Healing the Narrative: We Remember, She Forgets, Together We Live on

When A-ma opens her eyes, they’re large and glazed over, staring blankly at the ceiling. She’s laying down with her head tilted upward, wearing the same thing as yesterday. She asks me where she is, and I struggle to give her an answer. We’re on vacation. I flew down to see you! Are you thirsty? Want some water? 

It’s been one week since my grandma has moved into her new home, an assisted living facility that feels more like a timeshare resort than a place where the elderly go to rest. Doctors say she has at most two more years left. 

This is the second time I have grieved for my grandma. The first was when we started noticing signs of her early-onset dementia. I know a third time is inevitable, but this doesn’t scare me — it’s my mom who does. She has yet to start her grieving process. If part of working through our grief means that we learn to accept and let go, she has no idea how tightly she is holding on. 

A-ma and Mom have a complicated relationship, as many mothers and daughters do. As I flip through old photos, I see this dynamic show up in how they dress. A-ma wears her hair big, pairing her voluminous curls with matching outfits that accentuate her figure. She oozes charisma with ease. In stark contrast, Mom’s discomfort is thinly veiled by her hesitant smile, short haircut, and awkward-fitting clothing. A-ma was lavished with compliments for her womanly appeal, but what did Mom receive? Criticism for not knowing how to look or dress the part, when it was a mother’s job to teach a daughter how to dress in the first place.  

Mom is now caring for A-ma, feeding her bits of a Western lunch: today’s pasta of the day, some ambiguous protein, and a steamed veggie medley. She repeatedly asks A-ma to sip water from a straw in between bites. The food actually doesn’t look too bad, but it’s a departure from what we might have eaten at home. I flinch as my mom raises her voice. 

“Open your mouth, Ma.” 

“I don’t want to, I’m not hungry.”

We both know this can’t be true. In fact, A-ma isn’t eating enough. Yet it’s still painful when Mom pushes a small spoonful closer to A-ma’s mouth. Each bite is followed by a muscle spasm, shuddering down her body. 

“I don’t want to eat more. Wo hao lei,” she struggles to say. 

I sit silently, watching the reversed parental roles. I’m tired too, I think to myself, and I’m only just observing. 

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The more A-ma’s health deteriorates, the more her mind returns to the past. Back in the day, A-ma’s family owned land and businesses in a northern seaside town in Taiwan, an affluence made possible by wealth accumulated from the Qing dynasty times — the facts now blurry from oral retellings of our family’s history. Yet A-ma’s parents were drawn to a simpler life, shedding their parental and materialistic duties for a new set of responsibilities. One parent left to live at a Buddhist temple, and another at a Taoist one. 

They abandoned four teenage daughters and two sons. The eldest sister carried the burden of raising her siblings and took A-ma under her wing to help manage the family’s businesses. It’s in this context that my grandma’s attentive approach to financial partnerships and neglectful approach to motherhood finally makes sense. 

A-ma was at the top of her nursing class and later went on to become a director, sent to the States for some cross-cultural sharing on family planning practices. Mom speaks of this accomplishment with such pride and admiration, conveniently overlooking the disruption and instability brought with it — a family broken apart for a second time. 

My mom and her siblings each made the trek over to a foreign country poorly equipped by A-ma’s eclectic set of life values. Strive for excellence and accomplishments, so they can’t look down on you. Did you mess up? It’s your fault you weren’t good enough. This is what they were taught of love — not warm embraces nor kind words, but something deemed sensible and useful. To love was to protect, and A-ma passed on what she knew: protection was to mask yourself beneath a glossier, more improved version of you. 

If their past is my prologue, could I look to other mother-daughter stories as my guide? There is no shortage of animated movies where daughters seek freedom and escape from the protection of their overbearing mothers, returning home after a 90-minute adventure to a happier and healthier family model. Is such a homecoming possible? What if what you need protecting from is your own mother?

Reality ignores the rules of fiction we’ve come to expect from a good story: intentional character arcs and thoughtfully structured plots. Memory, then, is a better storyteller than reality. Our recollections need not be factual for us to believe that they actually happened, with so-and-so person at this place at that time. 

Over-heightened maternal instinct has been rewritten as fierce, motherly affection. Financial gifts with strings attached have been reframed as unconditional love (with some conditions). These stories are retold and reinforced by us until they’re ingrained into our core beliefs. Look long enough though, and you’ll see it. Even the most skilled retellings cannot hide the underlying dysfunctional behaviors, and not even the darkest of inks can overwrite decades of familial patterns. 

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At Mom’s 60th birthday party, A-ma became upset with some of the guests, including an auntie old enough to have grandchildren of her own. I had already chased A-ma down when she mistakenly took someone else’s purse and hid it, terrified a guest would steal it, and I was now running toward her voice, echoing above the buzz of the party.

“This person was very rude! They owe me an apology. They did not greet me warmly enough.” 

“They did, you forgot. Your memory isn’t as good now, Ma.” 

“Then they should greet me again! Even if it’s my memory that is bad, I am still their zhang-bei. People need to show respect to their elders.” 

I look over at my mom, unsure how to jump in. She’s mortified, barely keeping it together. The guest list goes beyond the typical extended family today, so she can’t afford to lose it, at least not in front of everyone else. 

“Ma, why don’t we go get dressed up? We’re going to take photos later. Don’t you like purple?”

“What’s wrong with my outfit?”

“Well, it’s fine, but it —” 

“You’re speaking back to me? You are my child — my daughter!” 

Under less public circumstances, I know Mom would have already yelled back to defend herself. I’ve seen their fights play out on repeat, ending only after they’re both fatigued, without resolution. It doesn’t matter how old Mom is turning, how capable she’s become, or how much she’s taken on for the family when A-ma was unable. A-ma still sees Mom as a child, and it’s then that I finally see it. Before Mom can move on from her past, before she can start to grieve, she must first start seeing herself for who she really is, beyond the weight of the roles and expectations she’s taken on as a daughter and as a mother. She is first a woman in her own right. 

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I make one last visit to see A-ma before my flight back home. When I open the door, I am surprised to see that she’s already awake and moving around in her room. She turns to face me, hesitates, and then gives me a smile of recognition. 

“A-ma, wo hui-lai le!” I smile back at her as I announce that I’ve returned. I’m thankful she still remembers me, and like clockwork, I slip back into the role of dutiful granddaughter. How was your day? Chi-fan le ma? Want to eat some more? Watch TV? Go out for a stroll? 

Our relationship is easier to navigate because A-ma has spared me her harsh lesson on love, though her actions have still rippled through time. Perhaps this is what a grandmother uniquely passes on to a granddaughter. This definition of love, to strengthen another through hardening, has distortedly appeared in my life, but I have enough of a gap to observe. Enough space to try out a different path, to no longer believe in ying-peng-ying, a Chinese idiom that literally translates to a firm object colliding into something else just like it, strong and rigid. I find it unlikely she will ever ask her children for forgiveness — what for? — because she doesn’t know how, and because she has already forgotten. 

I sit next to her bedside and hesitate. Am I angry, resentful, hopeful, or just sad? The person sitting in front of me is the reason why Mom has learned to fight fire with fire, to view others as either an opponent or on her side. A-ma’s love has stunted Mom’s growth, and I’m not sure if this is a lesson daughters can reteach or reverse for their mothers. What should we talk about today? Would it be safe to show her photos of our wedding, or should I show her videos of our cat instead? These moments are with her, but they’re no longer for her. A-ma’s memory is fleeting, and she won’t be the one who remembers the words we’ve said. My mom and I are the ones who must learn how to keep on living.

Images Credit: Illustrations by Huilin Gui