It’s Complicated: Me & My Pópó

by Maddie Park

The room is suffocating, even with the air conditioner on high. The bottoms of our thighs stick to the plastic chairs. Every so often, māmā unsicks herself and limps out of the hospital room. The steady beep beep of pópó’s machine is the only sound I hear. And, in some ways, it is almost reassuring -- it tells me that she is still alive and still breathing.

My vision goes in and out. I cross and uncross my legs but still feel pins and needles. I don’t think I have inhaled or exhaled fully since 3 a.m. when we got gǒnggǒng’s call. I have been plastered to this chair, bottom sore, but too scared to move, so scared that I will miss the moment when pópó’s chest stops rising.

I stare at pópó’s face, waiting for her eyes to crinkle, her lips to curve upwards, and her laugh wrinkles to scrunch. She used to scrub at her wrinkles angrily, counting them every weekend. 23 total, when she counted last weekend. Yet, whenever I see pópó’s face, I am reminded of her buoyant laughter. It’s gone now, replaced by a sputtering cough. And I know the sequence too well: when pópó coughs, blood dribbles down her chin. Then, a relative shouts for a nurse, which is followed by the clap clap of clogs against the linoleum floor.

Many relatives have come now. We gather beside pópó’s bed, encircling her hospital bed as if it were her coffin. Maybe it is.

I don’t let myself think of the fact that pópó will be gone in several hours. She can’t be. She loved me, supported me, though in her own turbulent way. As I sit in the sticky plastic chair and let my thoughts wander, I begin to better understand her erratic way of love and support.

When pópó and I argued, it was a screaming match -- pópó had assigned herself the unique duty of making sure my life was utterly perfect. One afternoon, she came home and found that my bedroom closets were cluttered – stuffed animals from my childhood were stacked on top of each other, and journals (or, “wasted notebooks”, in her eyes) were balanced precariously. Pópó saw no need for this “junk,” and before I had even come home, she had proudly, and successfully, decluttered my entire closet; packing box after box of my possessions to donate to Goodwill. I felt upset. My stuffed animals had reminded me of my childhood friends, many of whom had moved away. I had planned to keep my journals to reminisce on past memories. That afternoon, when I came home, I released a torrential stream of incoherent words at her. And her response? Well, pópó’s lips pursed, her teeth clenched, and she repeatedly told me that she was “only trying to help me” because I was such a “barbaric” and “messy” child. After that, I locked myself in my bedroom and quietly watched through my window as pópó departed the following morning.

Several weeks later, I received a heavily duct-taped brown FedEx box, and inside I found her newest deals from Target – a bright pink thermal undershirt, a pair of neon yellow sweatpants, and a wool sweater – all for the summertime. Many times, pópó and I did not have similar style.

Painfully, pópó did not come to my high school graduation – her fear of anything going wrong on the two-hour flight stopped her – but we called every weekend, sometimes almost every day when things were good between us. When my mom snapped at me to get off the couch, go outside, and exercise – I would call pópó, who promptly assisted me in fabricating an excuse to stay inside, arguing that the UV was too high or that it was simply too risky for me to even step outside without getting heat stroke (exaggeration never concerned her).

I never analyzed my relationship with pópó until now when she is on her deathbed. Every moment seems to matter, and as I sit here, I slowly recount and scrutinize every memory I had with her. I punish myself thinking about our relentless cycle of screaming matches. Storming, norming, rinse, and repeat. It is the storming times that I dwell on now. In her eyes, I had disrespected her. I did not care then, but I do now.

Pópó is frail now. Her face is calm, not her usual aggravated manner. Her fighting spirit has flown away to inhabit another victim. So, I can’t give up on her now. If I let go, she will go.

I rarely think of the first time pópó and I traveled to Taipei, but as I sit here now, the memory crosses my mind. The heat of Taipei was sweltering. Waves of people were pushing us – pópó and me – back and forth, like stalks of grass. I was sweaty, I had lost my patience, and I had begun to hate the brusqueness of the other foreign tourists crowding me. It was, of course, on this day that pópó chose to visit a friend.

When I pulled myself out of the musty vehicle and onto a dirt path, I thought we were lost. We were surrounded by weeds, tall ones, and the kind grass snakes loved to lounge in. I looked down at pópó’s cheetah-print pumps, then looked up at pópó confused. Body alert, pópó’s eyes were sharp, steady, and focused ahead on the dilapidated cottage. She glared at me as I tugged my earbuds out and stuffed them into my pocket. I gave her an apologetic glance and whispered a quiet apology. But pópó had already turned away.

The cottage stewed of sweat, spoiled fish, and rancid feet. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I found an old woman spread out on a ratty sofa. Her lips were moving, and she was staring at a spot on her mantelpiece. There were holes in the sofa covers, loose threads on the pillows, and a thin throw spilling onto a flea-ridden carpet. The old woman heard the door open, and her head, seemingly in slow motion, turned our way. She noticed pópó first, and a minuscule twinkle popped into her large, alien-like eyes. She stretched, feet reaching for the floor, raising her limbs up high in the air, and emitting a hoarse screech. Before her sleeve covered it up again, I saw a line -- a scar -- on her meaty wrist. When she settled back down again, she had plastered a sad smile along the bottom of her face. My eyes began to travel around the cottage.

There was only one ‘decoration’ in the entire cottage. There, on the ashy, old-fashioned fireplace, sat a small, black-and-white photograph. Although a thick layer of dust coated the silver frame, it seemed to be in good shape compared with the rest of the home. The picture was of three girls: one of them tugging another’s hair; and the other holding bunny ears over the third. They were smiling happily, mid-laugh – they were joyous. I had never seen pópó so happy. Another one of the girls had the same wide eyes, same pointy nose, and the same small mouth as the old woman in the cottage.

“Who is the last girl?” I asked, looking up into the old woman’s eyes. When pópó turned her head to see what I was pointing at, she looked puzzled, yet the moment she saw the photo, her face shut down. My gaze caught on the old woman’s face. She was staring at me.

“Where is she?” I asked. There was a long pause. Finally, the old woman responded. “Heaven. I hope. Who knows where Ai-han has flown off to.”

Then, the old woman turned away, exhaling a long sigh. But the twinkle in her eye had disappeared. She did not make an effort to move forward, nor did she make an effort to move away from us either. Her gaze was blank, and the rest of her face turned downwards. Pópó waved a hand at me to go, and I silently nodded. I stepped carefully – being sure to avoid dirty laundry piles, stacks of legal papers, and gnats circling the empty bowls of beef noodle soup – back to the doorway and towards Taipei.

Somewhere between Kaohsiung and Hualien, I realized what the old woman was repeatedly whispering: “I never saw the signs.” Her gaze had been locked on the photo of pópó and Ai-han and her. I stared in the rearview mirror, hoping that pópó would look up and see my questioning gaze. Pópó did not say a word until we got back to the motel. When we pulled into the driveway, pópó stopped and tilted her head. I waited. “Mei-ling cannot let go of Ai-han.” I held my breath, hoping she would elaborate. But, instead, pópó hurriedly walked toward the bright lanterns of a nearby Chinese restaurant. We never talked about that day again. Perhaps it was easier for pópó to bury her discomfort rather than confront it.

As I sit here waiting for pópó’s inevitable death, the moment where pópó’s machine will slowly transition to a monotonous hum, I ask myself if I should have reconciled more quickly when we clashed. I wonder if I could have replaced the now wasted moments with happier memories. I wonder if our relationship could have been perfect if I had tried just a little harder.

Ai-han’s depression slipped under Mei-Ling’s notice. Had Mei-Ling wished she could have been a more attentive sister? And like Mei-Ling, I had not noticed how quickly pópó’s health deteriorated over the last year, ignorantly unaware of the significance of her weight loss and newfound fatigue. And while I hated that I had to reclaim control of my life from her, I regret not letting her fuss more at some moments. I wish I had nodded more, listened more.

Mei-ling did not want to accept that she could not change her past, therefore, letting the past dominate her present. But, I can try to accept my relationship with pópó in these last moments I have with her. As I recount our memories together, I am stung by the terrible ones, but also content with the good ones. We had gone to the beach together, wrapped dumplings together, and laughed together. I understand now that pópó’s love is complicated.

Still, I do not want to let go of pópó. Letting go means giving up and acknowledging that pópó – the woman who had supported me, comforted me, scolded me, and yelled at me – is not invincible. I cannot. Not yet.

Author Notes;
Pópó is grandma (on the maternal side), gǒnggǒng is grandpa (on the maternal side), and māmā is mom.