// a eulogy for my great grandmother//

I’m finally breaking my blog silence. I wish it could be for a happier reason, but it is what it is.

My great-grandmother passed away. 

I don’t know why it took me so long to write the words out on a public forum. It’s as if saying it publicly will make it more real, more official. As if being at her funeral and watching her casket get lowered into the ground didn’t solidify that enough for me.

I’ve been all sorts of paradoxical when it comes to coping mechanisms. In public, I cover it so well, you’d think someone just shot me up with a syringe full of pure seratonin. (Side note, it’s always been an irrational—fuck it, somewhat rational—fear that a stranger will come stick me with a needle one day and run off into the night.) People that don’t know continue on not knowing, and those that do know, I tell them I’m okay with a smile and a quick avoidance of eye contact.

In private, I turn off all the lights, I put on my great grandmother’s silk pajamas along with her actual-grandma sweater, and I lay in bed with Tiny, staring at the ceiling. I put on my sad playlist, simply titled “:(” and when it gets particularly hard, I cry. Weep. Sob. Whatever word you want to use, the tears are all the same. 

The funeral was yesterday. I was asked to write and deliver the eulogy.

Here it went.

“I’ve never written a eulogy before, nor have I ever wanted to. But I will do my very best for someone who has always given me her very best, if not more.

Bo Han Chow was my great grandmother, but she was so much more than that. She helped raise me and my sister, Christina, and she gladly watched us every day until she physically no longer should’ve, and mentally no longer needed to.

My great grandma was a resilient woman with a kind, gentle soul. Every morning, she would wake up with the rising sun and pace around the house, up and down the stairs, doing her exercises. Then, when she was finished, she’d come upstairs to wake us up just in time to watch The Price is Right together. Every morning, I’d hide and listen for her footsteps so I could jump out and scare her. I scared her every time, but every time, she was still so happy to see me.

We had a special bond, my great grandma and I. We’d hold each other’s hand even if we were just walking to the mailbox. I’d bring her slippers to her and put them on her feet, and I’d cover her with a blanket when she’d fall asleep by the TV. She understood me without me ever needing to explain myself. We were special to each other. I was her person, and she was mine.

When she was first admitted to Roosevelt Care Center, the staff would tell me how she’d walk up and down the hallway every morning, just like she had at my house. That is, until the stroke that left her confined to her bed. I felt in that moment that things would never be the same again. But why couldn’t they? After all, we didn’t need things. We didn’t need words. The first time I visited her, I was so scared. But when I saw her, though she didn’t speak, she smiled at me with her eyes. I smiled back.

She did that every time I visited—smile at me with her eyes. And then I’d pull the bed railing down and climb in next to her. We’d hold hands and watch TV. Most times, we’d say nothing. Not because she couldn’t, but because we didn’t need to. Sometimes though, I’d talk for both of us. I’d show her pictures I took on my phone and she’d nod. I’d talk about our family and tell her how they missed her, and I’d bring up a memory we’d shared. I’d come in and tell her about my day, or about how one day she’d come live at my house with me and my boyfriend, or about how said boyfriend was now an ex-boyfriend, but who cares, we didn’t want him in our house, anyway. We just needed each other. We could play mahjong, wear silk pajamas, watch The Price is Right, and eat “fon-jeew” (rice peel) all day long. That made her eyes smile extra hard.

When we got older and she needed more taking care of than we did, I remember giving her a gift that I’d picked out specially for her: it was a little figurine of a grandma bear sitting on a toilet. I gave the silly gift to her and hoped it could be another special little thing of ours, but when my young relative saw it one day and wanted it, she gave it to her with no hesitation.

I was hurt, and it saddened me to think that maybe she’d forgotten about our special bond. Or maybe I just wasn’t special to her anymore. I brushed it off and left this memory behind, burying it deep in my mind.

When I got the text on Monday morning that she was at the hospital and likely wouldn’t last long, I jumped in my car right away and drove over from Brooklyn. I was stuck in traffic, but my mom and my sister both told me not to rush. It wasn’t good, but I didn’t need to rush. There was still time.

When I got to the hospital and got to her room, the first thing I did was take her hand in mine. I said hello and I told her I was there. We looked at each other for just a moment, and then she slowly shut her eyes. Within just ten minutes, she was gone.

She looked calm. It all seemed so peaceful. But I was still holding her hand, and I couldn’t let go. I didn’t know how. They had to pull my hands away from hers. My mom told me she must have been waiting for me to get there. I didn’t want to believe it, but my sister told me that before I got there, her vitals were looking clear enough for her to move to a different floor. And that she’d told her that I was on my way.

When I went to Uncle Benny and Aunt Alky’s house after she’d passed to sort through some of her things, I wanted to find something special of hers that could tell me more about her that I didn’t already know: a lost picture, a small trinket, anything. But when we looked through the boxes, all we found were old clothes. Old videotapes. Old papers. The only personal effect we found was this jade bracelet she always used to wear. That, and this: a big, framed picture of me from when I was a little kid.

And that’s when I realized something I should’ve seen all along. My great grandma didn’t care about things like trinkets, or silly figurines of bears on toilets. She didn’t waste her time or energy on tangible things, things that would one day mean nothing. She saved it all for the things in life that actually mattered to her.

Her sons. Her daughters. Her grandchildren. Her great-grandchildren.

Me.

I already knew all there was to know about her. There was no special thing that I could find that would tell me more.

We were her special things.

So when you think about my great grandma, remember her for how kind and gentle she was, but remember her for truly making the most out of cherishing her loved ones, down to the last minute of her life. Make sure the people you love know how special they are to you while you can, the way she did for me.

I love you, Ti-paw, and may you rest in peace. I and those who love you will all do our very best to be the kind of people you always knew we were.

Special.”