Distance

My parents are flying to Malaysia again after we found out my grandpa isn't doing well. A fall last week sounded pretty bad, and then this week he was in critical care with a lung infection and something with his kidney. He's been far from good health for quite awhile, and "frail" is how I would describe all the photos I've seen of him recently.

I haven't seen him since our last family trip to Malaysia in 2005, so it's been six and a half years. The phone calls that happen maybe once a year or so usually involve having to shout my name over the phone four or five times until you think he knows who you are, but you're never really sure.

Even so, I face the news with a sort of sadness that I never had with the other two grandparents who passed away. I think, in light of my recent thoughts of the first-generation/immigrant experience, I'm realizing both the unique joys but also the sharp gap in the generations. One such funny realization: my children will never have the same hilarious stories as my siblings as I have about parents trying to communicate in English. This sadder realization: there is a distinct experience about relatives being overseas, away from reach, and never really in your life.

But if there was one grandparent I ever "knew", it is my mom's dad. He lives with my mom's sister, whose home we spend the majority of the time in when we visit. They moved to a much larger, grander house a few years ago, but I still remember the bed in the back of the house where my grandpa would sit. I remember my mom or my aunt taking turns telling any of us kids to walk with grandpa, letting our young arms be a steady support for my grandpa's thin frame.

Most distinctly, I remember one afternoon when we were lounging around, watching TV, doing nothing in particular. I don't remember why, but my grandpa called me, just me, over to the table, where a hot cup of either Milo or milk tea (this part I don't remember) was waiting. Either way, I remember my sixteen-year-old self being happy that my old grandpa had taken time to make a beverage I loved, but I had some difficult expressing it as it was too hot for me to drink enthusiastically. That drink, plus a few times when I chose to sit next to him at dinner, are among the very few memories I have of my grandpa. And still, they are more memories than I have of any other grandparent.

Should I be grieved? Should I be sad? What am I being sad for, when it feels like my relative's lives affect so little of mine? Is it enough that he is my mom's dad, directly connected by blood, and I know my mom is already saddened by his failing health? It feels so late in life to be contemplating my grandparents' presence (or lack thereof) in our lives...yet I also recognize I had no reason to think of it in sixth grade or in sophomore year. I don't know what I'm missing in terms of grandparents because this is all I've ever known, yet this little that I do know is probably going to be lost soon. I guess that's it.

Amid all of this, I feel guilty for thinking, They can't afford another trip to Malaysia. And with Chinese New Year in February, they can't get any flights back till March. With that two month absence from the States, I am getting this sinking feeling that my dad won't ever go back to work, and while I admit that's extreme, it's definitely what it feels like. And that thought, plus knowing the several thousand dollars the plane tickets cost...I don't even know what to think about my family's finances. I'm also sad that we won't be celebrating New Year's as a family. I know-know-know that's an extremely selfish thought and minor point, but I had a few extra reasons I was looking forward to my favorite holiday this year. To name a few: this was going to be Darrell's first time celebrating a major holiday with our family, my mom got excited and already put up decorations early, and I'm in the middle of very much loving the fact that I am Chinese. Again, all selfish reasons...but feelings are valid, right?