A Grandfather Like Me

I became a grandfather recently, joining an exalted circle of senior celebrities like D Maradona (football star), M Jagger (rock star) and M Yuzer (an old friend featured in a TV toothpaste commercial). My son and daughter-in-law were blessed with a baby girl on 6 October. A pretty and precious bundle of joy, and I can’t wait for her first smile. By convention, my son should be a proud father of a baby girl. I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to be a proud grandfather of a baby girl. But I'm happy enough about this paternal progression. The new arrival will ramp up the clatter and clutter level in an otherwise humless and humdrum household. She may cry and crank anytime she likes if she can promise me now that she won’t support Manchester United.

A retiree with a grandchild or two in tow is now industry standard. And why not, Indonesian maids are now rarer than rhodium, and even if they’re available, they’d work only five days a week, eight hours a day (which is actually two hours if you exclude telpon and sinetron). Take it or leave it, says the evil agent aka people trafficker. For young families caught in this cruelty, retiree-grandfathers are a godsend. They’re technically unemployed simply because growing old isn’t considered substantive work. They’re lazy and unskilled, yes, but they cost less than nothing and require no visa, so there’s plenty of value for no money. I read somewhere that a retiree can keep his mind sharp and chic by memorizing poems, solving cryptic crosswords and, better still, playing sudoku. Sudoku? Give me the baby, now.

I’m actually lagging behind most of my Tiger Lane classmates, who’re already walking and talking with their grandchildren. It's impossible to follow everyone's sexual habits, but I won't be surprised if there are altogether now 400 children and grandchildren from the two 1966 classes. Azlan has two or three grandchildren now. Ibrahim three or more. Cikgu Ya a dozen, as of last week. Zaki, somehow, has none but still stands a fair chance if he gets married today and work on it immediately. I can still recall our classrooms and dorms and debates and the sick bay and Mr Sarjit Singh but I can’t quite recall anybody even vaguely talking about children, let alone grandchildren. Why? One elegant but unscientific theory points to the daily (and nightly) proximity to same-sex classmates and dormmates causing a complete loss interest in reproduction. A simpler (still unscientific) theory is that we're just too exhausted to think about anything after navigating the mighty meals prepared by our award-winning masterchef in the dining hall. Whatever the reason, here we’re now: grandfather, and loving all of it.

I’m not sure what unique skills are required of a grandfather other than sleeping with a grandmother. A good friend congratulated me, adding a word of caution, bold upper-case: don’t use your diapers for the baby. Now I can understand why Brutus killed his friend Julius Caesar. As with my progeny, I always wonder which part, or how much, of my architecture will be passed down to my granddaughter. I guess not much, if any. She already has two parents to take after. Anyway it's neither urgent nor important for her to share any part of my human biology (let's not discuss the inhuman part here). I can’t solve a simple quadratic equation to begin with. I can't play the violin or even cricket. High cholesterol is not a talent. Neither is writing crap like this. So it's in everybody's best interest that the baby keeps only the minimum of my genetic footprint.

She's hardly a month old and I'm already nervous. Well, not nervous the way you're nervous about your sugar spike and memory mess. Actually I'm just pondering her way forward. Growing up in a country with the world's worst taxi drivers won't be a cakewalk. Not to mention snatch thieves, multi-level scammers, illegal students, Kelantan football supporters. I had job offers before completing my final-year (economics, not obstetrics). She'll have to compete with 200,000 or more unemployed graduates for job interviews. Job interviews, not jobs. It’s only fair to ask some serious questions here and now. Like, will she be able to buy a basic house at RM 5 million in 2040? Will she be clever enough to graduate from one of the 100 local international medical schools in 2036 but ending up telemarketing at Citibank? Will PM finally announce the next general election date by the time she goes to school in 2019? These are trick questions. Do not attempt.

A baby is a God's gift and will. My dear mother always reminds me that God knows what we don't know. My fears are unfounded and disturbing drivel contrived out of a flagging mind. There’s no excuse for this alarmist and Malthusian tone. In 2019 Malaysia will start as a fully developed and civilized country, free of cronies, junkies and tuition fees. My granddaughter will do just fine. She’ll shine and flourish and go to Princeton or Brown. With none of her grandfather's cognitive complexities, she might even play the violin.    

The Sad Bed

Death is sad. Even when it's of someone you hardly know. I was rudely reminded of this today, Thursday, 20 September 2012.

My old man had been recuperating in the geriatric ward at the University Malaya Medical Centre for the past ten days. Until today the medical staff, otherwise known as doctors and nurses, hadn't been very forthcoming or specific about what he's down with. Doctors are all Shakespeares with serious handwriting issues. All they could provide me was the old reliable "he's old and has lots of phlegm and needs complete rest". Hardly ground-breaking stuff. I could easily see that even without the benefit of six brutal years at medical schools. He's officially 88, but I guessed he's at least 90, or 92, who really knew. At this late age, it's his business to have plenty of phlegm.

Yesterday a young houseman came in and proudly announced that he (my father, not the doctor) would be discharged early next week. It's as explicit as I could get out of the medical profession. I thought economics was the only dismal science.

Don't get me wrong. There's every reason to admire these doctors for their high energy, deep passion and virtuous subculture. In these dark days of corrupt contracts and paranormal politics, they're the shining lights who'd go out of their way to sustain the fragile life of a 90 year-old, whatever it takes. You can never pay them enough.
 

Visiting my sick senior was high on my daily to-do list. It's easy for a retiree, all I'd to do was cut back on the English Premier League and do away with Arsene Wenger. You'll never know whether you've seen or done enough for your folks when they're healthy and you're sinking into the corporate mire. So visiting him now looked like a productive way of fighting back this attack of conscience. Problem was, he's so weak and wispy that it's hard to tell whether he knew it's me. Or whether he'd mistaken me for a male nurse. Well, he might not know me, but I still knew him, if that's any good.

A geriatric ward is exactly what Disneyland isn't. Thick, restrained, unhappy. But there's as much to experience, learn and take away. What's on offer isn't so much the trials of the sick but the quirks of those by the bedside. I made it a point to roam the ward like a busy school prefect, exchanging notes and sick stories with fellow caregivers. Technically I might not be a geriatric, not yet. But I didn't really feel out of place here. The common denominator here is stroke. Every other patient here is struck by a stroke. Not a pretty sight, but so inspiring that my way forward now is a strict monastic diet of alpine water and dragon fruits.

Next to my father's bed was an 81 year-old Chinese lady. She had daughters and sons, but a daughter-in-law was actually looking after her here. I wasn't really sure what's going on, but this heart-of-gold should be rich soon. There's one lady who's so driven and fired up that she took care of not just her stroke-stricken mom but also other patients around her. Must be a former oil and gas CEO with a leadership hangover.

Three beds away, a youngish 73-year old lady named Zaiton was recovering from, you guess, a stroke. I'd never seen any of her family members by her bedside, not while I was around, but there's a maid from Manila to keep her company. When my sister and I dropped by yesterday, the friendly Filipina told us that the patient was good enough to be discharged tomorrow (today). My compulsively curious sister fired away no less than 100 questions about the patient and the maid, and I'd to pull her away before she could move on to the next patient with another 100 questions. Anyway we're happy for Zaiton and the maid and wished them well.

My sister and I came in today and were about to settle down when the maid grabbed my sister. Zaiton had passed away half an hour ago! Stunned, we rushed to her bed. Her remains were still there, a hospital-issue light green cloth tightly wrapped around her, all alone. To think that she's supposed to be discharged today, man, what's sadder than this?

My sister took out her Surah Yaseen and her sweet pitch broke the silence. I tapped the iQuran app on my industrial-size Galaxy Note and read quietly (so glad I bought this android). Not really sure what else we could do, we just stood by until a sharp-dressed man, probably her son, came in about an hour later to claim her. He signed some papers and left, without a word and another look at her mother.

I was tossing and turning at 2 am. That bed ..........