Grandma looked very frail today. In a departure from two days ago when she could still chide us and smile when we teased her, she was huddled over the side table, unable even to whine or take another sip of coffee. Her health had been on the decline, but this is a steep drop even when compared to the days after the operation. Then, while she had mood swings and poor appetite, she was still jovial at times and even helped de-shell pistachios for the granola.

 

Our family's activities and displays of affection have always centred on food. Each prospective son-in-law would after sitting through his first family meal prepared by Grandma get hooked on to coming over for family dinners and promptly gain a few kilogrammes. Each grandchild had two soft-boiled eggs, cheese toast and even pancakes to look forward to before the school bus arrived. Melted cheese toast with sprinkled sugar has a soft spot in my heart, and no prizes for guessing who created it. We had the joy of tasting a variety of cuisines from just one kitchen, be it Chinese, Malay or Hainanese-Western. And all these, from a woman who had not read a single Gourmet Mag, gone through any cooking lessons or even read English. Her baked items were all from experimenting.

 

Imagine how much the physical toll she has been through. For one whose life invariably revolved around the kitchen and its merriments of eating and cooking, she now has no appetite even for a morsel of porridge. The umpteenth piece of cream cracker left untouched on the plate, another bowl of porridge that only had a spoonful scooped out and yet another cup of Milo with nary a sip taken. Her sustenance now comes from the protein drip.

 

I don't know. How heart-wrenching. How sobering.