By: Michael H Wong
PART I: The Tribute
Part I was originally posted to my personal Facebook page upon being notified of my Grandpa’s death on November 14th, 2016.
Even as a three-year-old, my attention to detail was beginning to form. We would walk the aisles at the market for what seemed like ages. But my grandpa never complained, his legs were still working. We spent hours at the supermarket for one or two items. Back then, time didn’t matter.
Grandpa: “Are you sure this won’t make us sick?”
Me: “Promise!”
I knew what I bought. I could recognize letters on the box. That was pudding mix. I’ve seen how pudding is made a bunch of times. You add milk, stir and put the mixture in the fridge. The iconic red letters on the packaging told me I had the right box. J-E-L-L-O. That spelled “pudding.” He spent hours in the bathroom that night. I remember the days back when I could still digest dairy.
I used to visit my grandpa every day. It was easy back then. My family lived in the apartment above his and he would babysit me. But really, I felt like I was just visiting my best friend. Sometimes we would go to McDonald’s, and with his limited English he would manage to order a sausage biscuit for me and a senior coffee for himself (he didn’t like to pay full price for anything… must be hereditary). Sometimes we would go to Monticello’s on Clark and grab a slice of the greasiest pizza I can still remember. Afterwards we would go to the park and laugh at pigeons.
Then I moved away to the suburbs. I started school and, instead of seeing him every day, I saw him only on Saturdays. Those weekly visits then turned into monthly encounters. As I became older, my weekends were consumed by school and extracurricular activities. Time was now a commodity. Our short visits were restricted to only birthdays and holidays celebrations. Our extended family grew larger, yet somehow he remembered all 21 of his grandchildren’s names.
A few years ago his memory started fading and the rest of his body was going as well. He responded only to his basic hierarchy of needs. Time was not on our side. I last heard his voice on the phone. When my mom held the phone up to his face, I didn’t really know what to say. I started with a standard Chinese greeting:
“Have you eaten yet?”
I asked even though I already knew the answer. His hearing aid was turned down, but after adjustment, he responded:
“Not hungry. When do you want to go see pigeons?”
Of course, he wasn’t hungry, he had a feeding tube. And yet, even when he forgot the name of his caretaker and most of his grandchildren, he always seemed to remember me.
Back when we were ceiling-floor neighbors, we would have dinner on most nights and he would indulge in a small glass of Martell V.S.O.P. Cognac. I snuck a sip one time, and it burned. I recently had a small glass in his honor. That stuff still burns. But I’ll pour one out.
RIP Grandpa. Say hi to grandma for us. Enjoy the mahjong parlor in the sky.
PART II: The Reflection
This follow-up reflection was written in October 2019. I discuss how I managed the logistics of being a medical student while processing the ensuing days after my grandfather’s death.
I wrote the preceding tribute essay nearly three years ago to commemorate my grandpa’s life. At the time, I was a first year medical student having moved to New Orleans a few months prior. I was adjusting to living and learning in a new city by myself while still trying to form a social network. My family members back in Chicago were processing grandpa’s prognosis... hours to days. I became overwhelmed with nostalgia—leading me to writing the essay in the days leading up to my Grandpa's passing. It was in the afternoon on a Monday. November 14th, 2016. I received an email from my dad:
“Grand Pap passed away today at 1:15. He went peacefully.”
His suffering was over. According to Chinese tradition, funeral services were to take place as soon as possible. The visitation was on Thursday night; the burial would take place the following morning. For me, that was a vicious time crunch since I was facing an exam eight days later. I went back to my personal calendar from years ago to review the events of that week. Normally, a death in the family would supersede all other life events. In the real world, a death in the family would allow three days for bereavement. Unfortunately, med school is not the real world.
I thought about asking my administration for taking some time off and pushing my exam. But before I consulted anyone else, I had to look inwards. During this stressful time, I asked myself three questions:
● Did I have a role at the funeral?
● Could I continue studying?
● Would I have any regret missing the funeral?
I then asked myself, did I have a role at the funeral? Rumor has it, I would have had seniority among the cousins to be a pallbearer. It’s just a rumor, I don’t know if there was any truth since I also heard plans changed at the eleventh hour. But I called my mom the evening of finding out her father had passed. I needed to know if she needed my support. She was okay. We were all okay. We anticipated this loss. Remember, I had pre-written the tribute essay. I had been actively grieving pre-mortem. Death can be tragic when unexpected. But when the agony of dying spanned through weeks… his passing offered our family closure. And, I had my mom’s blessing to stay at school to continue with my work.
During the first months of medical school, I recall having issues adjusting academically and socially. I was trying to meet the increased demands of our first year block exams now with four courses after barely managing just a single anatomy class. I was drowning and I didn't really have anyone to confide in about my struggles. In fact, I had academic meetings with multiple course directors in the weeks surrounding my grandfather’s death on my calendar. If I asked for extra time to attend the funeral and to study, I know that my school’s administration would have supported me in my time of need. However, I considered my mental health sake. It was not in my best interest to drop everything and have to be at a funeral physically, but not mentally nor emotionally. Knowing myself, I would have been anxious that I wouldn’t be studying. Thanksgiving was the next week anyway, I was flying home after the exam. Going to the funeral meant that I would have to study during the break. And flying into O'Hare multiple times in the winter months can be a hellish ordeal. Taking a break would have offered a slight pause, but I felt it was a delay to my own agony. That temporary reprieve from work would have been detrimental in the long run. Fortunately, my decision to fly home before the exam was not based on a lack of resources… I had the frequent flyer miles to do so. But I deliberately chose not to go to the funeral. I had to keep working for my own sake.
But finally, I had to come to terms with myself. Would I have any regrets if I missed the funeral? Quite honestly, I lost the chance to say goodbye to someone who was arguably my best friend while growing up. To this day, a part of me still wonders whether or not I should have gone home. On the morning of my Grandpa’s visitation, my former anatomy lab group, which became my Team Based Learning group knew that I was not myself. I was simply melancholy and minimally participatory. I felt trapped for the entirety of the mandatory TBL event. I would go as far as saying I didn’t want to be around people. On the outside, I feigned a weak smile. But I felt empty on the inside.
As we were packing up to leave, my team members asked me to wait up. The members of my group had put together a little care package. A sweet condolence card and some even sweeter candy. I was so stressed academically and mentally, I don’t remember how I responded—I was likely overcome with emotions. But the fact that I remember the gesture, means that it has stuck with me as a fond memory. Maybe staying away from an emotionally heavy event was what I needed. I don't know. But that was the first exam that I passed every single course.
When studying medicine, the days are long and the textbook chapters are endless. Now that I have taken dozens of exams since my first year, I have learned that there are days that will strip any semblance of humanity in the name of studies. The day my group members not only told me that they cared about me but showed me that I was in their thoughts. That is something I still think about even as the years have passed. Sometimes, I look back at being absent from an occasion to celebrate the life of someone who has meant so much to me. I recognize that sometimes we have to make the best decisions with what we know at the time, and we have to accept that sometimes there is no perfect solution. That is something that my medical training has taught me to accept. It has taken me years to learn that and find that peace with myself.
Epilogue
While I’ve taken the time to share my stories with the masses, at this time, I wanted to shift the tone and provide wisdom to my inner self:
Sometimes you make decisions, and sometimes those decisions are hard. Sometimes, you may even regret those decisions. But when you take a moment to look back, you have learned that even during dark times—coping with the death of a loved one—you were able to thrive and persist. You were shown love and compassion by others—you found your people. But most importantly, you showed love and compassion to yourself—you grew in ways that you never knew were possible. And now you are sharing your stories so that someday, someone may find solace in your suffering as part of their healing. I know Grandpa would be so proud of how you did on that test… but he would be even prouder of the man you have become and the physician you will be.