To my Father

A week ago my father took his final breath. He went quickly and peacefully after dinner. He’d had such a good day, eating all his food and even joking with his carers, that they did not have any inkling they were seeing a man in his final hours. I’m glad it happened that way.

If I could have spoken to my father, this is what I would have said.

I’m sorry, Dad, that I’m not by your side right now. I know you would have preferred to die in the house you had lived in for twenty five years. I’m really sorry I could not make that happen – you never got to see your house again.

But you were in a happy place. You didn’t like it initially, of course – who does? At Thanksgiving, when they asked you what you were thankful for, you said, ‘I’m thankful to be in this happy place.’

It was indeed a happy place, this small care home in a leafy suburb where they treated you as a person, not a number. Everyone knew your name and you knew theirs. They really looked after you. They are now shattered that you left without warning.

You were not a man of many words. We learned more about your life from files you had kept – which we found while cleaning up – than from anything you ever told us. You never talked about your achievements, almost as if you were a little embarrassed that they were not enough, that what you had done did not stack up in some people’s eyes. For a boy from a small town, born when Malaysia was still Malaya, who died 10,182 miles from his place of birth, you went a long way. You have a lot to be proud of.

Your own traditional Chinese father and mother did not speak English. You told me how, on your first day at an English-language school in Teluk Intan (Telok Anson in your days), you had no idea what the class teacher was saying. When he asked the whole class to stand up, your bum remained firmly on your seat. Fortunately, the teacher guessed that you did not understand. He was a Malay man who had married a Chinese woman and, having learned Cantonese himself, he said to you, ‘Hei sun, hei sun!’ (Get up, get up!).

From him you learned your first English words. And you never looked back. You were taught grammar the old-fashioned way. You had to learn spelling and syntax and punctuation; you knew the purpose of an apostrophe; you did not, unlike so many today, confuse ‘it’s’ with ‘its’.

But you were also a man of your generation and culture. Although you were interested in science, you never discussed science with me. When I announced my desire to become a physicist, you told me to ‘forget my fanciful dreams’. In those days, I suspect you could only imagine boys becoming physicists. Thank goodness that I inherited more than your logical mind – I also inherited your obstinacy. I ignored you. In the end I hope I made you proud.

Watching your physical deterioration this past year has been painful. There was no getting away from the reality that you no longer enjoyed the quality of life you’d previously had. You knew the end was near. You also knew the President’s name and what day of the week it was. I take comfort from the fact that you still smiled.

On your last full night on Earth, I’m told you sang through the night, keeping the entire house awake. In the morning you seemed oblivious to having been up. You continued bossing your carers about, demanding coffee.

I smile at this story. That extraordinary burst of energy would have worn anyone out.

Please, take it easy now, Dad. There is nothing more you need worry about, no one you must provide for. Sleep well.