When we first entered the room,
the first thing that hit me was how the gigantic, looming bed seemed to be framing
his frail, tiny torso. This invoked some sort of unexplained,
illogical fear and anxiety in me that slowly, as he fade away,
day by day,
some day he might disappear into thin air,
both physically and spiritually.

...

As mom left the room to take care of some stuff,
he closed his tired eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
I looked on,
and wondered,
how is it possible that someone can look so much in pain
even as they sleep.

(Even when he was awake,
he wore a permanent downtrodden, chronically fatigued pained expression.
It was a depressing sight to an outsider.
But mom seemed used to it and spoke to him in the usual casual, upbeat tone.
Occasionally, he would break into peals of constipated laughter
and his old, tired eyes twinkled-
those were the rare few moments
when life seemed to reverse its course of exodus out of him)

Suddenly, his largely defunct sixth sense seemed
to have mysteriously registered my presence while consciousness eluded him,
and his eyes flickered open.
With a cheeky smile plastered across his small, sunken face,
he mumbled a bunch of hokkien to me.
As he spoke, his eyes lit up, invigorated and excited.
I leaned forward, in a futile bid to make out his gibberish.
Granddad, you wait! I'll go get mom.
Mom came in, all anxious and worried.
He mumbled a few more times into her ears.
Oh! He was just asking when are you entering uni!
To her dad: She doesn't know hokkien!
He chuckled with minimal movements and maximum effort.
Once again, his eyes twinkled.
I'm glad to have made him happy
albeit a small way.


Life in that calm, tranquil yet prosaic and plain room
is mundane, lacking and utterly meaningless.
Lying on a bed,
fighting a loosing battle against Parkinson's
and waiting for death isn't exactly the happiest thing in the world.
Antidepressants can only work that much;
it stops you from thinking through inhibiting serotonin reuptakes
but it can never substitute the role of a human touch.

...

Today's one of the most special and fulfilling xmas I've ever had.
His laughter, though rare and truncated,
is enough for a day's happiness for me.
I'm so glad I didn't miss out on such precious moments.

Merry Xmas,
my loved ones :)