The sad invariability of life and the whole concept of the
last-minute-epiphany is that we only rush to cherish that which is under
immediate threat. The crushing news of my grandfather's possible lung cancer hit like a locomotive. After complaining of pain in his chest, he was brought to the hospital for a checkup, where the doctor assessed that it had a 50% chance of being lung cancer. Further tests were required. And the tests came back positive for cancer.
The cancer has had time to work its destructive magic; the lungs have all but fallen and the liver is its next intended target. For a man in his eighties, and for a cancer this advanced, chemotherapy is no longer an option. It would only make him suffer needlessly on top of the cancer that is already eating away at him. The worst case scenario for a stage-three cancer patient: three months.
I sit here very well aware that I will not get to see my grandfather again for a final time. The last time I saw him in Chongqing, his mind was on the brink of succumbing to Alzheimer's. He could still recognize who we all were, but frequently forgot where he was, and if he left the building there was a very real chance he wouldn't be able to find his way back. Seeing somebody you've known all your life to be intelligent and sharp slowly lose his most basic mental capabilities is an arduous and heartbreaking process. The person you've loved is slipping away, and in his place becomes a stranger, even to himself. At least he still has his physical health, we used to say. At least his body's still sound.
Growing up thousands of miles away from most of our family meant that the memories of my grandparents are few and far between. I remember going on a walk with both grandpa and grandma in the Beijing Aquarium, and grandpa would ask every so often if we were still in Chongqing. I remember him tending to the doves he used to raise, building little cubby holes for the doves to roost in. I remember his habit of raising terrified, timid dogs that never dared to leave the house.
If stories were to be believed, grandpa has the exact same temperament as my dad. Excitable and easily agitated, then the storm would pass just as quickly as it gathered and to him it'll be as if nothing has happened while leaving everyone else agitated instead. Ask my grandma and she'll have hordes of stories of how he'd obstinately have an argument with a shopkeeper over something he deems completely logical, then walk away, leaving the shopkeeper flabbergasted and red-in-the-face. Substitute 'grandpa' with 'dad' and my mom will have almost the exact same stories.
I'm sorry that I can't say that I know my grandfather well. From what I've heard and gathered, he's an honorable, honest and hardworking man that has lived through far more during the Chinese cultural revolution than many of us will in our lifetimes. Our grandparents are heroes. They've planted their feet firmly on the ground when the world was shaking and crumbling around them. In a time too cruel for us to even imagine, they've thrived. Each one of us is here today because they were strong when they needed to be. I think it's time for us to be strong for him. In his time of dire need, where he will likely face the toughest challenge of his life, we will surround him with love, even from the other side of the world where I am.
What is the legacy, then, that my grandfather will eventually leave behind? Is it in the number of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren that bear his last name? Is it in the worldly achievements attained by his descendants? Or is it in the knowledge that a family loves and sticks through everything together, no matter the differences or troubles faced? Years from now, when I think of my grandpa, I want to think of the family I knew with him as the patriarch. The thing that makes me feel warmest is the image of all of us, extended family and all, sitting together at a table filled with a hearty home-cooked meal. In my memory, I look up and there grandpa is, sitting at the head of the table, and that to me is legacy.