Feeling guilty on Christmas Eve.

My parents are out of town living their retirement dreams in Bali at the moment. I don't begrudge them their travel at this stage of their lives - my dad has really started to show signs of his age over the pandemic and I want him to enjoy travel and the retirement that he deserves. But I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed to be spending Christmas alone for the third year in a row (thanks for nothing, Covid!) Being an only child with no cousins who I'm close to, and being a single woman, the reality of an "orphan Christmas" in my future is very real and a little frightening. I am an introvert - yes - but the thought of being truly "alone" is disheartening, to say the least.

When a friend and her family very kindly invited me to join in on their Christmas dinner, I was relieved and grateful to accept it. To participate in someone else's warm and loving holiday dinner and fun is certainly much more enticing than spending it at home with my Korean take-out and only my (beloved!) cat for company. I have been looking forward to it and have been happy to share with co-workers and friends that I will not be alone for Christmas! Someone wants me to be a part of theirs! Isn't that great?

In the meantime, I have been performing my filial duties by driving to my uncle's house to shovel snow. It's a corner lot, which means extra sidewalk and back laneway to shovel. It has three decks, which means another extra hour. Every year when it snows, I tell my mom completely truthfully that I hate having to shovel this house and that I wish they'd sell it. With my grandparents' passing, there is now no longer a "family" that occupies it. My single, technically elderly uncle lives there alone. He does not cook, he does not clean, and he truly does not need a three-bedroom free-standing home all to himself, particularly in the current housing climate in this city. I would begrudge him less if he made any effort to learn these life-skills, but having been taken care of by his mother, then his wife, then his mother again, and now my parents, it's likely too late. It doesn't help that I have a complicated relationship with him, frustrated that as I grew older his treatment of me did not adjust accordingly. He is argumentative for the sake of "winning" debates that no one is interested in engaging in. Even when I have begged out of these unwanted debates, he does not relent until I have truly lost my cool, and then he plays the victim to my mom, because why would he deserve such an outburst like that? This was before the emotional meltdown I had at him over my grandmother and his refusal to accept her diagnosis of dementia. It has only gotten worse since then.

So yes, there is unfortunately a lot of resentment felt when I have to go over and shovel out the house he refuses to sell. And why does he refuse to sell it? Because - purportedly - he is keeping it to pass on to my cousin. My cousin who walked away from the family while I was in my first year of veterinary school. My cousin who reportedly has depression and is probably not doing anything to treat it. My cousin who is a widow at the age of 47 after just under 10 years of marriage to a woman who steadfastly refused to believe in the medical system and so passed away from breast cancer despite knowing her sister had been diagnosed with it (and survived with treatment) and finding a lump in her breast two years ago. My cousin who is - most pointedly - not here to live in and take care of this house.

A lot of complicated feelings.

Anyway, I shoveled out the house three times. Ryan (my mom's "kid" as I call him) also showed up twice, and my friend Lisa helped out once. I am ashamed to say that I am outwardly cold to my uncle, but it's almost a defense mechanism. If I don't engage with him, he doesn't have the opportunity to provoke me into one of his stupid "debates". My mood significantly improved with the appearance of my friend, but quickly soured when I introduced her as "my friend from Trek" (a high school outdoor program we both attended) and my uncle responded "But you weren't in Trek". Not a question, not asking for clarification about whether I had been in Trek and he had forgotten. He was so certain that he was right that he argued with me about my own life, even when I tried to correct him and laugh it off. 

He invited me to stay for dinner, after having made Ryan drive across Vancouver in the cold and ice to deliver it to him. I declined.

When it snowed again on Friday, I had to shovel my way out of my apartment building (with another exercise in frustration with an old man) and asked my uncle NOT to shovel and to try calling 311 to see if they could organize a volunteer for him. He - of course - didn't listen. When I showed up he had cleared part of the sidewalk. And while I should be, I don't know, grateful?, that he did something on his own, I was more peeved that he could have injured himself and that could have resulted in a visit to the doctor or the ER and for me to "take care" of him. But I finished the rest of the sidewalks while he trailed me telling me how I was obviously doing "the easier stuff" that people had walked on. I finished the front path, the stairs, then moved to go into the house to do the porches. He told me not to do them.

Charitably, I know that it's his way of trying to be kind. He doesn't want me to do more than I need to. But in my mind, I am already here. I have made the drive out to shovel the house out and his not been easy. The drive back to my apartment will not be fun. If I am here, I might as well do things right and prevent the likelihood of my needing to return in icy conditions. The snow today is heavy, I explain. Freezing rain is in the forecast, which can make things worse. If we don't clear the snow and ice, the drains could get clogged and we could have issues with flooding. He tells me I'm wrong and everything will just melt. Exasperatedly, I tell him it's his house so he can do whatever he wants then.

I move on to start shoveling out the back laneway and he tries to stop me again. I explain that to safely LEAVE, I need to shovel this out as I do not plan to ping-pong down the icy death-trap that is the completely untouched back and side streets in this neighbourhood. I also point out that if he is planning to leave the house (which I had strongly recommended he not do), he will need this area shoveled as well, as does the rest of the people who live on this block. Finally, I note that it had already been cleared on the Tuesday when I came by, which means that the neighbour behind us had probably done it the previous days, and doesn't Jeff deserve a break too? My uncle tries to argue that Jeff doesn't have to shovel as much since he doesn't live on a corner lot, as if I didn't already know that having shoveled three times.

When I was finally done, my uncle asked me what my plans are for Christmas. I froze for a second, my mind racing through "he might want me to spend it with him" and "I should probably offer to spend it with him" and "I really do not want to spend Christmas with him". I have plans already, that are going to be fun and warm and happy. If I spend Christmas with my uncle, I have no idea what we'll eat (I haven't cooked for him since he ate ALL the curry I made for him once, leaving no lunch for me, and then turned around and complained to me about my cooking), and I know it will not be a fun and warm and happy time. I quickly tell him I have been invited to a friend's family dinner that I am planning to attend. I am needlessly brusque when he presents me with a $100 gift card to the mall again. I don't shop often, I don't need things, and these cards collect dust in my apartment. I tell him I appreciate the gesture, but please don't get me anything anymore, I don't need it. He has the grace to smile and tell me to gift it to someone who does then. I wish him a Merry Christmas, tell him to be safe, and leave.

My mom tells me people say I'm a "good kid" for shovelling the snow for him. I tell her how actively resentful I am for having to do it. That resentment is actively growing every year, I can feel it.

My friend Meghan texts me and I mention that I've had to go shovel at my uncle's house that day.

Meghan: Did you see Malcolm?
Me: I'm not aware that he's in town
Meghan: He told me he was coming for the holidays
Me: First I've heard of it
Meghan: That would be weird if he came and didn't tell your uncle and mom?
Me: I mean, it's possible they just haven't told me. And my mom is in Bali anyway
Meghan: He said he was coming the 21st
Me: Maybe his flight got cancelled. Anyway, I have no idea

I hate how emotionally riled up I immediately become with any mention of my cousin. I think it's the same defense mechanism I use with my uncle, I have to not care because I've felt so hurt and I don't want to be in that state again. But immediately, the possibility that he is in town and either 1) my mother has purposely not made me aware of it or 2) my mother is not aware of it herself is upsetting to me, particularly with everything she has done for him this year. The third possibility (he is not in town and lied to my friend) seems less likely.  So! My feelings about having to shovel this house have become significantly more resentful.

Today, Meghan showed up to return my Harry Potter want and drop off some cookies. She pointedly asked if I would spend time with my uncle. As someone who has complicated relationships with her own immediate family, I'm surprised that she would care. I tell her that no, I'm going to a friend's place for Christmas instead. When she asks why, I tell her that I have made the choice not to be actively miserable on Christmas. My uncle and I are not a point where we enjoy each other's company anymore, and I don't want to spend my Christmas arguing with him and increasing my already growing resentment towards him.

But, of course, now I feel guilty.

Maybe there's no reason for it. Perhaps Malcolm is in town and he can spend Christmas with his son and they can try not making each other miserable. There's a possibility he could spend it with his on-again-off-again girlfriend of some twenty-odd years and her daughters. I would have absolutely hated spending time with her, that's for certain. She shares that same unearned, self-assured smugness that I dislike so much in my uncle. The two of them together is almost unbearable.

God, I hate that it is always my family (my uncle and my cousin and my dearly departed grandma) that always drive me to needing more therapy. It's not an expense that I really want to pay for, but I think if things keep spiraling in my head like this, I'll have to consider it.

But hey, I have Disneyland in January. Maybe if I hold out until then, that infuriatingly effective Disney Magic can fix me instead.

Like many of my misguided opinions in life, I've often thought of Hong Kong cinema as somehow universally "beneath" that of the Western world based on my very limited exposure as a child. I remember experiencing no small amount of shock that after having seen The Departed in theatres with friends and Infernal Affairs at home - two vastly different takes on the cat-and-mouse game between moles in the police and local crime gang - I had much preferred the latter despite it's slight over-commitment to melodrama and three paper-thin female characters. The acting choices and expressive face of Tony Leung Chiu Wai particularly drew me in. "Wow", I thought, "There are talented people making movies in Hong Kong afterall."

This didn't mean I started watching a plethora of Hong Kong features afterwards. It was hard to find any in the rapidly dying Blockbusters, the bootleg DVDs in the tiny, cramped shops of Chinese strip malls in Richmond could not be trusted to have reliable and accurate subtitles, and trying to find an active torrent seemed an impossibility. Besides, where would I even start? My parents are hardly cinephiles and I didn't have a friend-group or community to glean recommendations from. I made a point to drag my mother out to any release that featured Chinese actors or stories heavily - even sitting through the very uncomfortable sex scenes in Lust, Caution in theatres with her - but that was the extent of it. Unsurprisingly, I gravitated towards films that focused on the experience of second-generation immigrants and their experiences, including but not limited to Saving Face, My Wedding and Other Secrets, Double Happiness, Crazy Rich Asians, and The Farewell.


Today, in an attempt to have a better appreciation for Tony Leung's immense talents and charisma while not feeling comfortable enough to brave the cinemas for Marvel's newest installment -  Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings - I sought out a way to watch the much lauded In the Mood for Love instead. Glory Hallelujah but streaming sites (legitimate or not) have made it so much easier to access more obscure titles, and once I found a link for this movie I jumped on it. It was as visually gorgeous and lush and as emotionally wrought and mildly devastating as I have read about for many (many, many, many) years. I knew of course that for Tony Leung this is a performance that is widely noted as career-defining, having won him the acting award at Cannes. And he was as captivating as expected - much is made of his expressive eyes and it cannot be emphasized enough how incredibly true and accurate all of those plaudits really are. If anyone has a particularly effective longing smolder for the camera, it's him (the last scene in the movie and everything leading up to the culmination of it, ugh). What I didn't expect was how much more this is Maggie Leung's movie, how quietly heartbreaking she is in a way that his character is not quite. Seeing her on her lonely nightly sojourn for noodles, sitting and watching others play mahjong with polite (dis)interest, covering for her boss and his own infidelity, contemplating on how complicated marriage is and the contentment of being single and alone, worrying about the morality of the situation and what the neighbours will think as she seeks emotional comfort from the one person she knows understands her own hurt...

I expected even less to be so emotionally impacted by the Shanghainese influences peppered throughout the movie. The dialect of the landlady and the elderly house attendant, the clothing, the hair, the architecture and personality of the narrow building and the rain-soaked streets, the anxiety about the imminent political changes. These are my maternal grandparents' people in the city my mother grew up in. This time and place - in some ways - has a part in the history of my family roots that I have not seen demonstrated before because I've never gone looking for it.

Perhaps In the Mood for Love was a melancholy way to spend an afternoon, all in the pursuit of staring into Tony Leung's dreamboat gaze. But it turned out to be emotionally productive, one way or another.

(ETA: A summary of our family history as a result of my rekindled Tony Leung infatuation.)

(As an aside: I like to try and "pamper" my dad as well, but he's always a hard sell. Paul McCartney's coming to town for a concert? But why would he want to see Paul McCartney, he's not The Beatles! Tickets to the Seahawks game are available? He'd much rather watch the game from the comfort of his own living room anyway. How about going to White Spot for a burger? Eh, he'd rather just have A&W-- no wait, scratch that, he'd rather just have some food from home, thanks. The fact that he said yes to The Beach Boys at the PNE was a huge surprise to me, and that's how I ended up at a Beach Boys concert with six "seniors".)

Movies are an indulgence as well, but it's not often that there's something that both my mom and I are interested in watching. The only sure-bet has been movies featuring Asian characters, which has been far and few between for most of my life. One of my first Christmas presents to my mom was tracking down Ang Lee's The Wedding Banquet - a movie she professed to loving and hadn't seen in years. When Lust, Caution came out we watched it together (uncomfortable sex scenes and all) in theaters. I took her to see Crazy Rich Asians, even though I'd already seen it myself, because it was something I wanted to share with her. When The Farewell came out in theaters, it was really only a matter of time.



When my maternal grandmother - who I called MaMa - became very sick, my family tried to convince me that I needn't hurry back to Hong Kong to see her. They couldn't - or wouldn't - tell me what her diagnosis was and told me she would wait until May, likely in denial about how serious her condition was. Unlike Billi, I did not have a particularly close or loving relationship with MaMa. She had been dismissive of me and my parents in the past and my dad had not been on speaking terms with her for over five years. Still, she had mellowed out in those intervening years, and I remember commenting to my mom "I've never seen MaMa smile so much when looking at me before" after a short visit for tea and cake with her in 2013. Beyond all that, she was still my grandma, and I felt compelled to see her. So I chose to fly to Hong Kong for a very tough 5 days to say my own farewell. I read a review that talked about how the conflicts of Billi wanting to be able to properly say goodbye to her grandmother vs Billi struggling with her identity as an Asian and an American do not dovetail nicely and therefore interrupt the rhythms of the movie. But that's the complications of real-life, where you can't just set one or the other neatly aside to be dealt with later. In a different way than Billi, I struggled with both of these things during my time in Hong Kong. I visited MaMa every day, twice a day during that period, and there was only one time that she was awake enough to acknowledge me. But she smiled and nodded when my uncles asked if she knew who I was, and she held my hand. She passed away a month later.

I didn't even get to do that for Bubu. When I returned from my time in Washington, my dad drove me straight from the airport to the hospital. Bubu was sleeping fitfully, oxygen at 95%, heart rate jumping from 45 to 145 beats per minute. Even when she opened her eyes, she didn't seem aware. I had to return to work the next few days and wanted to wait until I could go to the hospital together with my mom. I planned to see her after work on Sunday evening; Bubu passed away early that Sunday morning. Despite being so close for most of my life, I didn't get to say goodbye.

The Farewell feels in many ways like it was made for me, even moreso than Crazy Rich Asians was. We don't all get to fall in love with charming men who are secretly wealthy, but we almost all have to go through the grief of losing a grandparent. And the struggle with fitting in to a culture that I don't feel a part of felt more personal and painful this time around. In one of the last scenes, I looped my arm through my mom's, leaned my head against her shoulder, and cried. I'd thought this movie might be cathartic for both of us, but the movie was so overwhelmingly Billi's that I suspect it only had that effect on me.

Well. It's been a tough month.

The days after Bubu's passing seemed manageable. I remember feeling a bit ashamed that I wasn't more tearful at 4am when I received the call from my mom, that I felt mostly numb when we were at the hospital 20 minutes later and she looked like she was still sleeping. Four hours later I was at work, a bit emotional when I had to tell my coworkers what had happened, but overall still very functional. The more people I told, the more smooth and collected I felt about it. Bubu had lived a long life - 98 years to be exact - and that she was still with us after being admitted to the hospital a year ago already felt like a small miracle. Besides, I would say to people, I've had concerns about her quality of life for awhile, and with aspiration pneumonia we had known that the chances of her pulling through were slim. She's not suffering anymore, and in some ways there is a measure of relief that she is at peace.

Still, I was on the receiving end of many hugs and received many verbal condolences from my sympathetic coworkers. Family can be complicated, but losing a grandparent is never easy. I reassured them that I was fine, that it was really my mom I worried about because she has spent the better part of two decades caring for elderly parents, and now she was at a loss for what to do with her time. To those of Asian descent in my office, I confided that it didn't affect my daily life in the same way because my mother had made the very conscious decision to release me, somewhat, from my filial piety duties; she reasoned that my job was stressful enough and that she didn't want me spending what spare time I had always at the care home. If they needed help from me, they would ask, but there was no expectation that I should participate in my grandma's feeding schedule (twice daily) otherwise. I think in the back of her mind, she also worries that as an only child, the reality is that caring for my parents as they become elderly will fall entirely to me.

I made it through my remaining days at work with no issues - keeping busy gave me little time to sit and stew in my grief. I went with my family to the funeral home to help organize the funeral service. I volunteered to put together a short slideshow to music and pored over the many photo albums Bubu had kept, coveting these little snapshots of her life. I ran a few funeral-related errands to help ease the burden from my mother. I surrendered my apartment to my cousin and his wife because he was complaining about back pain and sleepless nights on the pullout couch. Truthfully, had I remembered that I couldn't take refuge at my friend's home during this period (thereby bringing death into her household), I may have been less forthcoming with that gesture. My mom thanked me over and over, and all I could say was that I was doing this for her, because I love her. My cousin I still have very complicated and painful emotions towards.

Since I had plans for a weekday getaway to Victoria with my friend and old colleague, the decision was made that I might as well bring Kira to my parents' with me. I dropped her off at my parents' home in the afternoon and started a deep clean of my apartment, to make it presentable for my "visitors". When I received a phonecall at 10pm that night that there was a bouquet in the house with lilies - a bouquet I had walked right by and failed to register - I was a sobbing mess on my way to pick up my cat, hoping that my petty feelings towards my cousin hadn't led to renal failure for Kira. With great difficulty due to my rusty day-one skills and Kira's decidedly negative feelings about being restrained, I placed an IV catheter, drew blood, and left her at the clinic hooked up to IV fluids. I was a mess. The upcoming funeral, the possibility that my cat could have kidney damage, staying in a household of six and not having my own space to retreat to led to me feeling physically and emotionally exhausted. That Bubu's church was heaping added stress by insisting on sending 25 of their congregation when we had told them the chapel only seated 40 was not helping.

For the entire week, I had wondered how I would carry myself at Bubu's funeral. Thus far,  I had shed a few tears but nothing beyond that. Maybe because I had been accepting for so long that her passing would be an eventuality, I would be less emotional. It certainly felt that way now. How would that look, a granddaughter not crying at her own grandmother's funeral?

I needn't have worried. I stepped into the chapel with my mother, saw Bubu lying - tiny and frail - in the casket, and proceeded to burst into tears. Seeing her there made it feel more real, more final. I loved my grandma and I had lost her, and I would always, always feel that I could have done better by her.

At work the next day, I walked in to find my cat covered in her own dried blood - she had managed to disconnect her IV line and it had been a little while before the night nurse had noticed. She was fine and voiced her protest about still being in a kennel, but I still gathered her up in my arms and sobbed into my bewildered cat, telling the ward nurse we call "Mama" that I was fine, really I was, it's just been an emotional few days. When I got to my desk and two of my bosses asked how I was doing, I proceed to sob facedown, proclaiming that I was fine, honest, I just needed a few moments. I joked that maybe next week I would be a normal person again.

It's been two weeks since, and I do feel a bit more like a normal person again. My getaway to Victoria with Christie, Kira continuing to seem healthy and happy, and having my apartment back has helped immensely. But there are moments when I still feel Bubu's loss keenly. Certainly differently than how my mom or my uncle or her long-time caretaker feels, but it is grief and remorse and mourning.

My grandma passed away early this morning.

I love conferences.

1) I like learning and it's always great to learn about new advancements in the veterinary field or tips and tricks that I can apply to my daily work-life.

2) It's heartening to see a lecture room full of other veterinarians; it reminds me I am not alone in feeling like I can do better.

3) It's a nice excuse to visit new places I might not otherwise have gone to, especially on someone else's dime.

4) It's a vacation from work, even if it is work-adjacent.

This year's plans to aim for conferences in Hawaii and Toronto fell through, so I found myself organizing to attend one in Washington, DC during the less-than-ideal month of August. It's hot! And humid! And prone to thunderstorms! I convinced my mom to come along - why not enjoy the free hotel room and amenities (pool and exercise room for her, rooftop deck for me) and explore the sights?

Two days into the trip, we got a phone call that my grandma had vomited while lying in bed. Her lips were purple when they found her and there was significant concern for aspiration pneumonia. There wasn't any discussion to be had. My mom booked the earliest flight out of DC that she could find. 

I've detailed before how I am not a good granddaughter. I can't lie and say I wasn't disappointed and sad at this turn of events, but I think it's only human. I had been looking forward to this trip, being able to "give" my mom something and letting her have a relaxing, stress-free week. Lee - one of her "kids" - had been looking forward to spending time with her and showing her his new place in New York. But also I understood that there was no question that she had to go home; this is her mother, the only parent she has left. I would have done the same in a heartbeat for my mom and my dad.

I offered to return home if needed, but truthfully there wouldn't be anything I could do, so I stayed behind knowing that I might have to leave in a hurry should things take a turn for the worse. I didn't sleep at all that first night, a mess of disappointment and worry, sad for my family, upset with myself. I'd text my mom mid-day for an update and call when the conference was over for the day. 

And then there were the two mass shootings in the US within 24 hours.

To be fair, everyone around me seemed unfazed. I sat in a small Ethiopian restaurant across the street from my hotel, watching reporters give updates on the estimated number of deaths and injuries. I watched as the authorities in El Paso praised the power of prayer and discussed a manifesto indicating it was a racially motivated attack. I was eating alone and so was focused on the broadcast; everyone else seemed to be having a regular night, engaged in normal conversation.

I squeezed in as many sights as I could in what seemed to me like unbearable heat. I became increasingly aware of the police presence, even at the conference itself. I became grateful for the metal detectors and x-rays at the museums along the National Mall. I observed the many American flags flying at half-mast, a heightened appreciation that I was in very public and crowded areas where there would be little to no cover should someone decide to open fire.

The museums I visited did not sugarcoat the oftentimes dark and unsavoury details of American history. I almost physically recoiled reading about the American response to the plight of the Jewish people during the Holocaust. I was appalled at the repeated exploitation and breaking of treaties with the Native American population. The brutality and injustices suffered by the African-American population asking for equality was infuriating and heartbreaking. Sitting at "The Segregated Lunch Counter" interactive exhibit was disheartening; I could never have had the bravery to risk everything the way these young people did, yet what choice did they have?

Certainly a week of reflection - not just on me as a veterinarian, but as a daughter, granddaughter, and human being.

There is so much more that I can and should be doing.

My recent - rapid - globetrotting to Melbourne and Hong Kong came about because of family. Everyone is getting older, their health statuses just that little more fragile. We lost my Gu-Ma - my dad's eldest sister - to cancer while I was still in the midst of my veterinary course. I have fond memories of when she took me to the amusement park on Centre Island and how she took it in stride (but was probably understandably annoyed) when I managed to stand on tip-toe for height measurements, meaning she needed to pay more for my entrance fee.


My dad turned 70 this year, and he's the fourth child of six. I always say to my mom that in comparison to her siblings - who tend to be louder, more expressive with their emotions, and just a bit more "westernized" - my dad's side of the family is a bit harder to read. The difference between them is notable even in how I address them: I use "Auntie Grace and Uncle Steve" on her side of the family, whereas I use the appropriate Chinese kinship designations for my dad's family. You can pinpoint their exact relationship to me by what I call them.

Like my dad, his family shows their affection not through hugs or words. I am not a particularly "huggy" person, though I have become a bit more physically demonstrative with my affections through the years. But the stiff, somewhat awkward back-pats I receive when giving hugs to my uncles especially always makes me think "oh right, they don't really do this kind of thing". They show their affection by showing up, by conversing with me in a mix of Cantonese and English. Their English is 1000x stronger and more confident than my Cantonese, and the fact that I try to use my rudimentary Cantonese as much as possible is my family-trait of showing affection too. On my most recent trip, I discovered that, like my dad, they show affection through food and action. Ng-Suk drove through Hong Kong traffic for at least an hour each time to ferry me to and from the airport, from dinner in Hong Kong to where we were staying in the New Territories. My dad and Yi-Baak-Fu directed me to a tiny restaurant with amazing chee cheong fun. Saam-Baak-Fu and his wife bought me mangoes and strawberries. Yi-Baak-Fu made many of my favourite dishes and bought a huge pile of mangosteens, saying he knew that I liked them. How did he even know I love mangosteens? My first taste of them was maybe six years ago and sometimes even I forget how much I love them since I get them so rarely!

Ng-Suk I always think of as very pleasant but the hardest to read. He is very well-spoken and not at all awkward, but I have probably spent the least amount of time alone with him as we are usually with family or with his wife as well. I don't have very strong childhood memories of him, although it always made me laugh to see his picture on my dad's Costco membership card. When he came to Melbourne to visit some friends of his, he invited me (along with my friend who was kindly driving me around) to dinner and I got to see a better view of him. He was chatty, cheerful, and so funny! He shared stories of how when he and my dad were in the US for school, most of the American driving examiners couldn't tell them apart so my dad would just take the driving test for many of their Asian friends. I remember laughing so much with him that night and thinking how fun it was to spend that time with him.

The eldest uncle - my Yi-Baak-Fu - I knew to be a soft-spoken, thoughtful man who was a pediatrician. I used to have a book featuring characters from the Peanuts comic that focused on the human body and my eight-year-old self was obsessed. Knowing that my uncle was a pediatrician, I asked him millions of questions that he patiently contended with ("What does it mean when it says 'you are what you eat?'" remaining the biggest mystery to me). When I decided I wanted to be a pediatrician, I think he was secretly pleased. That I turned out to become a veterinarian was probably mild disappointment to him ("Tell Jocelyn that it's a much messier endeavour than she might think!" he would tell my mom) although he remained supportive. He wasn't necessarily the "fun uncle", but I remember him declaring he would accompany me to Ocean Park in Hong Kong because he had a senior's discount now. Much like my dad when we were in Orlando, he would brave the water rides with me and then wait patiently when I hopped onto the bigger thrill rides. My recent visit to Hong Kong was really for him, because he asked if I could come. He is at risk for coronary blockages - or so my parents tell me - and so has settled into his quiet life. When I expressed to my dad that I felt like I'd spent little face-to-face time with him in my whirlwind four days in Hong Kong and felt badly, he arranged for Yi-Baak-Fu to come meet us for lunch and then we spent the afternoon with him up until the point where Ng-Suk drove us all to the airport and more awkward hugs were exchanged. It wasn't much and I felt a little badly having him come out, but at the same time I felt like I owed it to him to spend a bit more time with him. When I offhandedly commented on his cute umbrella with the teddy-bear handle, he decided that I should take it home because I liked it; that's just the kind of person he is.

My mom always comments that my dad's side of the family really loves me. The specific word she uses in Cantonese is 錫. I don't know that I always feel deserving of it. I often comment to her that I worry about them all getting older over there with almost no one of my generation to look after them (though my younger cousin will be back soon) and certainly after this last visit I feel guilty that I don't go to Hong Kong more often. I think I may have to, for the sake of family.

I must be doing something different with my grandma's feedings because my uncle keeps telling me she eats well all week. But then when I see her she tries to pretend she's asleep and will just hold the bird's nest in her mouth. 1.5 hours in she looked a bit more alert and nodded when I asked her to eat, even though I'm pretty sure she didn't want to. Then I watched her attempt to swallow over 20 minutes before I let her just slowly let it drain out of her mouth when it was obvious that the swallowing wasn't going to happen. So this was my most dismal feeding effort thus far, but I mostly just feel resigned. I could tell she was trying to swallow to please me, and if she's eating well most days then that's better than nothing. Next Monday will be my last feeding session with her before I leave for Australia and Hong Kong, we'll see how it goes.

I've used these last two days to really just rest so I can hit the ground running at work tomorrow. Bought groceries that ended up costing more than I anticipated, so there's that! I'll definitely have to limit my spending in the next little while! Because I don't get direct-deposits from work and I'm not the best at getting to a bank (first-world problem if there ever was one), my savings account is a little leaner than I'm used to. And by "leaner" I still mean "very comfortable", but I'm always the type to prepare for the worst, so!

Went to feed Bu-bu today, and it was less frustrating than last week in some ways. Still disheartening because she had maybe five mouthfuls of bird's nest soup over 1.5 hours. But she did swallow most of it, and she mostly seemed just tired rather than resentful. I know I'm usually the least-successful at getting her to eat, so hopefully she'll do better the rest of the week.

I meant to write yesterday about receiving my first jury summons, but I fell asleep instead. I probably shouldn't feel so relieved that the jury selection date falls during the period when I'm traveling to Australia and Hong Kong. I understand that it is a civic duty and privilege to be able to serve on a jury, but when all the practical aspects about job shifts needing to be covered and losing out on pay comes into play, it would be a bit of a headache. I'll have to ask if anyone at work has had to deal with it before. In any case, I feel pretty confident that since I have plane tickets paid for and vacation time arranged, that I'll likely be excused from the process this time around.

I spent part of today at the hospital with my grandma in the dementia ward because my mom wanted someone to be there for the swallowing test. I did bring some sewing to do because I feel like I need to be doing something. I left exhausted after a mere four hours though; being in the hospital always completely drains me of energy. The speech therapist who assessed her feels that she is still at risk of aspiration, and that because swallowing is becoming more difficult for her, it's likely that she will expend more energy from the action of swallowing than she will gain from what she swallows. My family is vehemently opposed to any kind of tube feeding, at which point we will have to accept that she will just slowly starve. The speech therapists have always emphasized that we should not force her to eat, but where that line is has always been a point of contention for me. I feel like when the "bullying" starts, that's when the feeding should stop for the day. Bu-bu has good and bad days, and we can't force every day to be good. And part of me thinks it's not fair to say we won't consider a feeding tube but then also try and force her to swallow what we deem to be an appropriate amount of nutrition to keep her going, in these circumstances.

This is so hard.

When my mom and I both have days off (me from being a veterinarian, my mom from being an interpreter/case worker/caregiver to my grandmother), we've made a habit of going out for a meal - usually breakfast or lunch. It's been so nice to spend a bit of time with here where we can be somewhat carefree and I can foot the bill and we can spoil ourselves a little. I have written a bit about my dad previously, but suffice it to say my mom and I are close and she is probably the most important person in my life. 

We recently had a brief discussion about my grandma because my mom will be departing on a month long trip overseas with my dad and their friends. There is the possibility that my grandma could deteriorate and pass away in her absence, but we both agreed that it wouldn't be fair to my dad for them not to go, and there is - truthfully - not much my mom can do. She has been an amazingly dutiful daughter and has been there every step of the way for my grandma. She needs to live her life too.

And it might seem a little morose to discuss this, but I also know there is the chance that my uncle - who has historically been the type to go into to denial and who in many ways has the emotional age of an adolescent - may not be able to handle things. So I wanted to be prepared in case I need to step in. The tough thing at this stage is that most of the people who have known and loved my grandma are no longer with us, or are in the kind of state where travel is too arduous and inconvenient. My mom knows what she would like for my grandma - a small and private service and a closed casket. I understand that choice; even looking at the pictures I posted before (which admittedly were taken over a decade apart) was startling to me. It's undeniable that it's easy to see Bu-bu's condition has wasted her away. It's hard to witness.

I hope she continues to prove us wrong - we have thought we would be saying goodbye on many occasions before. But I want my mom to know that if anything happens, it will be taken care of in her absence. Both she and Bu-bu deserve that much.

I am not a good granddaughter.

Which isn't the same - exactly - as being a bad granddaughter. I loved my maternal grandparents growing up, and I at least held some level of filial piety towards my paternal grandmother.  My paternal grandfather passed away before I was born, but everyone likes to say that he would have doted on me because he was a good and kind man who loved nice children. My dad loved his father, that much I can tell. His relationship with his mother is more complicated and so, it follows, was mine.

But in terms of having grandparents - the ones you read about in books and see in shows and movies, the kind that are involved in your life in the day-to-day kind of way - that was my mom's parents, no question or contest. 

Happy Chinese New Year (Eve)!

Thanks to some last-minute appointment cancellations and some savvy receptionists, I was able to leave work earlier than usual and was rewarded with a delicious Chinese New Year Eve's dinner. My parents have been slaving away in the kitchen over the weekend, preparing abalone and chicken feet for their friends, so they called this a "modest effort" by their standards. And sure, three of these dishes were bought essentially ready made, but I am not going to take this spread for granted:


This is the first Chinese New Year's dinner we've had without my grandma being able to join us. My mom did bring her some chicken feet at the care home and she ate an entire one, which is no small feat! And then the phone calls were made to family in Hong Kong, wishing them all good fortune and - more importantly - good health. My parents and I have never been all that great with traditions - the most I know is that we must all partake in a noodle dish on birthdays and eat some rice on CNY's eve - but I have been told that I should also be home for dinner tomorrow night, and so I shall be!

Alas, the cough persists! Although I have regained a croaky version of my regular voice - enough to make an attempt at being back to work now that I can feasibly hold a conversation and be heard over the phone. All these years my philosophy with work has been "if you show up and they send you home, then you probably need a sick day." And so, in the five years since I have embarked on this career, I have gone to work with a minor concussion, a nasty cat bite that required IV antibiotics, any number of raging headaches and stomach cramps, as well as your run-of-the-mill cold, flu, and gastrointestinal disasters. Well, joke's on me! It turns out that having a voice is kind of vital to my carrying out my veterinarian duties! So I texted my amazing bosses that my inability to speak may impede my effectiveness as a veterinarian and they arranged to cover my shift so I could take one of these fabled "sick days".

But I am no layabout! My parents raised me to show up and fulfill whatever duty is expected of me, sick days be damned!

(Except for that one time my dad told me to stay home and take a mental health break back when I had a job where sick days weren't just an impossible dream. My dad really loves me, you see, but we'll cover that later).

(Also my mom always gets very upset on my behalf when I explain to her why I can't just call in a sick day whenever I'm not well, on account of there not really being "last-minute substitute veterinarian"" system in place and our patients need to be seen and the hospital needs an income to pay all the staff, etc etc. Because she also really loves me. So, basically my parents were probably only tough on the concept of "sick days" when I was a child and they thought I might be faking it. But I digress.)

So with great confidence, I texted the head receptionist yesterday that although I would sound hoarser than chain-smoker, I was definitely going to be at work today. I walked in with a smile and croaked out a hello to the reception team this morning and assured them I was just fine.

.... that illusion lasted all of ten minutes, when a particularly bad coughing fit had me sprinting for the one bathroom located in the reception area. I emerged with my surgical face mask firmly in place (leaning hard into that Asian stereotype) and watery eyes, and their sympathetic looks told me that there was no way they could even politely pretend to ignore all the retching noises they'd been forced to listen to. Our head receptionist (one of the partners of the clinic) didn't miss a beat. "Let's take a look at your day and see what we can do," she said, like this wasn't going to throw a massive wrench in the day to be able to offer less appointments when we are usually booked solid with a waiting list of irate clients. But she blocked off the few emergency spots I had left and called a number of clients to try and get them in earlier so I could come home and collapse in a heap while my loyal cat continues to throw me irritated looks when a coughing fit interrupts her twenty-third catnap of the day.

The whole day everyone was lovely and sympathetic to me. One of the technicians kept bringing me cups of "throat-soothe" tea, everyone tried to minimize how much I had to speak and checked in on me. My clients almost uniformly thanked me for seeing them and tacked on a "I really hope you feel better soon!" And one of my bosses finished her procedures early and offered to cover my late afternoon appointments because she wanted me home to rest and recover.

These are the times when I pinch myself and think "I still can't believe I work here. I don't deserve it!"

Of course there are the less pleasant occurrences, like the man who arrived screaming about his dog getting into a cocaine pipe and refusing our urgent advice to take the dog to the emergency clinic. Or our phone provider being down and only some calls getting through, which many clients reacted to by flooding the receptionists with rude e-mails. But that kind of thing would happen at any veterinary clinic. Also I really believe everyone should be forced to work a customer service job once in their life so that they might deign to remember that there are human beings on the other end who are honestly trying their best to make things work.


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My being sick has also been another reminder about just how wonderful my parents really are. The older I get, the more I'm exposed to the various dysfunctional relationships that can exist within families. And I won't pretend those same dysfunctions don't exist in my relationships with some of my extended family. But my parents and I? We are totally solid.

(Oh god, please let me not have jinxed it.)

I live close but not too close to my parents - enough that it's easy enough to drop by, but only if you really feel like it. So upon hearing that I was sick, they came on five different occasions between the two of them to ensure I had some kind of nutrition, or to drop off various nutraceuticals or health-boosting gadgets. They checked in with me frequently to track my progress and my dad probably would have been by to cook every meal for me if I had asked. He's never been the kind of person to be very demonstrative with affection, but the one way he does it is through his cooking. When he made me a massive pot of soup filled with healthy ingredients that he'd chopped up into small pieces to make it easier to swallow,that was his way of telling me how much he loves me.




So of course when I watched Ang Lee's Eat Drink Man Woman last night on a whim, I was a bit verklempt. Because that's my dad. He's not a professional chef by any means, though many of my early memories have me sitting in the back kitchen of some kind of fast food or restaurant joint he used to work at. But he loves to cook for people, loves to watch them eat his food and see the enjoyment on their faces. I still joke about the time he came to visit me in Australia for two weeks and how my housemates were sadder than I was when he left because they'd gotten used to him cooking three hot meals and various snacks throughout the day for us and our friends. Cooking is how he communicates to us that he cares, and it's not unusual for him to call me and say in Cantonese "Have you eaten yet?", because that's how he checks up on me.

My dad is also frustratingly like the father character in the movie in that all his recipes are in his head. Many a time I asked him to give me a recipe while I was in Australia, craving some of that home-cooked taste, and every time I had to throw in the towel because his instructions were almost impossible to follow and he'd usually end with "I don't have a recipe, I just know." Unfortunately I do not have an innate talent for cooking or admittedly any kind of inclination to spend a ton of time in the kitchen. One Christmas my parents (but really my dad) asked me to buy them a sous vide, and I asked for some recipes of the staple dishes I grew up with in exchange. I have yet to receive anything more than a list of ingredients ("That's basically a recipe!" my mom insists) despite all the badgering, and part of me is terrified that if I don't get them, that's a huge chunk of my childhood - of my parents - lost. Every once in awhile I resolve to sit in the kitchen with him and take notes and try to quantify things in a way he never has in cooking, because I know my limits.

I wouldn't say that I see our relationship reflected exactly in the way the father and the middle daughter interacted in the movie, but there was certainly a rocky period between us when his own complicated relationship with his mother was breaking down and my life was very much in limbo, living at home with a decent, steady job but no great career options . But as I've gotten older and more settled about my own place in life and (crucially, I think) moved out, our relationship has only improved. I'm also much more aware now that he is getting older, and the idea that one day he may not be around is something I can't even consider at this time. So now we argue about who shovels when it snows (I usually win and am rewarded with a meal), or who will carry a heavy suitcase up the stairs (he usually wins, it's a matter of pride). And when he asks me to come over for dinner, I rarely say no anymore because now I can recognize the meaning behind it.