Don't Waste Your Life

I remember that bright sunny day. I remember looking up at her face along that road, her face covered in shade with the straw hat that she was wearing. She refused to let me push her trolley of cluttered stuff stacked taller than herself, citing that her leaning on the trolley as she pushed it forward gave a form of support to her legs. I remember being pleasantly surprised by her strength.

I remember chasing her down that road, slightly alarmed at how quick she was able to go despite the limp. I remember that quick wave with a smile, as she called out a semi-grateful 'gam xia' (thank you in Hokkien). That voice was cheery and bright. I recall that sun shining above her head.

I remember feeling a kind of a pleasant resignation. Even though I didn't feel this was the best way to earn a living given her health conditions, but there was a secret smile to myself at her resilience and strength.
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The piles of stuff lie untouched outside the house. The empty oil cans, the cardboards, the egg cartons. Untouched, ungathered, unmoved. The door lock is spoilt and it is chained to the main gate which is secured with a padlock. There are more chains on that door than a regular door, but the chains were a sign of human presence inside it.
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I reeled backwards from the shock. The face was the same, so familiar, yet so distant. 'I'm about to feed her..' said the nurse. I almost did not hear that voice, until I noticed the nurse's eyes on me. 'Can I be around while you feed her?' 'Sure.' I tried to ask about frailty, but all she would say was that she was a student nurse.

I held her hand. She did not recognise me, but it's alright. After all, she had only seen me twice before this. I had trouble explaining to her I was from TRANS Centre. 'How on earth do you say TRANS Centre in Hokkien?', my mind raced. I felt awkward as the nurse started to feed her.

I tried to draw relations to people she might know in order for her to recognise me. 'Miss P. You remember Ms P?' She did not. I felt stupid after saying that. Why, at that moment, was it about me? Why on earth should that moment revolve around who I was? It didn't matter. I didn't matter. It wasn't about me.

I just held her hand. She asked if I was an officer. I asked if there were still pains. Yes, I was technically an officer. Yes, the pains were everywhere. No, I was not an officer. I was a human being.

I remembered Kubler-Ross' book, in which she had said that 'being there is the greatest sign of love.' I wanted to kick myself for my inability to fully speak and comprehend Hokkien. My language inability meant I couldn't be there. I couldn't express my concern properly. I had to make her painfully repeat her words.

I touched that ingrown, rotten thumbnail. 'Oh Hi. You're a relative?' 'No. I'm her social worker..' And the word 'relative' seemed to meld into the whir of the ceiling fans.

If a tree falls in the forest alone, and nobody hears it, did it really fall? If a son came to visit, but she has no recollection of it, did he really come? If a life was lived in quietness and nobody noticed it, was the life really lived?

'Eh. You take over the feeding. My duty over already.' 'Ok.'

In the most cheery of voices, she rang out 'Aunty, li ai jiak ah!' (meaning 'you must eat ah!' in Hokkien), with a tone of concern. That tone rang out onto the ceiling. Some of it got sucked into the fans, some of it flew out of the window, and the remaining shrill-ness bounced into my ears, reflected off the cold hard mirror of loneliness . None of it went to where it was supposed to go: her.

I was shocked at the quick change of feeders. If feeding was an act of compassion and service, how did this act get passed on? How did time come to be a fence limiting the boundaries of care? How did duty change from an active word to a passive one with the clicking of the second hand? How did duty morph from inclusivity to exclusionism?
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And so, I decided to leave as the awkwardness hit me again. She thanked me for coming. 'gam xia..' she said.. this time her voice trailing with a kind of weakness reflecting in stark contrast to the previous time she had thanked me.

But in that split second, images flashed past my mind. Images of suffering, of the toughness of life, of obstacles, of difficulties, of resilience, of determination, of strength. And the question hit my mind, drawing tears to their brink. 'What's the point of all this?'

What of the tubes inserted all over her body? Like the chains on her door, locking inside the presence of frail humanity? What of the people she had once cared for, the family she had borne out of this very body now so weakened with illness and pain? Untouched, ungathered, unmoved. Like her cardboards, oil cans and egg cartons.

What is the meaning of suffering? Many make meaning of suffering by hindsight. If the suffering brought blessing, that becomes their meaning. Their suffering becomes 'worth it'. But what of suffering that brings no blessing? Suffering that seemingly does not end? When morning does not come after the darkness of the night, when joy does not come with the sorrow that was supposed to last but for a night?

What is the meaning of suffering? What is the meaning of innocent suffering? It is the enduring question that philosophers have struggled to answer for centuries, and it is the question that brought those tears I tried to fight back in that ward. It is a question not just for philosophers, but for anyone who is human, even a cardboard seller.

What is the point of it all?

I don't know...