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In Memoriam

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Mother told me that I was born a premature baby. She was already in labor arriving at the door of the maternity ward. An experienced obstetrician who had been engaged for my delivery could not make it in time. Instead, a good friend of Mom, a nurse graduating from her batch, came to my rescue. As a result, I was delivered by a young nursing graduate. I am grateful that we both survived unscathed. But my premature and hasty arrival probably explains my small statue and less than distinguished intellect. My mother nicknamed me ‘beanie’ for my size, and she has been my guardian angel ever since. Mom understood, for she was a premature baby herself. She told me that she was a weak and sickly child. Yet, God blessed her with almost 95 years of life on earth before taking her home.

As a hyper and risk taking child, I subjected myself to more than a few injuries, including a number to my head. My mother, together with my father, a physician himself, had bandaged, stitched and patched me up quite a number of times. Interestingly, my circumcision was also performed by them. Not by design, my parents inadvertently left their imprints of love on parts of my body.

I remember my admission interview to primary school, my mother’s alma mater. Mom prepped me the best she could and sat behind me to support and boost my confidence. At the end of the interview, the school principal politely said to my mother, “Your son is rather too childish still, I suggest that he stay for another year in kindergarten”. I am the only person I know who has to repeat grades in kindergarten. Well, Mom and I both tried.

As pleasant in nature as Mom was, she showed no hesitation when it came to discipline. Given my tendency to misbehave, I was subjected to punishments of kinds and was even kicked out of the house, albeit temporarily. One time, I cheated during a dictation exercise supervised by Mom at home. She caught me red handed. While anxiously waiting for my impending judgment, nothing came. Mom did not scold, punish or withdraw any privileges from me. The unusual thing I noticed was her sobbing quietly, with tears running down corners of her eyes. This nevertheless left an indelible memory and impacts me more than any punishment could have done.

Having left home to study abroad at the age of 17, there were many years I lived apart from my parents. Yet, my mother’s caring arms stretched across the ocean. My first year in a Canadian boarding school was particularly memorable. Mom wrote regularly, packing her tender words to fill every corner of the aerograms. There were also tape recordings of her voice in lieu of letters at times and parcels on occasions. The parcels were packed with local snacks from home which were not available overseas, and her hand knitted sweaters, which were definitely not available anywhere else. Unfortunately, these parcels were often ransacked by some of my fellow boarders, before I could lay hands on them. Two of them attended Mom’s funeral, likely thanking her for the supply, other than paying their last respects.

After years of separation, studying and working, I finally rejoined my parents as they immigrated to Canada. In the last 15 years, there were more opportunities to interact closely with Mom as she moved in with me after Dad passed away. My brother who lived in the US visited Mom whenever he could, and more frequently as Mom aged and her dementia worsened. As scheduled, he came to visit Mom in late January this year. One night after his arrival, Mom suddenly took sick and was admitted to the hospital. He was able to spend the last five weeks of her life, tending to her care, spending valuable time together until she left.

Mom loved kids and took interests in children of my peers. Not only that, she would stop and look at babies in her walks, striked conversations with their parents and played with the children. Yet, Mom never showed any regrets of not having grandchildren of her own. She never once pressured me or my brother to bear her grandchildren. Mom was thankful to God for what He granted her. She was equally contented and accepted what God withheld. Instead, she was at ease and joyfully spread her affection to those around.

On the contrary, Mom provided me the opportunity to be a father. As her dementia worsened in her later years, Mom regressed to be a child. In the last 15 years, I had the opportunity to raise a child, except in the reverse order. Instead of gaining independence over time, Mom became more dependent. Yet, she was so childlike, sweet and wise in her own ways. One day I was in the kitchen with Mom. Someone, and I have forgotten whom, spoke to me in a loud voice from the living room. He/she was raising the voice because of the distance. Hearing that, Mom spoke up “邊個吓我個仔- who’s bullying my son?”. I was suddenly brought back from being a father to being the son. It was yet so heart warming. Mom remembered that I was her son. Not only that, despite her frailty, she was still the mother hen looking out for her little ones when needed. Mom is still my guardian angel.

As Mom became more frail, I started looking for a lived in helper to assist in her care. While I interviewed and screened the candidates, it was a two way street. They were observing, assessing and deciding for themselves whether they could and if it was worth their effort to look after Mom. This brought me back to the day when Mom prepped me for my primary school entrance interview. This time round I was prepping Mom to present her best, so someone good would be willing to take her on. Of course, the only difference was in the outcome. While I failed my interview, Mom passed hers. God provided Mom with a loving care giver. Over time, Mom proved to be so well liked by all who came in contact in her care. She was always thankful and considerate to others, even till her last days in the hospital.

I often pondered the cliche which compares ‘doing’ to ‘being’, where it highlights ‘it’s not what you do, but who you are’ that really counts. I wondered “how does one tell who you are when there aren’t a lot of noticeable actions to show?” Even the Bible points to that in reference to Abraham: “You see that a person is considered righteous by what they do and not by faith alone.” James 2:24. Yet, over time I came to understand the essence of the meaning ‘who you are’ through Mom. As dementia took hold of her in her later years, Mom did and spoke less and less. We know it’s not uncommon that dementia causes one to be disinhibited and impulsive. So, when they do talk or do what comes to their minds, they come out uncensored, unpretentious and true to themselves. One Sunday, I took Mom in her wheelchair into her Sunday school class. Mom was blessed with 20/20 vision even into her late years. So she could see the Sunday school teacher far away standing up to start the class. While having good vision, Mom had poor hearing. She spoke loudly to me in an audible voice to everyone in the class, “Ai -Yah, this one is very long winded”. Upon which I “shhh …” her down so as to minimize the damage. Mom obediently stayed in class as I lowered my head and walked away. It didn’t take long though before Mom fell asleep, only to be awakened at the end by her loving classmates who wheeled her downstairs to the worship service. Another case in point, Mom usually enjoyed her food without leaving anything on her plate. Sometimes we asked her if her food tasted good. Occasionally she would say ‘唔好食, no, it doesn’t taste good’. Yet, she kept eating and cleaning off her plate. Always true to her heart, yet, never a complaint, always thankful and watching out for others. Her actions may be subtle and hardly unnoticeable, but always consistent with the spirit that resided within and like fragrance permeating to others around. For the same passage in James 2:26 also said “As the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without deeds is dead.”. The spirit was at work in her.

When I think of the nine fruits or characters of the spirit described in Bible’s Galatians 5:22-23 as “love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control”, I dare to suggest that Mom had at least 8 of them. Yet, as Mom grew older, she loved to eat, particularly her favorite snacks. We endeared her with a nickname ‘little piggy’ as the results of her indulgence began to show. For this, she might not have qualified for having much self-control.

Mom was blessed with beauty in her youth and she aged gracefully with tender skin and rosy cheeks. More importantly, the beauty inside her did not diminish, but grew with age. Towards the very end, Mom lost a lot of weight. I noticed her skin becoming dry and wrinkled, and color began to fade from her face. When her eyes were half closed, I could see her spirit in them still, as she looked at me. I looked at her and said, “Mom, you are truly beautiful, as beautiful as ever”. For even as her body was failing fast and her breath departing, I sensed the fragrance of her inside beauty still coming through.

I firmly believe that I’ll see Mom again one day in heaven. Yet, I haven’t been there myself, let alone knowing the way or having visited there with Mom. You see, Mom always had a poor sense of direction, thus she rarely ever ventured out on her own, for fear of getting lost. And ever since she developed dementia, she was never left out of sight for any length of time. While it may seem like a silly thought, I worried if Mom could find her way to heaven on her own, even the destination was promised her. My fear was however allayed when I remember what a trusted friend of Mom and I had told us. He said that he has been there and saw places prepared for us. Not only that, he will come and bring Mom there, so she wouldn’t need to worry about finding her way. “In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.” said Jesus in John 14:2-4. I know Mom is in good hands.

We have been told that Mom was blessed with two good sons. While I like to believe that, I could not be certain. If Mom had been a poor mother, a difficult person, selfish, full of complaints … and yet we still treated her well, if not better, then, maybe we can gladly accept the accolade. The fact is that Mom was just the opposite and we only responded willingly in like fashion. The truth of the matter is that we were the blessed ones. Having said that, Mom was blessed by many others. When Mom left home to migrate to Canada, she left behind many of her relatives and old friends. Then as she aged, many of her peers passed away. Finally, her spouse of many years also left. Yet, many others, including our peers, many much younger than her, not only welcomed her into their lives, but gave her so much love and joy, until the minute she completed her earthly journey. For that, we are truly grateful.

In the last few years, Mom had forgotten many names and faces, sometimes including who I am. Yet, there was one person whom she would always recognize and remember. Every time when Mom looked at the picture of her own mother, she would pause and call out tenderly, “Mama … mother”.

Mama, mother, … I miss you, and I will see you in our heavenly home.

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too little, TOO MUCH, … or Just Right

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Do you rather die from starvation or overeating? Death from starvation is caused by malnutrition to the body. On the other hand, binging or gorging can result in vomiting, aspiration or bleeding. There is actually a rarely used term called planteration for this demise. 

While neither is desirable, I imagine most people rather die from over, than under eat. It is intuitive that we would rather overeat than be starved, when we do not come close to dying from either. But think about it, this may not be the case if we truly understand what we are talking about. Most of us rather die from overeating than from starvation, I suggest,  because we have never experienced overeating to the extent of death. On the other hand, most of us  have experienced feeling famished and it’s a feeling bad enough that we can imagine that starving to death can only be a lot worse. 

Understandably, most of us enjoy the feeling of satiation, and not the feeling of hunger. But that’s not what we are talking about here. We are talking about extreme hunger versus the feeling of bursting with fullness. Admittedly, I have not had the misfortune of being in either position. Yet, I dare to venture suggesting that feeling starved may be the lesser of two evils, and I base it on one psychology phenomenon alone. Desire. Desire is arguably a good, even though not necessary a good for you, feeling. When we feel hungry, we crave and salivate over all the imagined delicious food we can dive into. Let us use a common experience many of us can relate to. Let me ask how is your grocery shopping experience different, before as opposed to after your meals? We are more interested, spend more time and buy more groceries when we feel hungry. But not so,  after a full meal. So, when we are bloating with fullness to the point of death, what more desire and fantasy can we imagine having,  except for some relief? In contrast, when we are starving, even to the point of death, we can still crave and salivate over our desired food. There is a Chinese saying,  ‘望梅止渴‘, – to quench one’s thirst by thinking of plums.

Christmas and new year are times when we overindulge ourselves with eating. While we may have toned down somewhat because of Covid and inflation, it’s still a lot more eating than usual. For few days in a row, I was staring blankly at tables full of food. Many, mostly desserts, were untouched towards the end. Normally, these are treats which I enjoy over a nice cup of tea or coffee. But now they posed no interest to me passed the time of my overindulgence. Their usual value diminished when their supply overwhelmed their demand. The abundance of food, even varied, lost their allure as there was hardly any competition amongst participants around the dining table. All our gluttonous demands had very much diminished by that time. 

I enjoy and appreciate good food displayed in front of me, most when I am hungry enough, but not so famished, that I can devour them at a nice pace. Food is best valued and enjoyed when there is enough as not to feel deprived, but not so much that one feels obligated to consume and not put to waste. This approach of having just the right amount applies not only to eating, but to life in general. We do not like to be deprived of what everyone else has, yet we lack appreciation of things that we have plentiful. Our best enjoyment in life comes from having just enough … nothing more, nothing less. On occasions, having less augments our appreciation when eventually we have it just right. It is no less true that we appreciate things, opportunities, and people more, when we lost, or then later regain them .

A wiseman has spoken long time ago:

““Two things I ask of you, Lord; do not refuse me before I die: Keep falsehood and lies far from me; give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown you and say, ‘Who is the Lord?’ Or I may become poor and steal, and so dishonor the name of my God.”

‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭30:7-9‬ ‭NIV‬‬

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Self Erected Barriers

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One of the regulars in the local library chatted with me casually the other day. We didn’t really know each other except for having crossed our paths from time to time. One thing led to another and somehow faith came into the conversation. I shared mine and he shared how he has dropped off from his. A peripheral conversation on a serious topic lasted as long as the circumstances allowed.

Our conversation then switched to a more down to earth topic of retirement and keeping fit. I rather spontaneously invited him to join our group playing pickle ball and our Tai Chi class, both of which meet weekly. He showed some interest, but also hesitancy. A hesitancy I didn’t mind as I reflected upon it afterwards.

Our interaction, while positive, also left me feeling somewhat uneasy. While spontaneous, I wondered afterwards whether I was over enthusiastic and intrusive in sharing my faith, and later inviting him to join our sports activities. More disturbing was my own feeling of being exposed, having shared a bit about myself and possibly inviting him into my circle of friends. I never used to be so ‘protective’ of others or so ‘guarded’ about myself. Is it a result of my growing older, our habituation into self isolation since the pandemic, or being indoctrinated by our North American culture of political correctness, just in case we inadvertently step onto each others’ toes?

It is time of the year again that we wish each other ‘Merry Christmas and Happy New Year’. Or should it be ‘happy holidays’ … generic and safe enough not to offend anyone? Just as I was pondering upon this, I was relieved to read a recent Postmedia-Leger opinion survey examining attitudes on how religion relates to the holiday season. The result shows that 92 per cent of Canadian respondents who grew up in a non-Christian household said they are not offended by someone sending Christmas greetings. A full 70 per cent of respondents nationwide said they are more likely to greet someone this time of year by saying “Merry Christmas,” compared to 23 per cent who said they will likely go with “Happy Holidays”. A minority of the subset of survey respondents who grew up in a Christian household said they deliberately avoid greeting strangers with Merry Christmas for fear of offending them — 29 per cent said they avoided it, and 71 per cent said they didn’t. Of the respondents who grew up in a culturally or religiously non-Christian household, only eight per cent said they are offended by a Christmas greeting. According to Andrew Enns, an executive vice-president at Leger, “Institutions, governments, businesses, they sometimes make a lot of effort trying to come up with, I guess we could call it a politically correct approach, to passing on greetings. It seems a strong majority tend to just use Merry Christmas,” and that, “Maybe we are worrying about something that the people we think we might be offending don’t feel very offended.”

Maybe it’s time for me and others to put down our self erected barriers which have robbed us of our spontaneity and alienated us further from each other. So, dare I wish you ‘a very Merry Christmas, and a better connected 2023.’

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The Art of Giving is Now

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‘It is more blessed to give than to receive’ Acts 20:35

I have well off and not so well off friends. I also have generous and not so generous friends. Interestingly, the well off and the generous group do not usually overlap. More often than not, the less well off ones are the more generous ones. Wonder whether this has been your experience too.

I’ve known this couple for a long time, ever since the student days when we grew up together in the same church. Now, the wife has just retired and the husband not far from behind. They take joy in gifting and inviting their good friends to share delicious meals together, often. This tradition becomes particularly timely, given the long isolation since the pandemic and now high inflation often leaves one thinking twice before eating out. By doing so, they draw friends together to reconnect over sumptuous food. And they expect no return. But they are the few exceptions amongst the well to do group.

Giving now and giving in the future through one’s estate are not quite the same, whether the recipients are family, friends or charity. As good and as generous as it may be, giving away after one’s death is giving away things one needs no more and things that one cannot bring along anyway. Giving away money when we are still alive requires a willingness to part with something that we can never be sure if we may ever need them one day. To me, this is closer to the spirit of giving.

We don’t have to be dead though to realize that things we hold onto until death may lose their value along the way. We often find ourselves hastily arranging a garage sale, desperately looking for a charity to donate to, or even pay junk removers to haul away things when we move house. The irony is that these items would have been much desired, better used and valued by others earlier in their shelf life. Unfortunately, they had been hidden, unused and clogging up our closet space all these years. Towards the end, they become useless to us, and not that attractive to others, even when freely given away.

Giving has many faces and is by no means limited to material things alone. Another friend of mine has taken on an early retirement. He’s now spending time volunteering in the food bank and assisting in the care of his aging father. He can easily stay longer at work to cushion up his pension, or even now that he’s retired, spends his time and money to splurge on himself. Yet, both him and the other couple choose to share what they have with others.

Then there’s another couple who often cook for and visit their elderly friends in need. Well, not that they have nothing better to do. They are seniors themselves who often need to look after their four grandchildren. Despite their modest means of living, they give generously to others. They once told me that they may have nothing to leave to their grandchildren, but they are giving what they have now. Their children seem to understand and value what they are offering now, more so than an inheritance in the future. More importantly, they give out of love, rather than obligations.

Those highlighted above are the clever ones amongst us. As they give now, they experience the joy of giving while they still can, and not later, when they are gone. As we open our arms to let go of our insecurities, we free them up to embrace joy that comes with our giving. That’s the art of giving now.

‘He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose’ Jim Elliot

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Calling Her Mom … Again

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It’s not uncommon that we find portraits, or photographs of families traveling together, displayed at homes to bring back special touch and memories. Electronic pictures have since made sharing of these visual images convenient and instant. You may be at one end of the world, but you will see instantly with whom and on what I’m dining at the other. That is, if you even care. However, I cannot remember the last time I made the effort to upload old photographs to refresh my memory, not to mention sharing them with others. Yet, for those old enough to remember what physical photo albums look like, you may recall the magic of flipping through the pages with your loved ones or the excitement of introducing your past to your new acquaintance. 

Photographs make good companies for those who live alone or constrained because of health. They remind them that while they maybe alone, they do not need to feel lonely. Photographs also help to reactivate memories in those of us who are beginning to lose them. With dementia, my mother’s memories have been fading and even more noticeably in recent years. She does not recognize most people, be they standing in front of her or staring through her old photographs. She sometimes does not even recognize herself. Yet, there is one person whom she can always pick from the photographs, recognize and call out who she is. She softly utters “媽媽 in Chinese, Mama” or “母親, mother”.

Most, if not all members of her big family were bestowed with nicknames. For example, my grandmother was called ‘時拉’, which is the reverse pronunciation of nice’. As I understand, because she had such a genuinely nice personality . Somehow I inherited the trait of nicknaming from her family. My mother was not excused from my bestowment . As she regressed to become more like a child, together with her chubbiness and rosy smily cheeks, I began to call her little piggy. Her nickname took off and soon my brother and some good friends began to refer to her as ‘little piggy’ as well. Interestingly, sometimes when I teased and asked if she is a ‘豬仔, little piggy’ or ‘人仔, little person’. She would think for a little while and said ‘I’m a little person’, to which I affirmed.

While ‘little piggy’ is a term of endearment used in good spirit with no shred of devaluation, I begin to rethink its usage of late. It all sprang from hearing my mother calling my grandma ‘Mama or 母親’ and not the endeared nickname ‘時拉’ or others. It dawned on me then that while grandma was 時拉, the nice lovable person to many, she was Mama alone to my Mom and her siblings. Equally, while little piggy is lovingly called by others, she is Mamie to me and my brother alone. And when she is gone one day, while I may find another piggy, there will be no one to call Mom anymore. For there would have only been one Mamie to me. 

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The Fallen Basket

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Summer does not officially start until summer solstice, which falls on June 21 or 22 in the Northern Hemisphere. However, most of us having gone through a harsh winter could not wait but usher in ‘summer’ over the Victoria Day Long weekend, which fell on May 21 to 23. Even if one forgets about this well honored tradition of summer’s unofficial arrival in Ontario, one couldn’t help but noticed gardeners flocking to nurseries bringing home their favorite flowers, before the perennials start blooming in their gardens. Victoria Day’s arrival offers us confidence that our new acquisitions will survive from this day onwards, barring the occasional drastic weather. And drastic we did have already, from a thunderstorm on May 21 that left 10 dead, many fallen trees and tens of thousands without power for days into weeks, and then a record breaking heat on May 31.

Amongst other annual rituals, I hang a basket of impatiens on the gazebo in the corner of my backyard to mark the beginning of ‘summer’. Rather than buying a ready to hang basket, I usually create one myself. This way, I get to choose the color and type that will do well in that corner of my yard. Red impatiens usually survive the shade and stand out in the relative shadowed part of the garden. Further, creating my own basket surely save some money than getting a prearranged one, particular in these days of running inflation. The only down side, unlike a ready to hang basket, flowers take time to settle after being transplanted into their adopted basket. They need to be comfortably rooted,  before they feel belonged, grow and show their true colors.

A week has passed and I looked with satisfaction from a distant window to see my basket of impatiens taking root and blossoming into a round bouquet of redness, amidst a bed of green cedar behind. Hanging baskets elevate their inhabitants to a new height where they can show their beauty. Their height however also places them at risk. I water my plants early in the morning to keep them well nourished from the heat buildup through the summer day, and early enough so that they won’t be sleeping with their ‘feet’ wet during the night. As I watered my impatiens, I suddenly heard a big thumping sound and watched the basket tumbling down hard onto the ground. The basket cracked open and the flowers spluttered out with only parts remained inside, lopsided if not smashed. It’s reminiscent of the scene of a motor vehicle accident.

I remembered having seen a barely visible crack on the basket when I first transplanted the impatiens. Ignoring the hairline crack, I didn’t think twice if the basket would hold its inhabitants well. And it did, until the water that I poured in weighted on it. The pressure suddenly reached a threshold where the crack widened, sending the basket with the flowers within tumbling down together. The height of the flowers created the deadly momentum that sent it tumbling, smashing instantly on impact.

What was just described may well describe many of our life experiences. Being held high and visible often puts us in a lofty and admired position. But when we fall from that height, it hurts a lot more. Nonetheless, one cannot blame on height alone. The crack that I didn’t pay much attention to was already there. A barely noticeable crack was benign, until the pressure on it became unbearable. What was intended to nourish us in our growing process, like water for the flowers, could become a burden when showered upon, too much too fast. More so, an inherent weakness in us, when unattended to and untreated, suddenly became an open wound that no remedy was ready to mend.

I picked up and tried to salvage all the pieces, transplanting them into another basket. This time, with one that I could detect no cracks. Other than the intact pieces, I stuck back a few broken ones which I felt I could save. From that day onward, I carefully watched over the sorry state of my impatiens. While I so wanted to see them quickly return to their glorious state, which was there only the day before, I would be happy to settle with any sign of life or gleam of hope for rejuvenation. There was not much I could do, but to water and wait. I noticed the broken pieces that I stuck back into the soil weren’t doing much. They hanged onto their sorry state of temporary existence, while drawing nutrients away from those trying to thrive. Reluctantly, yet determined, I pulled them out.

Now a week or so has passed since that tumbling crash, I can see some resemblance of a red bouquet returning. In life … not only do we fall from time to time, we try to come back from our tumbles. It takes time for us to recover from a shocking crash of whatever kind. Our shaken nerves, like the bruised roots, need to settle in the soil, find our footing and wait to blossom again. Waiting is a virtue, as we can spoil things by undue haste. Waiting is nevertheless not a passive pastime , as we take time to prune away what is stalling our growth.

The crack of the fallen basket reminded me that weaknesses in us not addressed in time can open up to damaging wounds. Ignoring one’s Achilles’ heel, while trying to spring forth and hasten growth, can inadvertently cost more damage. On this, my impatiens has taught me patience in the journey to bouncing back and blossom.

2

The Blessings Are On Me

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Never realized until I hit the highway one late Friday afternoon how traffic has become so congested again, despite being in the middle of our 6th wave of covid. That said, a serious accident on highway 401 didn’t help. However, given it was my mother’s 94th birthday, I had planned to venture out and pick up her favorite food, rather than have her endure my cooking yet again during this protracted pandemic.

A week ago I sat down for lunch with 8 old friends. As a result, at least 6 of us were tested positive and showed symptoms of omicron after our otherwise happy gathering. Having had covid during the first wave likely has shielded me from being infected again. I showed no symptom and my two rapid tests 36 hours apart were both negative. Yet, as a precaution, I have been eating my meals away from the rest at the dinner table. It poses a problem though when my mother’s helper is away. While Mom can theoretically feed herself mechanically, her dementia causes her to stop and stare at her food for protracted period of time if not assisted. The solution is to assist feeding her first with my mask on, and then have my meal away from her when she is finished.

Back to that Friday night on her 94th birthday. Needless to say, it was well past 9pm when we sat down at the dinner table, after I finally made it home at a snail’s pace on 401. I watched Mom ate as I used spoon and chopsticks to carefully put sliced pieces of food in her mouth. I could see that she was enjoying her food even though she didn’t say much. I remember once asking Mom, “Are you happy?”. She looked at me and said “I don’t know”. May be she has forgotten what ‘happy’ means, or maybe she can no longer verbally express her feelings. But then she paused, smiled at me and said, “Give me a hug”. To which I gladly offered. Now my stomach began to grumble as feeding Mom took time and I was so tempted to put down my mask momentarily and quickly gobble down the delicious looking food which was beginning to turn cold.

I remember a trip to Germany with my mother and brother quite a number of years ago. My father has already passed away then. Having breakfast one morning in the hotel restaurant, my mother watched admiringly at an elderly gentleman patiently and painstakingly feeding his wife in a wheelchair. My Mom commented, “He must love her very much”. That scene and her comment stuck in my mind since.

Someone looking at Mom being fed lovingly on her 94th birthday in the comfort of her home, albeit a little late for dinner for an old lady, may well say, “She’s so blessed!”. Yet the truth of the matter is that the blessings are on me. You see, while Mom has her physical, and may I dare say her emotional, needs met, she now lacks the full faculty to enjoy or appreciate the intricacies involved. On the contrary, while I had to delay my gluttonous gratification for a moment, my joy of meeting her need, when her needs are needed most, is both instantaneous and long lasting. At least, until my own memory begins to fade. As such, my doze of blessings are more than hers.

People who either know me for a long time or have just met Mom and I a few times often commented, “You are such a wonderful son”. I wish I am. But the truth of the matter is, “I don’t know”. The reality is that I have not been tested. It would be a true compliment and I would gladly accept it, if only my mother is a difficult ill tempered person, and I treat her the same nonetheless. The fact is that she isn’t and she has never been. I would rather not be tested though, as I will likely fail. Even as limited as she is now, she watches out for those caring for her and never forgets to give thanks. With dementia, one can get disinhibited and she says what is on her mind uncensored. Yet, what comes out are all genuine and kind words. One time, looking at the hands of a new helper intently, she commented, “Your hands are so fat, you must eat a lot.” The helper who doesn’t speak Cantonese asked my brother what she said. To that, he mumbled something sheepishly in embarrassment. Mom has regressed to a little child, a fun, happy and a very good nature one. Happy birthday Mom.

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Garbage and Kimchi

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Multiculturalism, nationalism or melting pot? The pros and cons of these polarized models or it’s compromise have been debated over the years. Unfortunately most arguments on both sides have largely been based on ideology and political interests, rather than social economic evidences.

Putting aside policy debates, I find multiculturalism richer and more fun to live with. Other than the abundance each culture brings, their unique language and dialect offer something altogether intriguing. How monotonous and bland our verbal exchange would be without the disperse of tongues from Tower of Babel’s fall?

I was shopping at my neighborhood grocery store, check out the iceberg lettuces among other items on sale. Given the sky rocketing inflation and supply chain problems, one needs to carefully strategize so as to stretch one’s grocery budget. My attention to my task was interrupted by a loud enquiring voice from behind. I shouldn’t be surprised. I must somehow project a knowledgeable look while shopping for groceries. I often get questions from fellow shoppers as to what to pick. And they are all females. Guys don’t ask directions, any direction. Sure enough it was a female voice with a certain accent, “Are these garbage?” With that, I gently pointed her in the right direction where piles of cabbages on sale were stacking up.

Even as I moved onto my next shopping venue Costco’s, I couldn’t help but still be amused by my early encounter; and by no means in a condescending way. I find it hard to locate items in this big warehouse, particularly when they decide to move things around. Maybe they are adopting IKEA’s strategy of making you walk through all the different areas, in case you miss out on buying something that you don’t need. I finally spotted a staff and shouted across the crowd “Where can I find the cream cheese?”. He gave me a puzzled look and uttered “Kimchi?”. “Philadelphia CREAM CHEESE”, I almost spelled it out. To that, he gave a nod and pointed the way. I was quite sure that it must be the mask that muffled my voice or my half exposed Asian face, rather than an accent that distorted his understanding. But then a lady shopper nearby overheard me, asked “Kimchi? They sell kimchi here?” There goes my denial … thanks.

I love the British accent, the Queen’s English version. I’m also mesmerized by French and Mandarine. They sound so melodic and civilized. These are the few languages I have some exposures to, but unfortunately couldn’t call them my mother tongue or speak well with. As to my mother tongue? I couldn’t tell if it sounds nice. Have you ever been told that you look like one of your parents or siblings? You can’t tell, can you? When you were born or have lived with someone or something for so long, you can’t be objective. Mother tongue is the same. What I can say though is that mine is a rich dialect full of history and evolving slangs. I’m proud of it … except when its accent interferes with my English. The truth of the matter is that anyone who speaks his mother tongue until around 12, before adopting a foreign language which he then speaks even on a regular bases, will find it hard to shed his original accent.

I now try to speak clearly and properly, while allowing my accent to naturally be part of it. That’s part of the fun living in a multicultural society. Further, who knows? … may be one day I will become a Cantonese version of Audrey Hepburn, or Dr. Ruth Westheimer, with all their allure.

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Pre-Loved

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My first couple of cars were bought from used car lots. That’s what they were called in those days. ‘Used’ cars were then renamed ‘second hand’ cars over the years. ‘Second hand’ cars evolved into ‘preowned’ vehicles somewhere in time along the way. Returned or once defected electronics are now ‘refurbished’.

But that apparently is not good enough a description anymore. Recently I received this promotion from IKEA drawing our attention to their second hand furnitures:

Give pre-loved furniture a new forever –
Save more than money with our Circular Hub (As-Is), full of pre-loved furniture in need of a good home! Plus, as an IKEA Family member, you’ll get an additional 25% off* this Green Friday from November 26–29

Used furnitures are now beautified as ‘pre-loved’ items looking for a good home. To align with this love theme, these used items are not only pre-loved, they are ready for a picking to their ‘new forever’. Further, your attention is drawn to their ‘as-is’ quality, rather than their ‘used’ past. How self assured they look as they rest comfortably in their Circular Hub. But more so, how clever an advertising ploy working its way into our psyche.

They stroke our desire for untainted newness, while at the same time steer us in their desired direction. After all, who wants to inherit ‘used’ items, not to mention paying for one, particularly in times of the pandemic. ‘Second hand’ at least sounds better than ‘used’. It gives an image of the item gingerly handed over to you, even though it may have passed through many hands. And ‘pre-owned’ offers an air of liberation. It has now been set free from its previous owner. But then who can refuse a piece of ‘pre-loved’ gem, yearning for its new forever; its final stop in its life mission? Of course, until someone comes up with an even better, a more clever and heart clenching euphemism in time.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m totally into being environmentally friendly, recycling usable items and hey, saving a buck here and there. That’s me. But as I’m lured into the hub, I can’t help but wonder if this new branding on used cars and furniture applies equally to us, humans. I mean, imagine I was ditched by my husband or wife. Would I be admired as having been loved and now liberated from my previous partner, waiting for a new beginning with someone who would appreciate and hold onto me forever? Or would I be looked down as ‘used’, ‘second hand’, or worse, ‘rejected’?

Who knows? Fortunately, unlike cars or furniture, our value as a person is not determined by a seller or buyer. We do not have to sit passively in the circular hub, waiting for Mr. or Ms. Right to walk in and take us home in order to feel complete. Rather, our self worth, particularly after one or many of these recycling process, rests on how we manage to come through and carry ourselves. Have we turned dejected and vulnerable as a result? Or have we matured and learned to love ourselves better, despite the many dates that have come and gone, or finding ourselves at the end of a long marriage?

Those of us who take lives positively into our hands find our journey meaningful and invigorating. But we will be the first to admit that it’s by no means easy or even always possible. While our human spirit is admirable, there remains one harsh reality. Those unfortunate enough not to have received consistent and unconditional love, early on if not later in life, find it very difficult or even impossible to love, even themselves. Researches coming out from orphanages show that one problem that affects the emotional development in their orphans is the frequent change of staff. As kind as their caregivers may be, they change shifts and they change jobs. To the orphans, their love is neither consistent or unconditional.

But what about mothers? Consider a mother who looked through the nursery window at her new born child with an adoring smile on her face and an unconditional love from her heart. But is it truly unconditional? The nurse came around and said “Sorry Mdm, it’s not this one. It’s the one on the left.’ The mother quickly turned her gaze to the left and together with it her smile and love. “That one is not mine, this one is”. Recent cases where wrong embryos were planted into mothers who then gave birth caused much confusion, heart ache and then hefty law suits against the fertility centers. “The baby that I fought to bring into this world was not mine to keep” or “Which one is my child, and whom should my love be devoted to?” So the confused parents lamented.

When asked, many parents will say that they are fair and they treat all their children equally. But we are humans and we do have blatant or hidden favoritism. We instinctively react differently to our children’s varied temperaments and then to how they treat us as they grow up. Those who are adamant that their parents treat them equally may be up for a nasty surprise when their parents’ will is finally read.

But there are saving grace from these harsh realities of life and our human failings. The good news is that we have all been truly pre-loved unconditionally. Not because we were once lovable or that we inherited all the favors being the only child. On the contrary, we turned against the one who created us and gave us love. We then exercised our God given freedom to walk away. Yet God’s love to us has not changed. He patiently awaits our return to His embrace. His love not only pre existed, but it continues.

Reading the Message translation on Bible’s Roman 5:6-8 “He arrives right on time to make this happen. He didn’t, and doesn’t, wait for us to get ready. He presented himself for this sacrificial death when we were far too weak and rebellious to do anything to get ourselves ready. And even if we hadn’t been so weak, we wouldn’t have known what to do anyway. We can understand someone dying for a person worth dying for, and we can understand how someone good and noble could inspire us to selfless sacrifice. But God put his love on the line for us by offering his Son in sacrificial death while we were of no use whatever to him.”
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And from the Message translation on 1John 4:19
“We, though, are going to love—love and be loved. First we were loved, now we love. He loved us first.”
‭‭1 John‬ ‭4:19‬ ‭MSG‬‬

And that’s part of the Christmas story. Happy holiday!

1

Paying for our Bad Habits

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I woke up one morning unable to bend my left thumb. It was locked and caused much pain when I tried to. Once I succeeded in doing so, it was as stiff and painful when I tried to straighten it back. As a right handed person, I counted myself fortunate that it was my left thumb. Nevertheless, I soon realized that no part of our body is dispensable. 

Dr. Google diagnosed it as stenosing tenosynovitis or trigger finger. Inflammation of the tendon sheath causes the affected finger to lock in a bent position. The pain ranges from mildly annoying to very painful, depending on the severity. My family doctor asked me to give it time or have a steroid shot if unresolved.  I read that medical intervention is often necessary for immediate relief, including surgery for more severe cases. I also learnt that occupations that require repetitive motions such as typing or gripping exacerbate the condition. Trigger finger is also common among people with diabetes, osteoarthritis, and rheumatoid arthritis. But I have none of the above.

I immediately thought of consulting another person … Dr. M. She’s a dear friend who has no formal medical training other in laboratory science. She is however intelligent and a voracious reader of anything medical. More importantly, she has suffered and learned from her own assortment of medical ailments over the years. The idiom ‘prolonged illness makes a doctor of a patient’ describes her well. As such, her many friends bestowed the honourary doctorate on her.

Dr. M recommended that I apply the RUB-A535 cream. Failing to improve, I was to get a prescription of Glucosamine CR-5% Diclofenac 2% Cyclobenzaprine from my real doctor. She also suggested that I do a number of finger exercises regularly. Perhaps most importantly, Dr. M. cautioned me to become aware of and cease from doing any repetitive movements that involve my left thumb. Remember that Dr. M is also a seasoned patient? She went on to illustrate not only how she successfully treated her trigger finger, but also what she believed triggered her trigger finger in the first place. 

The morning that I woke up in pain with my trigger thumb, I already knew what triggered it. I told Dr. M. that the only consistent and weight bearing motion involving my left hand and thumb of late was in lifting my mother. Given what happened,  I changed my approach in lifting her. Despite that, the pain persisted and my thumb was still locked … at least for sometime. However, over time and persevering with Dr. M’s remedy, I was finally relieved. I straightened it to give Dr. M a thumbs up.

Then I noticed something intriguing. It could have easily gone off my radar were I not mindful. While I have adopted a new approach in lifting my mother, an old habit of mine involving my left thumb quietly slipped back. I found myself tugging at my facial hair with my left hand when it was idling. Further,  I noticed this maneuver always involves my left thumb and one of the other fingers. On the contrary, my right hand is often occupied, thus spared from being  conscripted into this unconscious bad habit. When my left thumb was locked, it naturally ceased to tug on its own. But when the pain is gone, the old habit returns. 

I believe that tugging my facial hair repetitively over time is the true culprit to my trigger finger, rather than lifting my mother. After all, I typically use both hands in lifting her and while the motion bears weight, it is not repetitive, at least not enough. Yet, it was the first thing that came to mind when I couldn’t bend my thumb, because it stood out as recent, strenuous and labor intensive, in comparison to the mild tugging that usually happens without my being aware of doing it. If I did not put one and one together , I’m quite sure my thumb will lock again in time and I’ll be looking for another obvious trigger to blame.

Isn’t that analogous to so many things in our lives? When something bad happens, we look for an immediate and obvious trigger, overlooking the real reason that contributes to it over time. It can be said of our health, our finance and our relationship, amongst other things. For example, it’s usually our lack of regular exercises and not the incidental fall that cripples us. And our living on our credit cards for years and not the unexpected house repair bill that breaks us. Needless to say, it is not our last bitter argument, but our lack of communication over the years that finally ends our marriage. As the Chinese idiom puts it ‘ice a meter deep is not frozen in one day’. Yet when it happens, we blame it on the slippery ice patch, the untimely repair and whoever started the last argument.

Habits stay for a long time and some never go away. Bad habits survive even longer as they insidiously slip into our lives without much fanfare. They only  take a breather when we are confronted with the damage they create. But when our pain is gone,  bad habits usually find their way back through the rear door. 

I’m not tugging my facial hair any more … at least not yet.