Mei Niang

I thought about my grandma today. This picture above was from when she was still in school - wasn't she cute? I've been told that I got a lot of my features from her, which is nice to know.

She died in 1996. Some of my cousins barely even knew her, which is incredibly sad as she was an amazing woman. I wonder how many of them asked their parents about her, if they even think about her anymore. A person is never really dead until everyone who knew them has forgotten about them, so I guess she's still living in our memories.

Her story sounds unremarkable when you first hear it: she was a midwife. But when I hear my parents start to enthusiastically talk about the people whose lives she touched, it touches me too. She often midwifed for free or accepted only a small token from families who couldn't afford expensive healthcare. I figured this is the reason for her legion of god-children and grateful pseudo-relatives who bombarded our house during Chinese New Year in past years - in fact, some of them still visit us, even though they are of no blood relation to us at all. Her midwifing 'precinct' apparently spanned at least a three-neighbourhood radius. My dad would tell me about all the food the happy families would press her to accept in return for her services. He'd tell me how their tiny, crowded home was often crammed with kids that she would help to look after and feed. It was eye-popping to hear about the number of people that filled the humble abode at any one time.

I remember her as a gentle, positive person who never stopped finding something to do, save for her short afternoon naps. Even with a maid in the house, she'd pick up a broom and start sweeping up fallen leaves, find something to tidy up, or stop to chat with her grandchildren. I remember her and grandpa showing up at our doorstep with bundles of fruits each time they came to stay. I was rather disappointed when they stopped coming to stay regularly. As a kid, I was impressed that she could speak a few languages and many dialects (not too wonderfully, but hey, let's hear YOU speak more than two languages). From all accounts, she was the main person of the household, handling the multitude of people that came in and out of the house and keeping everything running well. I also remember she loved drinking sweet packeted drinks. She survived her first brush with cancer.

I remember the first time I saw her cry. Grandpa had died some weeks before and his picture hung in my study room. I was doing homework when she came in and sat down to talk. She looked at his picture and started to cry as she spoke about him. I had never seen her sad before.

The second time I saw her truly sad was at a time when she could hardly cry even if she'd wanted to. She was lying on a bed in Singapore General Hospital, dying. Going by the signs, she was simply hanging on that week, and there was no reason why she should still be alive at that point. Her moment of sadness was when my father held his mobile phone next to her ear and she pleaded my sister to come home. I remember her exact words (in Hokkien): "Ah Tieng, come home. Ah Ma is going to die." After that day, she could no longer speak. My sister flew 13,673 kilometres across the ocean and arrived two days later and rushed to the hospital to see my grandma the last time. Grandma then died the next day.

I still think about the stories told about her. I remember Grandpa's story of how he liked her and wanted to get her family to let him marry her. I remember my mum chuckling about how she heard about how sought-after she was, apparently the prettiest girl in the kampung (village). In my mind, the only other woman who measures up to her in capability, gentleness and strength of character is maybe Mother Theresa (and then again).

I'd glad I took the time to ask my grannies about their stories before they were gone, and that my parents are still glad to tell me more when I ask. I can't decide if my favourite story is my grandpa's dramatic tale of his flight from his village in China to Singapore during the war, or any of his half-baked funny stories told in broken Mandarin.

Everyone that has lived has a story. Learn their stories before you regret not having cared at all.