“When can I go home?”, she always asks whenever I visit her.

It tears my heart apart whenever I hear her say that. I can almost hear it ripping.

“Till you get better”, I always lie through my teeth.

I know it’s a lie. I know it. And I can’t do a single thing about it. Sure, I can visit her. But that’s not what she wants. She thinks it’s unnecessary and meaningless. She doesn’t understand why she’s staying in the nursing home. She hates it. I hate seeing her in this state. I blame myself for not earning enough. I don’t earn enough and that’s why I cannot buy her a house and hire a personal nurse for her. It’s my fault.

But it’s not my fault. She’s my grandmother. And I’m only 20. What can I do in such circumstances? What are my parents doing? What are my aunt and uncles doing? I ask myself why she’s in this state now. Why does she live in a nursing home? None of us are poor. All of us can afford to have her living under our roofs. Yes, she may be ill, but it’s nothing critical. She can definitely return home. So, why?

My parents don’t know, but I secretly blame them. I know my aunt and uncles should have done more and it’s definitely true that they have the space to house her while we have none. But love is not about asking why others can’t do it but asking what one can do for others. I’ve volunteered to give up my room for grandma. I know my parents love me, they want me to have my private space. But they don’t know how much I would have given to let grandma stay in my room.

I wonder how much guilt I would have to go through when she leaves me forever.

The last time I went to visit her, I had to leave while they bathed her and the others. I explained I had to leave for a while and I’ll be back shortly. And as the nurses pulled the blinds across and cut her vision of me, I could hear her calling for me to stay. I could hear how much she didn’t want to let me go. It’s too hard to put the feelings of pity and sadness into exact words of that time. Too painful would summarise it.

I don’t want to regret and live in guilt in future. Regret that I didn’t do anything for my grandmother while she’s still with me. I don’t want my parents to regret either. As I hold her hand, my heart rips. I hear her voice asking me when she can come home, my heart bleeds. I look at her in old age, my heart breaks. She’s separated from her family when all she wants is to look at her children and grandchildren when she wakes up. I don’t understand why it is so hard for adults to feel her pain and understand her deepest desires. Has she given up so much in her younger years for all of them only to earn a place in a nursing home?

Hypocrites, I whisper. All the talk about love when there’s none. Talk to the wall, for you have no sympathy nor interest from me for your excuses and your ‘predicaments’. And while you are at it, may I suggest that you knock your head against the wall with all the force you can muster for your absolute lack of filial piety. “She’s sick!”, you protest loudly like an empty vessel would. “Whatever helps you sleep at night”, I scorn.

At this point, I hate myself for not being able to help. I want to punch something. There’s this anger within me. Sympathy snakes around me. I feel like I’m suffocating. There’s so much I want to do but I can do absolutely nothing. The mental pain drives me crazy. I want to cry, but the anger quells my tears. It swallows my tears. My head aches. Imaginarily. I scream, silently, but there are still echoes that ricochet within my body like bullets.

I don’t want to live a life without having held my grandma’s hand. I want something to remember her by.

As she lays on the bed looking at me and me at her, I’m falling into the abyss of pain and insanity.

I’m going to buy her something. Something she can relate to while she’s suffering under the roof of a nursing home devoid of love while I’m sleeping in my air-conditioned room filled with material possessions and basking in love. Oh the irony! But I’ll ignore what those hypocrites say. I’ll ignore all their useless questions. I want to make her happy. I’m painfully aware it’s never enough love to give or happiness she’ll feel. She has no material or physical possessions anymore. She doesn’t have money. She has no emotional possessions either. No love, no happiness. Only emotional liabilities like the pain of having her children put her up in a nursing home, and the pain of not being able to be with her children and grandchildren. And the best thing I can do now to ease these liabilities would be to buy her a stuffed toy. Pathetic, my conscience chants. And it’s pathetically true how pathetic I sound. But there’s nothing more I can do.

When they go, you can cry. You can wish you had done something more.

But you can never turn back time.