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Saturday November 8, 2008

Hug those you love

NAVEL GAZER BY ALEXANDRA WONG


Sometimes, the most unforgettable people enter — and leave —our lives in the most unexpected ways.

It was the scariest day of my life: inside the grim-looking room, mother was undergoing a heart bypass surgery.

Before she was wheeled into the operating theatre, I had squeezed the sides of her shoulders and whispered, “Don’t worry, ma. We’ll be right here when you wake up.”

As soon as the OT lit up, I realised with a pang, just how awkward that gesture was. You see, I had never hugged her in my life. We’re Asians. We don’t hug. Lovey dovey endearments? That’s for Hollywood.

(Above) Your eyes are not deceiving you — that is indeed a dragon scaling the Gothicinspired Rathaus; (inset) the Glockenspiel. — OLIVER HAAS.

I walked into the waiting room and sat stiffly on the leather sofa. There was a young woman in a sari, a makcik in a tudung and several children. I wondered if they could hear how fast my heart was beating. Were they just as scared? I tried not to look at them.

The hours seemed to crawl. The operation was well into its fourth hour now, and normally they aren’t supposed to exceed three. My blood ran cold. These operations are supposed to have over a 90% success rate, but what if . . . ? I tried to block out awful thoughts of her ending up an unfortunate statistic.

Then an even more awful thought occurred to me. Could that embarrassed squeeze of her shoulders be the last time I communicated with her?

To my horror, I felt pressure building up behind my eyes and before I could blink them back, big blobs of tears started rolling down my cheeks.

Something very strange happened in the waiting room. The young woman in the sari came over and rubbed my shoulders. The makcik next to me made soft soothing sounds. I leaned onto her shoulders, even though she was a complete stranger. Somehow, our mutual sorrow formed an invisible bond.

As the makcik continued to sing comfortingly to me, a tall gentleman in baju Melayu walked over and started talking to me.

He turned out to be her husband. A retired army officer, Pakcik Norhuda spoke in fluent English and Malay, and from his gregarious demeanour, I suspected he must have been a hugely popular man.

As he stood there entertaining me with his lively stories, I began to feel better. There couldn’t be tragedy when there was such life in the room, could there?

After a nerve-racking five hours, the doctor came out and said she was OK. By that time, Pakcik Norhuda, Makcik and I were well on our way to becoming friends.

On the day mum was discharged, I dropped by to see him one last time.

“You must visit me if you’re ever in KL again,” Pakcik Norhuda said.

Just before I left, he said thoughtfully: “Ah Yun, have you ever thanked your parents for bringing you into this world? Hmm. Take your time to show them you care. They will appreciate it.”

Something changed after the operation. I began to see how being a stoic, undemonstrative Asian wasn’t a very good thing after all. Pakcik Norhuda’s simple words stuck in my head. What could I do to improve things?

I took a cue from Hollywood: I began to forge a habit of hugging my parents every time before leaving for work.

It was awkward, and didn’t always get the desired effect. They rarely hugged back, but even as they gruffly said, “No need lah . . . you’ll be late for your bus”, I could see in their expressions that my fumbling attempts pleased them.

Pakcik Norhuda continued to text me from time to time. He would wish me without fail during festive occasions, always ending with: “How are your parents? Make sure you show them that you care, OK?”

Most times I replied, but sometimes I didn’t. Even as Pakcik went in and out of the hospital a few times for lung and other organ ailments, I always took for granted that I’d receive his cheerful sms every few months.

About a year later, he sent me another sms: “Ah Yun, remember me, Uncle H. I sms u during cny and 1 occasion last year and u didn’t reply. How is your mum, are u ok. Just to let u know i am warded at ijn 4 lung n asthma.”

I immediately texted him back. Even this old man with his multiple ailments and scores of children and grandchildren had the certitude to remember a stranger he met just briefly. There was no excuse for my carelessness.

My relationship with my parents continued to improve. I had taken to saying “I love you” too before every outstation trip. Then one fine day, the unexpected happened.

As I was about to set forth for Kuala Lumpur again, Mum said in reflex, “Love you too.”

I went stock-still. For a moment, I thought I misheard but no, she said it, loud and clear. Unprompted.

Overjoyed, naturally the first person I thought of relaying this news to was Pakcik. I texted him eagerly. Half an hour after my excited sms, I received an unexpected response:

“May i know who is this? My father passed away on 2 April.”

I read the words with shock. Passed away?

It wasn’t possible. Pakcik Norhuda had so much joie de vivre — there was no way God could take him away so fast. For some reason, I took for granted he would be around forever.

Stunned, I called the first person who came to mind.

“I wish I had a chance to tell Pakcik about today,” I told Frank, my best friend.

“He would have been so happy. Why did I ever take him for granted? Why didn’t I ever pay him a visit, even when he messaged me to tell me that he was hospitalised?”

Frank said soothingly, “Don’t feel so bad. I’m sure things happen for a reason.”

“I never had a chance to thank him,” my voice broke.

“Maybe not in the way you think, babe. Maybe you are reaching out to him somehow. Maybe your mother saying I love you, was his way of saying ‘Good on you girl’ all the way from heaven. ‘‘

I lapped up his words hungrily. Frank was offering hope. And hope was good. It meant that Pakcik’s good deeds were not in vain. It meant that maybe there was a chance that Pakcik could hear me after all.

And in a strange, befitting way, Pakcik’s legacy lives on in my relationship with my parents and every hug I give them.

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