'Goodbye Mom'

Do you remember how old you were when you first knew of a death in the family?

I was 15, smack dab in the middle of an awkward adolescence transition phase: all I had cared about was getting into a magnet school and finding my footing in the world. The idea of someone close to you simply ceasing to be in your life didn't hit me at first.

Let's go back a bit, shall we?

Dear Grandma,

You passed away in May of 2017.

You had an incredible career, serving as Vietnam's first female surgeon, a title that laid unconventional expectations on future bloodlines (i.e. me, my sister, my cousins), ones that we would, understandably and happily, not live up to.

Even with your illustrious career demonstrated, I never knew “The Doctor". “The Doctor" was who my mom said had saved my life when I went into an epileptic shock at a young age. A piss-ant toddler wouldn't know that.

No, to me, you were “Bà ngoại" (“Ma”), someone I knew at the tail-end of your career and at the start of my life.

I wasn't your favorite, far from it. It's what the job entailed for being the 3rd born on my mother's side: family members soon realized kids aren't relationship luxuries, but rather surplus tuition fees and diaper extravagances. But you and I, we never had any disagreements, and we always enjoyed each other's company.

I don't have many specific memories of you: I was small, and perhaps I had taken familial memories for granted. But there was that one day: in 2009, when we watched the SEA Games Men’s Football Final together, expletives flying from your vocal chords at the Vietnamese goalkeeper for battling through a shoulder injury, which soon led to Vietnam's loss (spoilers: we got Gold 10 years later). The image was quiet in my mind though, with you lying on the worn sofa, and me lying on the floor, as we usually were. Memories don't come flooding back when someone mentions you to me, but I remember the feeling of you; It was that presence that always made me feel safe, made me feel it was okay.

And then I remember you in the hospital.

I’ll spare you the details of the later days, because it’s something that no one should go through. I'll write about the last time I talked to you, because that was a loving memory, one of the few I had anyway, that I had replayed a thousand times since.

Mom took me to visit you after you had come round during the initial stage. I held your hand when you were on your hospital bed, lying on the side, still with that big smile that exuded safeguard for your loved ones, and me sitting on the blue stool next to cardiac trackers and bunched wires. You asked me about school, how I was getting on that “magnet" bandwagon, and you kept telling me to be happy wherever I ended up; exasperated and breathy as your voice was, you still talked to me, smiling from ear-to-ear while at it. It was a different sight from the living room where we watched the SEA Games Men’s Football Final in 2009, but the feeling was the same.

I couldn’t remember for the hell of it what you had said specifically that day, only that I held your hand and you held mine.

And I knew, you were still that warm presence, my loving grandmother. And I remembered every second of that feeling.

Your memories will live on in my mind and through mom's words in this documentary, brief as the time I had grown to know you, but as storied as how I am grateful to you. This was dedicated to you, and to your incredible daughter; you have both inspired me to become the person I am today.

Và vâng, bà ạ, đến bây giờ, dù thế nào đi chăng nữa, cháu cũng vẫn hạnh phúc ạ.