My darling,
It seems to be particularly cold this winter, and it has begun to rain again. The chill prodded you to put on a jacket. Then you began to pace the room anxiously. You said to me thoughtfully, “It’s cold. I need to go check on Mom.”
I stood in your way so you couldn’t get out. You protested: “She may forget to bundle up and catch a cold. I’m worried.” I knew all too well that you meant well, but still I shouted at you, “Your mother died more than 20 years ago! Who are you going to see?” Perplexed and astonished, you just stared at me.
Some time ago, we had our family reunion for Chinese New Year, but only a few days later, you kept bugging me to summon all our children and grandchildren home. You said to me, “Hurry to the bank and get some new bills. Chinese New Year is coming up soon. I need to give red envelopes to our grandchildren.”
Episode after episode of your forgetfulness have played out repeatedly. You forget what you just said or did with increasing frequency. Once you even forgot your way home. All this told me that something was wrong with you, and sure enough you were diagnosed with a mild cognitive impairment. It gradually encroached on your ability to function normally. You’re officially a demented old man now.
My dear, I know contracting this illness at our ripe age is nothing unusual. But at times it still irks me to hear you talk repeatedly about events that happened a long time ago, to see you forget that you already took a shower for the day or that you already had dinner. I really want to cry my heart out. I’m mad at you for forgetting, but I’m angrier at myself for not being more understanding.
Our son urged me to go easy on you and on myself. He said it’s just that I haven’t gotten used to the new reality. Thankfully, our son and daughter-in-law are kind enough to share the around-the-clock work of caring for you, but they can’t share the ache in my heart.
My dear, it’s been very hard for me during the four years that you’ve been ill. I often feel like a bird locked in a cage with no hope for a better tomorrow. Besides the love in our family, what has helped me through these moments of darkness is our daily visit to the Tzu Chi recycling station where you and I volunteer.
You’ve been a certified Tzu Chi volunteer for more than a decade, and recycling work has always been your favorite activity. But as your condition went through its ups and downs, I debated whether I should cut your ties with the recycling station.
But I just couldn’t bring myself to do that, so after a while you and I stepped into the Chongshang Recycling Station in Zuoying, Kaohsiung, once again. The volunteers there greeted us as usual. I brought them up to date on your situation, and I told them that I really didn’t want your presence there to become a burden or bother to them. They just smiled and held my hand. “Don’t you worry,” they said. “You must bring him here every day. Don’t let him hole up at home. Contact with people may help slow down his memory loss, and we’ll keep an eye on him.”
Their warmth touched my heart, yet I was still worried—until I saw how at home you were at the recycling station. Without being guided, you walked straight to the spot where you had always sat before. You picked up an electric fan that its owner had thrown out. You looked at it, opened the motor compartment, clipped off a section of a wire, replaced it with a new wire, swapped out a few worn screws, and plugged the power cord into the outlet. Voilà! The once lifeless fan came back to life just like that!
“Nowadays people have become more wasteful. They put in air conditioners and throw out electric fans,” you commented to the volunteers sitting near you. “These seemingly bad fans are still fundamentally sound. I can fix any fan so long as its motor still works.”
You probably didn’t remember this, but everyone there knew that you were an expert repairman for electric fans. The recycling station even kept your seat for you, waiting for you to go back.
“I’ve got to hurry up and fix all these fans. When it gets hot, people will snap them up like hotcakes,” you mumbled to yourself.
I looked at you fixing the fans as if you weren’t sick, and I thought of when you were a handsome young paratrooper. You must have fond memories of those days. Why else do you still remember how to maneuver the steering lines of a parachute even though your memory has faded quite a bit?
Your sketchy memory makes me afraid to ask this question: Will you forget me one day, my dear?
I want you to remember me, so I signed us up for a memory upkeep workshop that Tzu Chi co-sponsored. We went to all nine classes on topics like qigong exercises, playdough molding, accu-massage, sign language, drumming, painting, and gardening.
Volunteer Xu Yu-fang [許玉芳] was most charming. She kept calling you grandpa to help you feel at home. She taught us to use playdough to make strawberries, snap peas, and radishes. I kneaded some dough and tried to replicate the samples that she had put on display. After I had shaped my dough into a thumb-sized strawberry, I carefully made and pasted four little green leaves on it. I was so absorbed in the experience that, my dear, I must confess that I forgot that you were right beside me for a good 30 minutes. I never expected that I myself would enjoy the class so much when I took you there.
When I finally turned around to check on you, I found that you had made a huge strawberry with four big green leaves to match. Xu was all smiles when she asked you, “Grandpa, is this a strawberry or an apple?” You said, “Big is good. Big and red make it nutritious.” You made everyone laugh, and they all came over to admire your handiwork.
It’d been a very long time since I’d last enjoyed such high-spirited companionship and felt so cheerful.
My dear, perhaps I’ll continue to feel angry or frustrated about your forgetfulness, but I also know that I’ll continue to hold your hand as we go further down this life journey.
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