reach his cheek. Matthew and Jacob turn up with their wives. We talk in soft whispers, the kind of talk that goes around a deathbed, meaningless talk that is geared towards keeping sorrow at bay. Then the priest arrives, in his white frock, bible and stock-in-trade paraphernalia. He’s from the parish where Mak had last gone to church, when they were living in the HDB flat, where I went to for Midnight Mass last Christmas Eve. Mak opens her eyes and when she sees Father Tay, she asks, “Ehh? What are you doing here?”
We all laugh, although somewhat nervously. Father Tay talks to her in Teochew, asks her how she is, holds her hand and let her babble on for a bit. Then he turns to us and says in English, “Your mother is not ready to go yet. I’ve been to many deathbeds and know when death is imminent. She looks okay, a little tired maybe. I won’t need to give her Extreme Unction.”
“You may be right, father,” Agatha says. “But since you are here, you might as well give it to her.”
“Trust me. She doesn’t need it. I’ll give her Holy Communion if you like.”
And so, for some reason, just as she seems to be ebbing and loosening her mortal bonds, she revives dramatically. Perhaps the drugs the doctors were using to help her over her fall had affected her and made her worse than she really is. We don’t know, but are relieved and surprised. She even accepts the kueh dada I had bought, eating it slowly. My mother who has always loved her independence now has to be fed. Firstly, it’s because she is tied down to the bed, and secondly, it’s as if she has forgotten how. It’s as if the concussion to her hip had concussed her mind, too. She no longer drinks or eats without help. It’s a huge regression from when I last saw her. At first, I thought that it was because my brothers and sisters started the habit of feeding her whilst she was tied down, but when the nurse finds her more docile, they remove the straps but she still needs to be fed. I am there, alone with her one evening when her dinner arrives. I push the trolley-tray towards her, prop her up and ask her to feed herself. I scoop up the food for her and put the spoon in her hand. She holds the spoon, picks up some food but directs the food to her cheeks. I’m thinking it’s a natural mistake, that she’s not in quite an upright position, or perhaps her aim isn’t good. But she tries again and still she can’t manage to get the food into her mouth.
“I’m not hungry,” she says, pushing the tray away.
“Come on, let me help.”
“I’m so useless now, so useless,” she says as the tears flow down unchecked and her body shakes like the earth building up to explode the boiling magma underneath.
> I could have cried. Day by day as I sit with her, I am learning how much of her has flaked away, as though she is made of papier mache and she has dried out and bits of her are flaking off. Where she could make conversation before, she now strings words together that are not connected, a lot of gobbledygook which to her seems to make sense. Some days, she can’t even remember who I am, mistaking me for Bernadette or Agatha or even a friend. It’s pot-luck whether she recalls who her sons are, although she seems calm when Matthew or Romia minister to her needs. And when visitors come, children of my dead aunts, she doesn’t know them, although she talks to them as if she recognises them. I am not sure if this is a reasoned thing or if it’s accidental. If it is all an act, it’s a good one but it’s impossible that she can still have the capacity to fake it. To be able to act or fake requires a sound mind. And she’s beyond this.
Frog Under A Coconut Shell Page 27