Irene Hoe, who needs no introduction, is from the University of Singapore. She is a writer, editor, coach, and editorial consultant and was with SPH from 1978 to 2004. She has written and contributed to a number of books.
She agreed to share her current Facebook story about her mum.
Thank you, Irene.
20 COMMENTS, CHATS
It's been 13 years since my last Mother's Day with Mum. It was in January 2014, that her qigong therapist told my sister Annie and me that we could lose her at any time. "The tide comes in, and the tide goes out. For your mother, the tide is going out," he said. "In her condition, anything can happen at any time."
It was then that I decided that for however long more I had with Mum, I would try to be the best daughter I could be. And every day would be Mother's Day. It was the best decision I have ever made.
That "however long" turned out to be about four months. In that time, I composed a farewell message that friends helped me to translate and transliterate into Cantonese, and to coach me in reading it aloud to Mum (image below).
One afternoon, as she lay in bed half dozing, I sat down on her bed and began to read my farewell. When I started, she was startled into opening her eyes. She hadn't ever heard me articulate such good Cantonese before. A tear escaped one eye. Then another. Then the other eye. And pretty soon both of us were pretty much awash with tears and I was all choked up, and her pillow was sodden.
I told her that I loved her and that it didn't matter if she couldn't say those words back to me because I knew she loved me. Every time she'd call me to tell me to come home for dinner because she'd made one — or many —of my favourite dishes. Every time she'd come home late at night after working for at least 12 hours at her restaurant and despite being dead tired, she'd always place a hand on my forehead to check if I had a fever. She did that for all of us before she could finally have her bath and go to sleep.
I told her that I loved her and that it didn't matter if she couldn't say those words back to me because I knew she loved me. Every time she'd call me to tell me to come home for dinner because she'd made one — or many —of my favourite dishes. Every time she'd come home late at night after working for at least 12 hours at her restaurant and despite being dead tired, she'd always place a hand on my forehead to check if I had a fever. She did that for all of us before she could finally have her bath and go to sleep.
She had slipped and fallen at home in November 2003 and though X-rays uncovered no broken bones, she had grown steadily weaker. The last meal she prepared for us was lunch on the first day of Chinese New Year 2004. She apologised that it wasn't up to standard — her standard — although of course, it was delicious as usual. I think she somehow knew it would be the last time she would cook for us.
Cooking and feeding family and friends had been her life (mahjong was an enjoyable sideline) since she closed her restaurant and retired. And not long after Chinese New Year, she couldn't even walk unaided. She found her new dentures — an idiot dentist had encouraged her to have her remaining teeth extracted — very uncomfortable, so she refused to use them and was reduced to eating soft foods. I could tell she was ready to go.
So, that afternoon when I sat by her side, I told her that I knew she was finding so little pleasure in life. "You have worked so hard. I know you are tired. You have done your job. You brought us all up and we will be all right. We will be sad but we don't want you to suffer. If you feel you want to go, I won't hold you back. I don't want you to suffer."
Not long after that, she went into the hospital for the last time. Her blood pressure which had always been low inexplicably kept sliding lower and lower. Until the inevitable happened.
