When I was five, my parents and I moved across the country - from Mississauga, Ontario to Vancouver, BC - so that we could be closer to my grandparents. I was young enough to be sad about leaving my friends and familiar life, but overall not too affected by this big change. Sometimes I wonder how different I would have been if we had stayed living in Ontario (a story for another time), but overall my parents and I quickly fell in love with the West Coast and all it had to offer. But being a young family who had just displaced their entire lives, the decision was made to move in with my grandparents while my parents got settled into their new jobs. We lived with my grandparents for two years, and they loved me in the way that grandparents do. 

My grandpa - who I called Gung-gung - was originally from Shanghai, but had gone to university in the US and as such was fluent in English. He would walk me to and from school every day and would drive me to my piano lessons as well. We always had so much to talk about - conversations that I can only recall the feelings of rather than the contents - and I always thought of him as being my friend and confidante. I remember proudly telling him that when I was old enough to have a driver's license, it would be my turn to drive him around, and he always smiled at that and said he would look forward to it.

My grandma - who I called Bu-bu - grew up as my Gung-gung's neighbour in Shanghai, and together they moved to Hong Kong and enrolled their three children into good schools that taught English. Her English was always the weakest of everyone's in the family, but she knew enough to get by and I mostly conversed with her in Cantonese - technically a second language for us both, although she was obviously much more proficient in it than me. Bu-bu never failed to have some kind of delicious after-school snack or meal prepared for me when I came home, and she would always share her stories of growing up in Shanghai and teach me her old childhood games ("Gold key and silver key" being one of my favourites). I remember thinking that one day I would learn all of Bu-bu's specialty dishes from her because I loved her cooking so much.

 

My parents and I eventually moved out into our own house, but my grandparents remained a huge part of my life. Gung-gung still drove me to piano lessons on a regular basis, and I would often spend time after-school at their house, waiting for my parents to get off work. We would have semi-regular family dinners at their house, and I would have occasional sleepovers if my parents were going to be out of town or late in coming home. I loved my grandparents and told them so, and they spoiled me whenever they could get away with it.

Things became different when my Gung-gung had a stroke.

I still remember that night. I was fifteen and was arguing with my parents over the television. I wanted to see the new episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the only TV in the house that had the WB channel was in the living room. As I was arguing that they could watch their sports and TVB programs on any other television in the house, my mom got a phone call and then she and my dad promptly left. I remember feeling satisfied that I got to watch my show that night, not knowing what had happened. I feel guilty about it to this day.

Gung-gung's stroke had affected his speech, his mobility, and his mind. His one fist was always curled up, his arm held tight against his body. He couldn't stand without support, and his perfect command of English and Cantonese was gone. The hardest part for my teenage-self to swallow was that my friend and confidante would never be the same. We could never have an easy conversation on any number of topics. He would never drive me to piano lessons again, and I wasn't even old enough to have a driver's license yet, nevermind trying to drive him him anywhere. His face would still light up whenever he saw any of us, but after accepting our kisses and greetings with his big smile, he would quickly turn his attention back to and be absorbed by the television.
 

Gung-gung went on to live another seven years after his stroke, thanks to the determined care of my mother, my uncle, the various kind caretakers they hired and - of course - Bu-bu. Between the two of them, there were multiple hospital visits over the years. I still remember Bu-bu in her hospital bed with a hairline fracture of her hip, Gung-gung in his wheelchair for a visit at her side. Bu-bu looked at the nurse who was tending to her and reached out to pat my grandpa's hand. "My husband," she announced proudly in English to the nurse. Neither of them would ever let anyone take their wedding rings off.

I wish I could say I stepped up in this time, but a large part of me was terrified. I loved Gung-gung so much, but he was no longer the Gung-gung of my childhood, and I wasn't ready to face that. I didn't want my bright, colourful memories of him to be replaced with who he was now. I would almost never go to visit my grandparents unprompted, and preferred to go only if my parents were there with me. 
 

When Gung-gung was diagnosed with renal failure, we all knew it was a matter of weeks to days before we had to say goodbye. Despite my fear of driving in the downtown area, I got pretty good at navigating to the parking garage close to the hospital. My mom had taken to sleeping in his hospital room on a make-shift bed made of chairs during the nights, but there was one day that she couldn't get out of work, and no one else was available to watch over him. So I did. And I was scared.

He was asleep most of the time, so I sat in the dark with him, trying to quietly play games on my NintendoDS, read a book, or sleep. When he was awake, he would sometimes try to communicate with me in his garbled Shanghainese, and I did my best to understand. But I could tell he was as exasperated as I was frustrated that I couldn't tell what he wanted. When I figured out he had an itchy spot he wanted me to help him scratch, I almost cried with relief. When I thought he was trying to communicate that he was having trouble breathing, I ran to the nurses in a panic. When he tried to pull off his oxygen mask to try and speak to me, I resisted the urge to pull it back on because I was terrified he would become critical on my watch.

That was possibly one of the only days I had spent with Gung-gung alone since his stroke. It was also the last time I saw him before he passed away.

One year later and I was off to Australia for vet school. I would occasionally get to video conference Bu-bu with my mom's help, and she would alternate between telling me I was putting on weight, or that I was getting too skinny and should eat more. When I returned home with a degree, Bu-bu had become more frail and stubborn. We still had hired caretakers help with her care and the day-to-day chores, and if my uncle was away on vacation, one of us would sleepover at her apartment during the nights. She had developed a habit of spitting out any food that wasn't liquid or very soft, saying that it was difficult to chew and swallow, and my mom and uncle were understandably frustrated at times. They also felt that she was trying to "catch them out" by questioning them all the time, and I grew afraid of spending time with her alone lest I slip up and tell her something she wasn't supposed to know. Most heartbreaking of all was when she'd ask me to reach out to my estranged cousin - the first-born grandson - and tell him that his grandmother loved him and missed him. No matter how much I told her that I had no contact with him either, she would continue to say the same thing, looking so sad and tired. I started actively trying not to be left alone with Bu-bu after that.
 

I started voicing that I thought Bu-bu's repeated questions were not her trying to be clever in catching my family in a lie - I felt like she really couldn't remember. I had to start repeatedly saying to her "Bu-bu, I don't know Shanghainese. I can't understand what you're saying," to try and prompt her to use Cantonese. When she was admitted to the hospital with shingles last May and the doctor said her dementia had progressed, I was flabbergasted that she had been diagnosed in the first place but I hadn't known. Of course, I didn't know. I had never really been actively involved in her health care.

I spent the next 5 days in the hospital with her, 8 hours a day. After three days of seeing her essentially non-responsive and being told to prepare for the worst, I was expecting to lose her. I had so many regrets: that I had not been a better granddaughter to her, that I had not tried to be more involved in her care, that I didn't visit more often despite living so close. When my mom and I arrived at the hospital on the fourth day and a smiling nurse told us she was awake and talking, I cried. I learned that it takes a special kind of person - and one with a strong stomach - to care for geriatric patients. I deal with all sorts of bodily fluids in my job on a daily basis, but faced with cleaning up Bu-bu's saliva and helping to roll her over for her diaper change, I couldn't help but dry-retch, even though she is family and I love her. But I forced myself through it, and after a day of helping to feed her, brush her teeth, and clean her face, Bu-bu reached out a hand to touch my face and said "Gwai." I kissed her on her cheek and vowed to be better.

I was, at first. I helped speak to the hospital social worker, to the doctors whose care she was in, to my mom about what the best course of action was for Bu-bu. I went to the hospital after work whenever I could, showed up to help feed her meals when my schedule allowed. But I also let my temper flare, yelling at my uncle when I perceived him to be making light of the situation, when he insisted that she didn't have difficulty swallowing but was just trying to be stubborn. I faced my previously estranged cousin bitterly, jealous that he had merited a full "Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm!" from Bu-bu just for showing up, when she couldn't remember my name.

When the difficult decision was made to transfer Bu-bu to a care home, I started trying to help with meals when I could. It was not an easy process, but in August - just before I left for my friend's wedding in Seattle and a quick jaunt to Chicago afterwards - I coaxed her into finishing an entire meal for once. I was so pleased with her and myself, and thought that I'd finally got the hang of it.

My mom and I returned from our respective vacations to find her doing much worse. There had always been the risk of her aspirating, but now it became a much scarier reality when she would hold liquid in her mouth, not swallow, and then start coughing. Everyone who shows up to try and feed Bu-bu loves her. They persist because they love her and they're not ready to say goodbye. I would watch them trying to coax her, badger her, bully her into swallowing by talking loudly in her ear, pulling her ear lobe, shaking her shoulder, pulling her head forward. Then, occasionally, they would panic, trying to get her to spit out what was in her mouth because of the risk of aspiration. They do it out of love, but nevertheless I was so upset that I left near-tears. I refused to go for feeding times anymore because I couldn't handle it. I still can't.

When I became sick and developed laryngitis, I didn't see Bu-bu for a month. I saw her for the first time yesterday on one of her "bad days". She gave me a small, vague smile when I kissed her cheek and greeted her for Chinese New Years. She wouldn't swallow.

My uncle and my mom will be traveling separately over the next few months, their calendars carefully arranged so that one of them will always be in town. But having one less person to help with the care and feeding is a huge load, so I've told my mom I will try to help with Bu-bu's feedings again. I wish I could make the offer more freely, more unselfishly. I wish that I could make myself want to do this for Bu-bu more, for all that she has done for me. I wish that I did not feel a sliver of resentment that my cousins are not faced with this.

But I am not a good granddaughter.