My goong goong (Cantonese for "grandfather") had been such a tall, strong man with a good, good heart. I remember sitting by his side when he was seated at his special chair in the living room of our house. I marveled at his lean, toned arms with large veins. The muscles on his forearms looked like ropes twirled around his arms.
I would follow him into the bamboo forest behind our house and watch as he used his cane knife to cut down tall bamboo stalks that reached forever into the sky. After cutting these stalks into smaller sections he would gather them all up, balance them on one shoulder, then walk out of the forest with me in tow. When we got to our back yard he would get a metal wedge and hammer and sliver each pole into strips about an inch and a half wide. Then he would use his cane knife to sharpen one end of each of these slivered bamboo poles.
Later he would poke the sharpened ends of the poles into equal distances between each other in the ground in every garden area available around our property. He taught me to make a hole about 2 inches deep at the base of each pole, insert 2 bean seeds into each of these holes, then to cover each hole with the black, moist soil covered our property. Eventuall, the seeds would sprout, wind its leafy vines up the bamboo poles and then produce string beans that my grandfather would sell at market. I remember that most of our meals at home would consist almost always of some of these string beans.
But then, alas, my grandfather got sick. He went into the hospital and stayed there for weeks. One morning he dressed himself, determined and insisting to come home. While at home he continued to work.........tending to his vegetables in the garden. Then he got sick again and stayed in his room in the basement of our house. One day he called out to me, using the Chinese name that he had bestowed upon me. But I didn't answer him......I wanted to ride my bike and play..........to this day I feel extremely, extremely guilty over not answering him that time. He had, after all, been my babysitter when I was a baby. I heard from my mom that he used to place me in the stroller every day and push me up the hill to the end of the road in front of our house. I would fall asleep in the strolller and he would gather me in his strong arms and carry me home while pushing the stroller. And I had refused to answer him when he was sick and in need of me. This guilt has never escaped me.
My grandfather developed pnuemonia and other complications and had to go back into the hospital. I was in the fifth grade at the time, around 10 years old. One day I arrived in class and remarked to the girl who sat next to me: "Doesn't it seem like something is going to happen today?"
That afternoon we got a call at home from the hospital telling us that goong goong had been placed on the critical list. We rushed to the hospital. My goong goong was in utter pain. I had never seen him that way. He had always been so strong. And now he was writhing on the bed in pain. He asked my father for a knife so that he could kill himself. I was devestated and felt so helpless. All I could do was to grip the iron bars at the foot of my goong goong's hospital bed.
My dad was beside himself, trying desperately to contact the doctor who had gone golfing, even though he had known that my goong goong was in a bad way.
All of a sudden I heard my mother scream. My goong goong had stopped moving, had stopped struggling, had gone into a coma, with his eyes wide open. We learned from the doctor later that my goong goong just could not tolerate the pain and thus, had gone into this coma. The doctor wandered away somewhere. The nurse would periodically check my grandfather's pulse. Then, after checking goong goong's pulse one last time, I saw her start running down the pathway between all the other patients' beds. The doctor subsequently came over, listened to goong goong's heart with his stethescope then told my dad: "Well, Richard, your dad lived a good life". Then he used his index finger to make circular motions directly on goong goong's eyes, which had remained wide open in his pain induced coma, used his palms to close my goong goong's eyes, and placed the bed sheet up over goong goong's head.
I remember sitting there gripping the iron bars at the foot of goong goong's bed, just looking at his feet. My goong goong was so tall that the bedsheet, after being pulled over his head, was not long enough to cover his feet. That vision was the last I had of goong goong before his funeral. It was such a forlorn scene. My dear goong goong dying there in utter pain in an old hospital. What a helpless feeling I had. And such guilt that I hadn't answered his call when he needed me, that I had not spent more time with him, that I had not done as much as I could have.
The life and death of goong goong has always affected me. It imbedded such an imprint on my mind and emotions that it shaped my perception of life forever. The guilt, sorrow and grief in my heart has never really left me.
My dear goong goong had departed us forever.