Just like my first childhood memory, I will never forget my last moments with Mama.

We had rushed back to KL on the earliest possible flight when we heard the news that Mama was not getting better. She had spent the last few nights in the hospital, and there were some optimistic moments when it seemed she was regaining her strength and on the road to recovery. But things took a turn, and she became weaker and weaker. At first, she could speak and sit up on her own. Towards her last days, she couldn’t speak or eat, and she would open her eyes only for a few short moments at a time.

It was the middle of the afternoon when we arrived at the ward. My aunt was by her side, talking softly, squeezing her hand. Mama was resting on the bed, in hospital pink, with a thin blanket tucked around her. She was breathing heavily, labouring through each breath, as if it took all of her to just do this simplest of actions.

I held her hand tight in mine, just to let her know that we were here. Mama, I couldn’t say goodbye to you earlier, but I’m here now, with you. Thank you for everything that you’ve done, you’ve been the most amazing Mama, and that I love you. I love you, and it’s okay, Mama. It’s okay to let go.

The doctor said that she was no longer in pain, and was probably unconscious by this time. She may not have heard us, but a small part of me believes that she still did. It was a comfort that in her final days and moments, everyone in the family had gathered around her, to spend time with her, to comfort her in our own ways.

I remember her breathing grew quiet for a few minutes. She looked so peaceful, so calm and at ease. In her final moments, her breathing grew heavy once again, for a few seconds, before she let out a final breath, and came to rest.

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