Sense of Loss

For me, grief is linked heavily to the grief of having lost oneself. Of having to say goodbye to a stage in life that you yearn to hold on to... but is now gently but firmly prised from your grip. 

I've recently had to deal with the loss of my grandparents. Perhaps more than anything else, they were emblematic of my childhood. They had represented those years when I had been romping around the neighbourhood, wildly immature and incredibly mischievous. They represented a stage in my life when I was wholly dependent on others for all my needs and wants, and yet not for a moment did I feel unsafe or unloved. 

But over the years I grew out of this dependency. Unconsciously and without meaning to, I started to move away from my need of them. And as I move towards youth, they started to decay and fade.. much like my childhood. And soon, my childhood years vanished.. and they too left me. 

For one of our family gatherings many years ago, we played a montage of my mother's old family pictures to the Bee Gee's song "First of May". There perhaps could not be a song more hauntingly reflective of the bittersweet nostalgic sentiment which accompanies the journey down memory lane.

I miss my grandparents. And partly, I miss the child I was.  

Is it a selfish grief if, alongside my missing the person I've lost, I miss also the stage of life that I was in? 

This question emerged more starkly when I felt both overjoyed yet profoundly sad when I met up with a dear group of friends from my university in Durham. It was a special occasion because two in the group would be tying the knot. I'm not good at expressing myself verbally or in person, but my heart was bursting when I met these friends of mine. Who else but this group would ask me - upon the first half hour of my arrival - "how are you doing, really? How are you doing spiritually?" It was intrusive, shocking, perplexing - yet very welcome. 

I didn't "lose" anyone in this group per se. But these friendships have changed greatly over the years, as these things naturally would. Sometimes in my dreams, Durham still returns to me as a haven untouched by the cruelty of time, as a relief from the crushing pressure of current realities and adulthood. 

I see my university years heading towards the same direction as my childhood. That stage of my life smells of idealistic optimism, of simple unwavering rectitude, of painful yet genuine friendships, of "adult" freedom unburdened by responsibilities. But all too quickly, it is slipping through my fingers. Durham has changed, my friends have changed - I have changed. 

What is the thing that lasts, then?  

Grief and death of childhood

 Since I was a baby, Setapak Garden was the place my brother and I would spend many days at because my grandparents used to stay there. My brother and I would have our tuition class there, our grandparents would bring us to KFC and the Ong Tai Kim there – and the neighbourhood playground was our kingdom. 

For my brother and I, we would see our popo and kung everyday – and being with them was part of our normal daily routine. Kung Kung had the important responsibility of fetching us home from school, and my grandmother held the equally important responsibility of making sure we were well fed. And like so many of the other eulogies can attest to, any family or friends of popo were EXTREMELY well fed. She enjoyed making different dishes for us for our lunch and dinner – and occasionally she treated us to fried chicken and snacks for tea time. 

It was a job she loved and one that she took very seriously. 

But more than just feeding us, she was our constant companion. She would teach us weird Cantonese songs. We would watch TVB dramas together, and our afterschool pastime was going out for shopping trips to Sungai Wang and Alpha Angle together. 

She was there with us in our everydays. 

So how do I say goodbye to someone who had been a constant presence in my life? 

I start by thanking God for her. She was someone who loves her family immensely, who was always eager to chat and spend time with us. She liked having a jolly time and she enjoyed big gatherings and a good laugh. She had a really sharp and quick wit – she liked a good banter with others, and enjoyed gently poking fun at people. She was too much of an expert at mahjong – always beating the rest of us younger ones at the game. She was a social butterfly, who could strike up a conversation with a complete stranger and chat with them like they were a long time friend. And it helped that she was a polyglot and can speak English, Cantonese, Hokkien – even Tamil. 

She was by no means perfect. She had deep flaws and weaknesses, just like anyone else. She was a sinner. But I thank God that eventually she put her trust in Jesus as her Lord and saviour and that she found her peace in him.

It's hard to accept that this companion of mine for 28 years has now bid goodbye. Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different? Setapak Garden seems a lot different now. The roads have changed, more apartments and shops have sprung up, and my grandparent’s house seems to have fallen quiet. I used to feel slightly annoyed when I get calls from popo in the middle of the workday. But now I won’t ever see her phone number flash on my phone screen again. 

Our days here on earth are very short, they are numbered – and it helps give us a sense of how short our lives can be in comparison to eternity. I grieve for my popo, and I naturally wish that mortality and death hadn’t taken her. But in my heart of hearts, I can be joyful because for her, there is much hope even in death. Even though she has closed this chapter for this life, her next chapter begins – an eternal life with Jesus who has loved and saved her.