优信数据造假疑云：谁在“击垮”二手车电商？

SINGAPORE – My paternal grandparents have always been there for me. We live under the same roof and they have helped to take care of me since I was born. They are such fixtures in my life that I have never thought about having to say goodbye to either of them.

I didn’t just know their birth dates – as a child, reading about something that took place in the past would prod me to calculate how old they would have been then. This hyper-awareness of their birth dates is to me a sign of their place in my heart.

And that is also why saying goodbye to my popo last October made me realise that some of the things I hold dearest in life aren’t tangible material goods like money, but the relationships and memories I have with the people I love.

The morning about nine months ago when I was awoken to the news of popo’s passing still gets a replay in my head now and then.

“Megan, popo has passed away.”

The feeling I felt when my mother uttered this more-than-sobering statement to me as I cracked open an eye is still something I cannot describe in words today.

Shock? Regret? Despair?

None of these accurately encapsulates how I felt.

Being hyper-aware of my popo’s birthday supposedly means I should be hyper-aware of the state she was in. Yet, I seemed to have been blinded to how she was slipping away.

Scrolling through old photos, especially those we took during popo’s mini birthday celebrations over the years, it was strikingly obvious from the latest one that popo was visibly thinner, weaker and paler from the year before that.

Unsurprisingly, I cried and I sobbed – when I stood by her lifeless body and called out to her, throughout the wake, at the crematorium, and up to this day, whenever I think about her.

I knew popo was ageing, but envisioning the forever departure of a loved one was something I could not muster the courage to do – until I was thrust into the reality of losing one.

Popo passed at the age of 85, and it was like reality slapped me in the face.

Twenty years of memories I had with her flashed through my mind. It dawned on me that many were old memories, and much time had passed since I last spent quality time with her.

This realisation broke me.

I tried reconciling with myself by reminding myself that I spent a few days a week living on campus, and popo had been in and out of hospital for the past year and had to go for dialysis a few times a week, limiting my opportunities to interact with her beyond a greeting.

Yet deep down, I know these were all excuses for my lack of presence at the tail end of her life. I got so caught up in my own life that I failed to realise I was down to my last few chances to be with popo.

In the last few months of popo’s life, I remember coming home one afternoon and breaking down because of a problem I was facing. Popo then came in and comforted me, but I recall not even being able to lift my head to look at her.

While I was centring all my attention on my own trivial problem, I failed to see that popo was dividing hers between her failing health and me.

Popo had done so much for me. She fed me, bathed me and watched over me when I was little, giving me all the love I needed to grow up happy.

And even when I grew more independent, her care never ceased.

When I ended my first romantic relationship, she tried probing as to why it happened, to which I refused to provide details out of embarrassment. I thought she was just being kaypoh, but it was only after her passing did my sister reveal that popo was worried about how I was coping and often asked after me.

She also showed her care through gentle reminders: to take my dormitory key when I left for campus, to eat before leaving home in the mornings, to turn on the heater before I showered.

Yet on my part, I let opportunities to care slip away.

When popo came home from dialysis late at night, she would never fail to invite me to have supper with her. It breaks my heart to recall declining her offer almost every time just because I was not hungry.

Looking back, those were golden pockets of time I could have spent keeping her company. I did not even have to eat – I could have just made my presence felt, and perhaps that was all she wanted.

Why did I not see this then? Did I really believe popo was immortal? How did I delude myself that there would always be a next time?

If there is anything minutely good that emerges with the loss of a loved one, it is a reminder clear as day to if not live like it is your last, to live like it is your loved ones’ last.

If there is anything redeeming about my past behaviour, it would be how I never scrimped on buying food for her, be it snacks or desserts I would get on the way home, or ordering in her favourites for lunch (that she would pay me back for).

Since popo was not the most affectionate through words or actions, I tried to express my love through food, and I hope she felt it.

The first several weeks following the passing of my popo, my family – including my gong gong who probably had it the hardest – had dinner together every week. While we did not avoid talking about popo, we did not delve deep into our feelings either. We just had one another’s company and that was healing.

While gong gong often passes up on invitations to dine out together now – perhaps having become more adjusted to solitude, and to avoid the crowd – and life has regained a regular pace, I know life has not “returned to normal”.

The truth is, there are some people in our lives who are irreplaceable, and I am sure my family feels the same about popo. Rather than pretending this void does not exist, I let it remind me to be more mindful in how I treat those I hold dear.

Now, I make sure to grasp opportunities to show up for friends and family, and to make the most of the time I have with them. I’ve realised that work can wait, my laziness is inexcusable, and that some of these opportunities with people I cherish may never come again.

Experiencing the loss of popo also made me realise that when one dies, the living remember you not by the material goods you leave or your greatest accomplishments – they remember who you were as a person and how you made them feel. For popo, I remember her best for her sassiness, how deeply she cared, and her comforting, unwavering presence in my life.

While I was always aware that all life comes to an end, it took losing popo for the fact to sink in. Knowing I have only finite opportunities to express love for those I cherish and to live a life I want to be remembered by has transformed the way I view and live life.