Medium Delirium

A couple of months ago I was added into a Telegram chat containing everyone in my 8-person group of college pals, minus YM.

‘Hey. Have you seen YM’s story?’

I darted into Instagram and flicked through his stories, a nearly identical series of content from a gig in Taiwan. Nothing out of the ordinary, until I reached the last page, plain white text on black announcing the death of his mother. He continued that he would be flying home that night, followed by details of the wake.

My heart plummeted. Our parents were of similar age and while not young, they certainly weren’t expected to be knocking at death’s door. The Telegram chat buzzed with collective fretting: was it illness? An accident? Had anybody heard anything before this? No one knew. We quickly made plans to gather at the wake the next night.

We were an odd sight, a hodgepodge of characters spanning worn tees and flip flops to office formal. I was also 8 months pregnant and massive. In Chinese custom, it tends to be taboo to attend a funeral while pregnant, as it’s believed that the negative energy (a simplification) will bring misfortune to mother and baby. I didn’t buy into the superstition, and felt it was more important to show up for moral and emotional support. Still, I was an aberration, to say the least.

As a group, we’d celebrated with each other at weddings, births and other happy occasions, but a funeral – this was a first. As we squeezed our plastic chairs around a rickety table piled with small snacks and packet drinks, the awkwardness was palpable. We were used to boisterous, alcohol-fuelled gatherings full of lightness and laughter. Here, we were compelled to be morose and sombre, speaking in hushed tones. After 15 minutes or so, YM finally made it round to our table, smiling and thanking everyone for coming. I was confused; no red-rimmed eyes, no sniffles or the sickly pallor that comes with a sleepless night. He seemed perfectly fine, buoyant even. He still sported the grey contacts, earrings and nail polish that had come to define what we not-so-secretly labelled his mid life crisis. He told us matter-of-factly that his mother had succumbed to stage 4 liver cancer, which she’d been diagnosed with a mere 4 months ago. The faces around the table all wore the same expression: how did we not know? YM had been running all over the world for months, pursuing a career in talent management; we hadn’t once sensed that his personal life might have taken a troubled turn, and he never let slip. He hadn’t been in the country when she passed and wasn’t at her deathbed. He told us all this without so much as a tear in his eye, though I’d known him for long enough to know that this flippant demeanour was sometimes a mask for more uncomfortable feelings.

As we filed past the coffin to pay our respects, I was struck by how suddenly life can deal you a bad card. I looked at the kindly face in the photo frame and wondered if she’d worried about the two sons she was leaving behind. She would never see them marry, never hold a grandchild in her arms. Never take another holiday or relish another good meal. I remarked this sentiment in brief to one of my friends. As we stood sadly by, another relative of YM’s swooped over to offer us more packet drinks.

We reconvened at our little plastic table. Gradually, the conversation spun off into less solemn topics: how’s work? When are you leaving for that trip to Japan? Did you see so-and-so’s post about her new boyfriend? Before long we’d rebounded into the usual savage jokes and raging gossip, though we did try our best not to laugh too loudly.

We’ve been friends for 15 years, and we went from seeing each other in school all day, everyday, to just a couple of times a year as our lives spiralled out in different directions, our schedules groaning under the weight of other relationships and responsibilities. Although the circumstances of this gathering were grim, I couldn’t help but feel a certain gladness from seeing us all in one place, full attendance. It took an untimely passing to summon us all at short notice; for a couple of hours that night we were not girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, husbands, fathers or mothers, but a bunch of freewheeling 17-year-olds again, rubbing shoulders around a table and giggling about one inane thing or the other.

In a world where lives can intersect so fleetingly, I’m proud of us for sticking by for so long, and hopefully for many more years to come.