The second hand on the hospital wall swept continuously at a steady pace while I watched my grandma's breathing slow, knowing that her internal clock was stopping. I had been waiting for this day for multiple years, wondering if I’d feel like myself ever again. For the past few years, I've been prepping for the day when I would no longer have my grandma. My life coach called it "anticipatory grief," the term describing what it means to anguish over a future loss and grieve a past I wouldn’t get back. As I write this, I am most pained knowing that I can't talk to my grandma anymore to tell her how much she means to me, and also tell her that all of my successes are largely due to her. I want her to know that her sacrifices were worth it, even though she wasn’t able to enjoy many of the pleasures of life herself.

The past few days have been tough, as she entered the hospital unexpectedly on a Wednesday afternoon, and passed away less than 48 hours later, on a Friday. I write this a week later on a Thursday, after a week full of reflection, sadness, uncertainty, and mourning. The pain is compounded by the various things, big and small, that remind me of her, laid across the childhood home I’m staying in.

Luck

I acknowledge I’m lucky to have a grandparent into my thirties. For those who have lost siblings and parents at younger ages, I can only imagine how that can change your perspective and trajectory in life. In many ways, I don’t know if this feels selfish or wrong, but I’m glad that she was the last grandparent to die. It seems strange, but it feels almost as if God knew that all the other people in my life passed to prepare me for the day I would lose my Popo.

I’m also lucky to be there for her final moments. I was lucky to see her in her final moments of lucidity, right before she fell unconscious. She imparted upon me and Christy over FaceTime words of wisdom, guidance, and a silent, implicit acknowledgement that these were some of the last words she would say to us. In those last moments, she wished me and my wife a long, happy marriage, told us that we should never hold grudges, and that together, we would take care of our parents as they aged as well. She gave me and Christy a final blessing, something I'm so grateful to have had, knowing she was in her conscious mind as she showed us her generosity and love. As time passes, I hope the memory of her weakening in the hospital bed fades, and these final words continue to resound.

Regrets

I regret not having deeper conversations with my grandma when she was still alive. With age, she lost her hearing, making it difficult to have extended conversations unless I yelled into her right ear. I never got a chance to ask many of the things I wanted. I wanted to know more about her childhood, what it was like growing up as a child in the 1930s – what her parents, grandparents, siblings were like. I wanted to know the things that brought her joy, and the struggles she endured that helped shaped her strong character as she grew up and got married. I regret not asking more about my grandpa, with whom she had four children, but who died many years before I was born.

I regret not visiting more often, and not staying for longer periods of time when I did come home. For the past few years, each time I visited, I noticed how her health deteriorated – she got sick during COVID, she fought a severe infection on her right leg, and continued to suffer from chronic arthritis that only got worse with increasingly colder winters. I made excuses each time I video called her and told her I was busy at work in New York, that I would visit soon. And yet, every time I said that, I felt my heart tug at me, even though I was only 4 hours away by Amtrak, that there were people in Boston who missed me and wanted to know I was doing well. “Worry about yourself, get enough sleep, don’t stay out too late.” she would remind me over and over again.

My grandmother was there for every milestone over the past thirty years. She was there for all my graduations, she was there when her son—my uncle—died. She was there as I grew up and got my first job, and most recently, when I got married. But I’m sad she won't be here for my future ones.

I regret not finding ways to help my family take care of her more while she was alive. I knew how difficult caretaking was for my parents. For me, I lost my grandmother, but my mom lost a parent, and she carried the guilt that comes with caretaking. She helped keep my grandma alive and healthy for so long, and as a result, we were reluctant to go anywhere on vacation for long, knowing we couldn't stray too far if Grandma got sick. I tried to do what I could, installing an Alexa so family could call in and have her hear us on the louder speaker, and setting up cameras to make sure she was okay. But a lot of this was driven by the fear that she would fall or stop breathing, something that I knew would naturally take its course one day.

Memories

I have so many memories growing up with my grandma, like getting a free slice of pizza at Stop & Shop for showing them my fully completed reading list for the month. We would stroll over to the park where she would watch over me as I played basketball with the kids. While my parents were working, she would babysit me and speak to me in Toishanese. I remember the time she saved me from choking on a quarter while she was cooking dinner. She would pick me up from the elementary school across the street, waiting outside the fence while I came running home with her, hand in hand. We met each other in the middle, and I felt like we were intertwined in spirit.

When I was younger and she was still healthy, she could climb the stairs to my room to deliver food to me. As I got older, I would try to return the favor and take the elevator to her retirement home to bring her food that she could enjoy even without all her teeth.

I remember the summer I spent working near her home in Boston. I was eager to show her that I was self-sufficient—a "big boy" finally making his own money. With my first paycheck, I wanted to treat her to dim sum, flipping the dynamic of an activity we always shared on weekends. Yet, no matter what I earned, she would still ask if I needed food or money. When I brought her to visit my shiny new office, I felt a pang of guilt. I realized I was enjoying the benefits of the life she had sacrificed so much to build, living out the dreams she made possible, but never got the chance to enjoy herself.

Heritage

My grandma left us in the afternoon on an overcast Friday, at 1:34 PM on January 23rd. She was surrounded by love and a large family. Towards the end, everyone in our immediate family got a chance to say bye to her in person or over FaceTime. I’d like to believe she was in little pain towards the end and surrounded by a lot of love.

She was selfless, responsible, and truly one of the most caring people I know. Her generosity never wavered; even on her deathbed, as her great-grandchildren stood around her, she gestured to the hospital snacks and drinks, telling them in Toishanese to eat. She was a spiritual person, the anchor and matriarch for our family for a long time. Everything I am, and everything I hope to be, I owe to her.