Heavy, fawn-colored curtains, diligently drawn to shield the room’s occupants from the unusual, sharp winter sunlight that normally struggled to penetrate the garden’s foliage, cascaded from a stark, whitish rod. The rod, positioned rather loftily, remained just beyond the reach of the old man, rendering his attempts to inspect for dust futile. The bedroom, basked in glorious morning sunlight, yielded to the decisive click of a light switch, plunging it into near-darkness.

The quiet hum of conversation persisted, a steady murmuring like a reassuring backdrop, as if tomorrow’s arrival was an unwavering certainty.

“I’ll be there in the morning,” a voice declared with a quiet confidence.

“I plan to bring a selection of fresh fruits and a pot of warm red bean soup,” offered another, their tone laced with gentle care.

“I’ve arranged to visit at ten o’clock, remaining until she rests again, and then I will return around five-thirty. I’ll happily leave the lunchtime period to the other caregivers,” she added, her satisfaction with this display of familial devotion evident in her voice.

“We can only hope others possess the same degree of patience when it comes to feeding Ma. Isn’t mealtimes the priority?” the old man questioned, revealing a practical concern that perhaps lacked a certain diplomatic finesse.

“My intention is simply to be with Ma whenever she needs companionship. And besides, I am able to feed her at any time,” she replied, then turning to her younger sibling, she inquired with a carefully veiled suggestion, “Perhaps you could handle lunchtime then?” She feigned a moment of forgetfulness, conveniently overlooking the old man’s continuing work commitments.

“I can drop by after an early lunch,” their elder brother interjected, his tone perhaps aimed at diffusing any potential tension.

“Oh, I should acquire some loose, comfortable long-sleeve tops for Ma,” yet another sibling chimed in thoughtfully. “Carer Abby said Ma grimaces in pain from her crooked left shoulder whenever they try to change her clothes.”

“But, won’t tomorrow be the King’s birthday? Will K-Mart remain open?” she mused aloud, directing the question as much to herself as to the others.

The collective murmuring continued unabated, an unbroken flow of discussions and plans as if the next day’s dawn was absolutely assured for their 101-year-old mother. Two weeks prior, she had suffered her first TIA. Yet she had shown remarkable resilience, staging a swift recovery and even regaining weight due to a hearty appetite for the generous, nourishing meals provided by the nursing home. However, those days following the TIA had been undeniably difficult, stripping her of her accustomed but unsteady mobility. Confined to her bed, unable to stand, she had presented a rather melancholic figure, occasionally seen tapping repetitively on her bedhead or the adjacent bedside trolley, seemingly creating a sort of Morse code, a series of signals that remained entirely inscrutable to those around her. A wordless plea for assistance, perhaps.

“U so beh fa?” she would repeatedly ask in her native Ningbo dialect. What choices are left, she had questioned the old man again and again, her voice laced with a palpable desperation.

A devastating second TIA had struck just two nights before. This severe episode had cruelly taken away her ability to consume “normal” food. No more morsels of meat, no more crisp crumbed scallops. Even the meticulously prepared colored balls of puree had proved too challenging for her to swallow. The transient ischemic attack had also robbed her of her distinct speech—her tongue, now leaning to one side and noticeably swollen, produced only slurred words. Her brain’s capacity to control her throat muscles had been drastically diminished. In frustration, she had thrown her dentures at them, resulting in the breaking of the lower set. Dental discomfort and challenges with wearing dentures are common among stroke patients. Though painstakingly repaired at a cost of $252, the dentures now resided forlornly in her drawer, awaiting a near-miraculous recovery that might rekindle her desire to use them. Her toothless appearance made her look even more frail, and she had lost much of the vigor that had previously fueled her complaints and curses. Earlier in the day, her confused mental state had led her to mistake a granddaughter for a stranger, prompting her to throw pillows at the bewildered young woman.

As her body faced an imminent shutdown, it seemed to instinctively enter a restorative phase. She spent much of the day sleeping and even skipped several meals. The old man reported to his siblings that the previous night’s dinner, which consisted of only a cup of blended chicken broth, had taken her over two hours and three short naps to consume.

“U so beh fa?” their mother had asked him again.

He felt the familiar constriction in his throat and a stone in his mouth. It wasn’t just the words themselves, but the layers of unspoken meaning they carried that made it so hard to respond. He struggled to find his voice, a genuine, reassuring one, and finding only a weak, floundering version in its place. He desperately tried to disguise this vulnerability, to cloak his uncertainty, his weakness and so, he infused his voice with a theatrical, almost operatic quality, the kind of Rigaletto-tenor he admired, hoping it would distract from his internal turmoil.

“Ma,” he began, drawing out the word for emphasis, “this is our human destiny,” he said, searching in vain for positive words, for some phrase that would alleviate her worries and his own.  He looked at her, her wan filled-with-pain face etched with the hint of death, and knew he had to find something more. “We all will have to walk this lonely path,” he added, the words feeling heavy and insufficient even as he spoke them.  He desperately wanted to offer her comfort, to paint a picture of hope, but honesty, in its raw and uncomfortable form, was all he could muster.

He shifted his focus, attempting to change the subject and introduce a practical element.

“I have brought you chicken broth. Please eat, Ma. It will give you the energy you need to recover,” he enthused with false pretense, attempting a tone of cheerful optimism that he didn’t genuinely feel. He hoped the tangible act of caring would somehow compensate for the inadequacy of his words, would offer her some real comfort beyond the empty platitudes he’d just offered.

The matriarch did indeed finish the broth. He got a damp face towel – not warm but cold for there was no hot water in the taps as a safety precaution to protect the aged – to wipe her mouth and poked a corner into her mouth to clean it. This wasn’t just a cursory cleaning; it was a careful check. He was searching for any tiny remnants of food that might have lingered, undetected. His concern was for her safety, for he knew that such small, overlooked pieces could pose a significant danger. He did not want any possibility of her choking in the dead of night.

“Mak beh fa,” the words barely escaped her lips, a muffled, almost inaudible utterance as her weary eyelids finally succumbed to their weight, leaving only a landscape of ancient wrinkles stretched thinly over the bones beneath.

“Mak beh fa.” No solutions. Her words hung in the air, heavy with a despair that settled like dust. She, a woman weathered by time and trials, whispered this phrase for the first time in her long, complex life. It wasn’t a cry for help, but rather a statement of realisation, a final, quiet acceptance of the immutable reality she faced. 

Deep within the old man, a silent grief took hold. His heart ached with a sorrow so profound it twisted his features. His face, often blank, now contorted, betraying the immense sadness that consumed him.  He witnessed her surrender, the extinguishing of a flicker of hope he himself had stop harbouring. The weight of her three words pressed down, a mirror reflecting the bleak moment of her acceptance.

Her mouth, a gateway to countless complaints and criticisms and to be fair, some wonderfully shared meals, now sagged noticeably to the left, mirroring the tilt of her head, which lolled with a newfound heaviness. The edentulous face served only to amplify her fragile state, each sunken contour and shadow emphasising the passage of time and harshness of stress and unhappiness. Once, her face had been framed by a cascade of thick, lustrous hair, a vibrant testament to her youth and vigour, but now, it had dwindled to a dry, wispy scattering, exposing the delicate vulnerability of her dry skull beneath, a horrible reminder of the ephemeral nature of beauty and strength.

“Ma, I lit up a joss stick for Pa last night,” he started. “I was on my knees when he visited and he wanted me to tell you not to be afraid. You’re in good hands, Ma. He will look after you there,” the old man’s voice trailled away, leaving only darkness and silence in the room.

Death, please go away.