Mother Theresa

My godma, Theresa Thomas, died on August 16 at the age of 88.

I name this blog post Mother Theresa because I really cannot resist the pun.

Not because I have the ability to elevate her - or anyone - to sainthood.

Or that I'm suggesting amma is a saint. 

Oh, no, no.

Though she is a God fearing, prayerful Catholic woman when she was alive, my amma - like most mortals - is no saint.

Especially not if you had seen her while she was warded at SGH, months before her passing.

While in her hospital bed, she would once in a while use words no saints should ever use in their lifetime.

Pundek, Pundek, Pundek! she would shout with gusto for no good reason, much to my amusement.

Pundek, is of course, a Tamil swear word that refers to a woman's genitals.

It would also henceforth be my favourite swear word.

In July this year, amma's health took a turn for the worst and had to be warded for nearly three weeks.

Because of her age, she had been in and out of hospital for various conditions in the past few years.

But when I visited her on July 10, she was starkly different.

She had slipped into episodes of delirium, not knowing who's who and unable to open her eyes.

She would lie in bed and make low, guttral noises, a scene I last remember in demonic movies, I would joke with my friends as my way of coping.

It was the first time I had seen the full extent of amma's age and what growing old could really do to people you love.

I knew time was running out.

Not just for her, but also for me.

Back then, I was booked on a one-way ticket to Myanmar.

I was slated to fly on July 28 to start a long-term posting there (or here, given that I'm writing this in Yangon).

And I knew that, due to my unique visa situation, I would likely have to stay in Myanmar continuously for 70 days while I sorted out my long-term stay arrangements there (or here).

And so, I started planning Project Live Funeral.

For the next week while she was warded - and the two weeks after she was discharged - I went to see amma almost every day, reminding myself that those might be my last few moments with her.

Project Live Funeral is a concept I borrowed from Mitch Albom's Tuesdays with Morrie. 

Like an actual wake, I would say my goodbyes to amma, hold her hand, thank her for loving me as a kid right till I am a grown up, and tell her how much I loved her.

Unlike an actual wake though, she could hear me (by the time she was discharged, amma was lucid but still weak).

Unlike an actual wake, I could touch her and feel her warm but wrinkly hand squeeze mine.

Unlike an actual wake, she could respond to me when I asked "do you know who I am? Do you know I love you?"

But my daily visits to her did feel like a wake.

Her "body" would be in her room (she was bedridden by then and could only lie comfortably on a reclined chair).

And in the living room were her equally old sisters - who each lovingly regards me as her nephew - sitting around, chatting, snacking, laughing away.

On July 27, the day before I flew off, I designated that day as the funeral day.

It was also the day when I said my final thank-yous, goodbyes, touched and kissed amma for as long as I could.

Time flew in Myanmar - but I was constantly in touch with my god-siblings, including the helper Than Than, who is God sent.

On the day amma died, I was preparing to go to work in Yangon.

I was drying my hair, preparing to wear my shirt and pants, and mentally preparing myself for a list of things to do in the office (it was a big news day in Myanmar).

At 8.35am Myanmar time (10.05 Singapore time), amma's helper Than Than WhatsApped me a video of amma taking slow, shallow breaths.

"Bro, good morning. Amma not so well. Pray for her," was the message.

A minute later, I sent over my voice recording saying "Amma, this is Wai Kit, I'm in Myanmar. I love you!"

Than Than replied to say she played the voice clip, and that "yes, okay, amma can hear".

By the time I got to the lift, I was busy messaging amma's other god child telling her of the news.

By the time my lift reached the ground floor, my WhatsApp message read: "Amma just passed away".

My world was supposed to feel dizzy with the news.

But no.

I remember feeling very calm.

It wasn't a natural instinct.

It was my training from years of being in the news industry; the kind of calmness you force upon yourself when you're live on TV, knowing you're watched by perhaps millions in the region and one misstep, one piece of inaccurate information could cause you at worst, your job.

It was definitely a forced - and unnatural - sense of calmness I felt.

And it was good I could have that calmness.

While I was travelling to work from home, I made a few initial calls.

One, to my God sis, who sounded incoherent.

I spoke with deliberate slowness, hoping to inspire her to stay calm.

"Go shower now, then travel safely to amma's house."

My God brother, I learnt, was in court fighting a case, and had already been informed.

He would be calm, I decided.

I called my amma's grandson next, breaking the news to him, and instructed him to take the day off and be the big man whom I know he now is, and keep an eye on his mum who was obviously panicked.

Twenty minutes later, while I threw myself into work, amma's grandson called, assuring me that he's "on it" and that he's keeping a close watch on his mum, and that he'll make sure that every of amma's old sisters is paired up with a younger, able bodied relative or family friend.

The day flew by - partly because it was a busy news day.

By the end of the day, I knew I had to cope with my own loss.

I spoke to my boss about it - who insisted that I can return for the wake and funeral.

In the end, I chose not to, mainly because I had no regrets: I had said my goodbyes properly; I was around during amma's final moments, and I had been able to get myself involved in the initial process of her wake arrangements.

The next day, I stayed home and called everyone, speaking to amma's sisters, Than Than, and whoever was at the wake.

Though I was physically in Myanmar, I felt that I was around - I had a constant stream of photos and videos of the wake, from amma's newspaper obituary which listed my name as her Godson and snapshots of relatives and family friends, right to the day of amma's cremation, where people lovingly lay flowers in amma's coffin.

Friends who're here made sure I was okay.

Friends back home made sure to check on me.

And my god-family kept in close touch with me, often asking if I were coping well.

Then, two weeks ago, I dreamt of amma.

In my dream, my mum had told her that I was hungry and amma went to the kitchen to make me some food.

When I saw her, I ran to her, hugged her, kissed amma on her forehead as I would normally do, and said to her "it's so good to see you".

I shared the dream with my god-sister and her son.

To my surprise, that day, they too dreamt of amma.

One dream shared with me was that amma was walking hand in hand with appa (who died years before she did), before they both turned and waved.

"She must have taken the day off to say her goodbyes to us one-shot," I joked.

Earlier, I shared this story with a friend.

Her words were most comforting.

"My friend, you've said goodbye to her body and in that kitchen, to her soul," she said.

She's right.

Though I hadn't said goodbye to amma in person, I have said goodbye to her twice.

And memories of amma will always, always stay with me.

Of how she'd feed me rice by hand - by lumping it into a ballish mesh; of how she'd always talk about how cheeky I was as a kid, of how I would spend so many nights sleeping over when appa makes me hot milo and his signature egg sandwich in the mornings.

And though amma is no saint, to me, she will always be the most perfect amma.