Remember my name, grandpa. Teach me to love, grandma.

I have distinctly two solid memories of my grandfather.

The first one came from the year of 1997, when I was 12 years old and visited Korea for the first time in 8 years. I had known his face only through wrinkly pictures before then, because of my early departure from the motherland at the age of three.  I remember he had a meek and quiet demeanor, a man of few words, mostly likely from having lived in another case of the strong, alpha woman-dominated, emasculating household for one too many strenuous years of his life.  I followed my mother’s steps into the overcrowded, over-burdened house at the top of the hill and saw him hunched in the far end of the living area. I bowed instinctually, the first in my life, to him.  He smiled. 

I guess that’s an anticlimactic memory, but to me, it takes a lot to score a memory with just a smile. His was simple. While it left me a stranger yet to who he was, what he has gone through in his days, it was one of those kinds that made you feel loved in a curiously deep way. Like he could see right through me, and he knew what I was about, knew that I didn’t really want to be there in that dingy house that smelled of spicy wood and a mixture of unfamiliar body odors of one too many occupants that it housed. He knew I really wanted one of those melon ice cream bars at the small shop down the street that only cost 900 won (~$.90), but 900 won too many for my parents to give me.  And so he would frequently put some coins in my hand- a humble amount that could probably only get me one or two bars- discreetly, when my parents weren’t around. And then, without saying a word, he’d smile.

My second memory is from two years ago, when I made a second trip to Korea after another 10 years had gone by. I had just turned 21 then, and my grandfather was now….oh I don’t know. Old. He had been placed in a nursing home because he had developed Alzheimer’s and was not in hot shape. We spent just one afternoon with him. It was a very pretty day that day, fitting with the small but peaceful and endearing little nursing home he was staying at. He had shriveled and withered considerably. Brown age spots attacked his droopy skin entirely throughout his brittle body and his steps were labored and heavy. He even smelled of old age. The machine had run its course.

I enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that day, that he, in fact, recognized me. Me! When he didn’t even recognize my uncle, his own son whom he had lived with for the past 20+ years of his life. He even knew my name, and oh… that telling smile.  I walked out of that nursing home, knowing that it would most likely be the last time I would see him.  

Last night, my grandfather passed away.  The sorrow I feel from his passing is in that I didn’t ever really know him well enough to be able to feel … well, sorrow from his death.  I wish there were more memories than just two, I wish I had known who he really was, why his smiles were always so warm and inviting, even though he was a stranger to me since childhood. But I know he was a good man, because he was a part of molding who my mother became. So he had to have been a good man.

It’s funny, because even though today is my grandfather’s day, a day to remember him and mourn for him, and I have gone on about my memories with him, actually another person has mostly been on my mind today- my grandmother (from my father’s side). I never really liked talking about her to anyone, even after her passing last winter, and I think I’ve come to bottle up and stash away any sort of memories or emotions tagged in her name. But today, news of my grandfather is, for some reason, bombarding me with memories of this other deceased grandparent of mine.  So maybe I should spend some time thinking, maybe the first time ever, about what my grandmother’s been in my life. Why even after 7 years of having lived with her, I still wouldn’t hesitate to say that I loved my grandfather, who I’ve met only briefly twice in my life, more than I can say I ever loved her. 

My grandmother first lived with my family when I was around 11 or 12, after we moved to Virginia. We lived in a tiny 2-bedroom condo back then in Alexandria, so fitting one insecure 11-year old girl, one pubescent 13-year old boy, and their strong-willed grandmother into one small bedroom took quite the patience maneuvering.  I didn’t care too much for her back then, mostly cause she didn’t care too much for us, and well, more than anything I had other things to worry about, like being jealous of the new girl’s new platform sneakers or debating on whether or not to start shaving my legs. I believe she stayed with us for about four years, before complications with her visa and other issues forced her to return to motherland. Thinking back, I don’t have a single memory of her smiling sincerely at me during those four years. I can’t remember ever receiving a birthday gift, a word of affirmation, a grandmotherly embrace. What I do remember is her barking at my brother and I to be quiet whenever we would chit chat and giggle with each other in our beds at night. I remember yelling, fighting, anger between my father and my grandmother and frustration between my mother and father. Ah, she did have a voice that could break down the walls of Jericho, that lady. I remember it was around this time I developed a sort of distaste for older folks- their oldness turned me off and I dreaded the day I would be/look like one of them.

On one particular day, I found it odd that my dad had stepped into our room and decided to lay down in my bed. He ushered both me and my brother to come and lay next to him. Awkward, but ok. As we’re laying there, wondering what the heck is going on and waiting for something to transpire, my dad begins to sob- a deep sob that comes from the insides of your chest and stomach and one you can’t control because it overtakes every fiber in your body.  I remember his heaving was too much for me that day. The overflow of sorrow seeped into me and before I knew it, I was sobbing alongside my dad, not really knowing why and overwhelmed by my own submission to emotion. I looked over at my brother and he had a quizzical, almost mocking expression on his face, as though to say, “you sissy”. My sobbing stopped. Then my dad, in almost a whisper, broken by his quieter, now more controlled sobs, said, “You’ve had such a hard, hard life. I’ve done my best. I love you.”  It wasn’t too long from then that we found out my grandmother was going back to Korea.

I was so young and dumb back then to really understand what was going through my father’s broken heart at the time. Honestly, I can’t say I really understand now. I do know that my grandmother, one of the most strong-headed, proud persons I ever knew, lived with a husband who drank carbon monoxide in his sleep one night and became paralyzed neck down for 18 years before he passed away- nursing him, feeding him, clothing him, bathing him, cleaning his daily excrements, in a marriage since then devoid of intimacy, rest, and peace….for eighteen….years…. all the while caring for and financing 6 children. I can’t even begin to fathom her misery.

My dad is the youngest of four sons. There is a customary Korean tradition where the eldest son is obliged to house the parents. If he is somehow unable to, or has passed away, the next son is in charge of living with them, then the next son, and so on and so forth (there was no such thing as a retirement plan for seniors in Korea back then, adding to the reasons why sons were grossly preferred over daughters.  I suspect things might have changed by now, but it’s still definitely not as good as retirement plans here in America). Back when my grandmother lived with us the first time, she had gone down the line of her four sons. None of them wanted her. She was left with my dad, the youngest, but always the most mature and leaderly of the Cho clan. Four years was the longest she had gone at any place, but because of immigrant status reasons she was forced to once again circulate throughout the homes of her sons (and eventually, daughters) in Korea, until she somehow ended up at our place again, in 2006.

Here, she resided with us until the day of her passing. Three years. Three long…brutal years. I know that up until now I’ve sounded callous and unloving. Maybe at the core, I am. But I believe that I am sincere when I say that in the beginning, I was optimistic. At that point I was old enough to care about other people other than myself, and because I had never truly had a grandparent figure in my life and yearned for one, I heartily welcomed her stay with us. I always wanted to play the sweet granddaughter role… bake her cinnamon raisin muffins and sing her my songs. She’d recount to me nostalgically her days of old as I play with the fleshy wrinkles on her hands and laugh occasionally at her stories. I might delight her with my charm some days, I may take her for granted on other days; she won’t be perfect, I definitely won’t, but she’ll be my grandmother and I’d be her granddaughter. I would love her. Hell, I’d even break her hardened heart with my love.

I am still so naïve. 

I remember in those days, there was a certain invisible cloud that loomed and darkened every niche in our house. I stayed out for most of the days because I hated coming home to joylessness, hated seeing a big shadow that followed both my parents around everywhere they went. My mother oftentimes did not sleep with my father anymore. Like I said, it wasn’t like this at first. When she first came, the air was one of duty with a sprinkle of pity (no one wanted the poor woman, for Christ sake), and a whole lot of determination to treat her right. I learned a lot from my mother’s show of selflessness and hospitality during that first half year or so.  And for some time, it wasn’t too bad. 

This quickly changed when my grandmother’s health began deteriorating slightly. Little by little, one by one, the list of demands began growing. As we strived to meet them, she created another list- the list of complaints. Nothing was ever good enough, and when changes were made to suit her fancy, she found unending ways to find new reasons to dislike it. I remember one time my mother stayed up till 3 AM making a big pot of shikae (korean rice drink) because it was one of my grandmother’s favorite drinks and her weak stomach couldn’t tolerate harsher solids. If you’ve ever tried to make this stuff, you know it’s hard.  It requires a lot of dedicated time and attention. Finally, it was done. The next day my mother proudly presented her sweaty efforts to her, instructing my grandmother not to drink the canned shikae she obsessively kept by her bedside, the kind that was too sugary for her own good. What happened next still amazes and angers me to this day. My grandmother took one sip of the drink. Then she slammed down the cup back onto the tray with such force that it spilled all over the bedside table. “Do you think I’m too stupid to know that you’re feeding me all of your leftovers? I don’t expect you to treat me the best, but this is just too much!”, were her piercing words to my mom. I remember the look on my mom’s face. I remember her not being able to say a single thing as she picked up the empty cup and tray and exited the room. I remember seeing her back towards me, standing shoulders drooped in the kitchen as she just stood there for some painstakingly long minutes. I knew she was crying, from fatigue not just of the body, but of her soul.

I always find it funny that korean dramas are not always entirely fictional. I realized this fact from my experience with my grandmother, I kid you not. One time, I overheard some ladies in my church exchanging comments about my mother, about how my grandmother had told them that she was mistreating her. “Poor halmuhnee (grandmother)”, they said. “All the way here from Korea, with no one to take care of her and treat her well.” I never told my mom, for obvious reasons. But I later found out that she had known all along. 

The condition of my grandmother’s health fluctuated, but overall, it worsened over time. At some point mobility was lost to the point that she couldn’t make it to the bathroom on her own. Therefore, we began carrying her to the bathroom when she needed to go. This wasn’t a problem. However, it became one when she insisted on going every half an hour or so, throughout the day….and also, throughout the night. We had given her a doorbell button that she did not hesitate to use at 4,5,6 AM in the morning, when she would have ‘emergencies’. She loved to sit on that toilet, usually for about 30 minutes at a time, never flushing on her way out. Rarely was there anything in the toilet. But sometimes, she rang the bell for no reason at all. She would be sitting there at the edge of her bed with the glow of the nightlamp creating a silhouette of an emaciated, lifeless form projected onto the wall. There was a blank expression on her face, as though she were surprised I had come, as though I had interrupted some kind of exchange she was having with spirits in that dark, uninviting room. And she would simply wave her hand, motioning for me to leave. During one of these nights, I reached my breaking point. I roared at her, surprising myself with my own unleashed hostility, about the evilness of waking tired people up at 5 in the morning for no reason. I swear I could have hit her at that moment. I didn’t. My parents came running in to see what had happened, anyway. From then on, I would frequently steal the doorbell during the nights and place it underneath my double layered pillow, so that it wouldn’t wake my sleep-deprived, coldsore-ridden parents, and I could choose to go, or not go when I was feeling extra evil, as I pleased. 

Then, there was the diaper era. Oh, the diaper era. I sincerely hope diapering a newborn baby is slightly more pleasant than diapering a 92 year old female. There’s not much that I’d like to say about this. Just that it was gross. Very gross. 

There are endless stories of incidents that occurred during the next and last two years of my grandmother’s life that led to my gradual hatred towards her and all that reminded me of her. But there is one particular story that I still find hard to describe, the one event I will never forget no matter how hard I try.

I was out of the house, as usual, taking care of my own business, when I received an urgent call from my dad. His voice was out of breath and panicked, and he needed me home right away. My father is always calm, no matter what, so this caused me some apparent concern on my drive home. When I got home, I learned that my grandmother had wielded a knife and slashed her left wrist. I found this out because I accidentally stepped into a large pool of her blood on the hardwood floor of her room as I rushed in. I remember the blood. It was everywhere, like I had walked into a crime scene. And my grandmother, laying like a pile of bones on her bed. But she was gazing at me, breathing slowly, laborously. There was emptiness in her eyes. 

What’s weird is that to me, what was more unnerving than any of this was the memory of my father. I wish I could erase the image of my father during that surreal experience. I had never seen him in such weakness, such heartbroken desperation and helplessness than in that moment. He was breathing hard, making almost a wheezing noise, as he rushed around the room, half sobbing, half praying out loud as he repeated over and over the question, “Why? Why would you do this?” while he tried desperately to clean up the mess and cover up the damage. I was later told that that is a typical panicked person’s response- in a moment of panic and helplessness, you don’t know what to do and so you tend to matters that are trivial. 

From there, everything was a blur. The ambulence, the questions from the paramedics that needed answering, trying to contact my brother, my mother’s ashen face as she nearly fainted in the hospital room, my dad trying to talk to my incoherent grandmother, the waiting and more waiting in the hospital… I almost feel like I’m recounting scenes from a movie. It was all so surreal and surprisingly emotionless for me. I came home the next morning, fell on my bed, and my brain shut down. 

I know I should be asking myself what could have driven my grandmother to the point of suicide. How miserable must she have been, how desperate? But to be honest, I found it hard to even want to understand my grandmother. Because I’m afraid that when I do, it won’t be good enough. When our other family members were informed of this event, there was an outpour of sympathy for my grandmother. She must have suffered so much… she’s a victim of depression and loneliness… she just wanted to be relieved of her misery… Maybe I am heartless, maybe I lack compassion. But I felt nothing but anger. 

How could a woman of such holy background (her husband was a pastor, all four of her sons went to seminary school to become spiritual leaders in some form) disobey the sanctity of life by attempting suicide, one of the most serious of sins? Had she that little hope in God, in the eternal life she would reap in not-too-long from now? Was her soul that deplete of any source of joy or faith or love, that ungrateful, that dark, that she would resort to this? How could she bring upon such pain to her loved ones, those who were  living in sweat and tears trying to keep her happy, comfortable, peaceful? What honor would this bring to anyone? To God? 

I remember the next few weeks I couldn’t even look at her. She carried on as though nothing had happened, almost as though she were enjoying herself as she was being shown extra pity-love and pity-care by relatives. There was so much quality porridge, hanyak (chinese medicine), herbal pills, royal jelly, ginger tea, every conceivable healthy goodies you could think of overflowing from our kitchen cabinets and refrigerator. And of course, my mother was repeatedly urged to take better care of my grandmother, by the very same people who had more of an obligation to take care of her themselves, but had given up and relinquished those duties. It was during this time that I think I completely shut my heart to my grandmother. Somewhere in my subconscience, I decided I would never try to love her again. She was just another person living in this house. That’s all she would ever mean to me. 

Funny thing is, my mother began doing the same. I saw her grow colder and colder with each passing day, and each task became simply a task, robotic and unfeeling. She would no longer budge to those cursed doorbell rings. She no longer smiled or spoke to my grandmother besides the bare minimum. She was taping her wounded heart. But I could see that she was merely damaging herself… because deep down inside, I know my mother longed to love my grandmother. I know she died a little more each day from the guilt of being cruelly apathetic to my grandmother’s pain, of having quit, like everyone else, when she had been so adament about being different. And the ultimate guilt of leaving my dad to fend for himself. My dad took the nursing role during that long period of time, about one year, till my grandmother’s death. He did everything. Fed her, bathed her, changed her diapers. We were all so, so tired. 

It’s a hard thing to see. The collapse of a parent’s spirit and resolve. There are a million things they could have done differently; there is never an end to love. But at the end of the day, all you can say is that you tried your best. And I believe both my parents did the very best they could possibly do. And for that, they are my heroes. 

As for me, there is a place in me where my grandmother lives that I haven’t dared to venture yet. I’d like to forgive her one day for all the ways she hurt us, but mostly, I’d like to one day heal myself of the pride I have in not being able to forgive her. When all is said and done, she was the ultimate victim, a bitter, jaded woman who endured more suffering than anyone should in their lifetime. God has mercy on his fallen children, and I believe he will have mercy on her. How different are her sins versus mine? Is she not, after all, my own blood, in which no amount of wrongs can undo? 

I trust that she is in heaven now, and she is no longer fallen. She is pure, no longer suffering from her demons, and she loves us. When I think like that, it makes it a little easier to love her again.

 Rest in peace, grandpa. Rest in peace….grandma.