An article from Today's paper. Sad, familiar events…DYING FOR LOVE
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Leong Wee Keat
TWO years ago, my grandfather did what many of us (including me then)
would consider to be the “unthinkable”.
On April 15, 2004, my grandfather committed suicide – jumping off the
eighth storey of the block of flats he was living in. He was 79.
That morning, my uncle, who was living with my grandfather, found nothing
amiss. My grandfather had returned from his usual early morning routine –
a walk in the park followed by a cup of coffee at the kopitiam. But at
about 7.20am, he leapt from the parapet of the corridor.
To this day, I do not know why my grandfather decided to end his life.
Prior to that fateful day, things had been looking good.
My grandfather had survived a two-year battle with bladder cancer and was
well on the road to recovery.
Although he had had his bladder removed and carried an external “pouch”
wherever he went, I never did hear him moan about the inconvenience. Sure,
people would stare, he would tell me. But in the next breath, he would
shrug things off and say: “Life goes on.”
Despite his age, he was mobile and would insist that I did not have to
take him home after functions at my parents' place.
You see, my grandfather was a survivor. He survived the Second World War,
the death of my grandmother in 1983 and an estrangement with one of his
doted-upon sons. But I guess this image of the strong patriarch was
deceptive.
Nearly all his eight children, with the exception of my youngest uncle,
had their own families and their own affairs to look after.
Some of the grandchildren, including my brother and I – who were looked
after by him in our early years – had also grown apart from him. We had
lives of our own to lead.
My grandfather's last years coincided with my university years and I never
did fulfil – or even attempt to fulfil – my promise to show him how to use
the MRT system. I was too caught up in my own life, assuming there was
always “the next day” for me to show him around the trains. And the “next
day” turned into weeks, then months and finally years.
That I let slip the chance to reach out to him, will forever be a regret.
Looking back, I don't think anyone in my family had any idea of the mental
and emotional turmoil my grandfather was grappling with. Nor did the
possibility cross our minds that such a strong man might be besieged by
loneliness and depression.
Last week, as I worked on the cover feature, “Age and the brittle mind”
(Nov 18-19) for Weekend Today, I made up my mind to write this piece – to
share my personal experience with elderly depression with readers.
I am most worried that, more and more, suicide may become the elderly
person's final cry for help, and that what happened to my family could
happen to someone else.
In the nursing homes I visited, I saw some elderly folk who stared blankly
into space – as if waiting for their loved ones to appear before them.
Then there were those who told me they had shrugged loneliness aside and
kept themselves occupied. But while they said they understood that their
families were busy trying to make a living, I could see in their eyes that
they wished they had more time with – not to mention acceptance from –
their children and grandchildren.
With the onset of major illness and the possible loss of mobility, the
likelihood of depression hitting an elderly person will increase.
Especially if he or she has been left in a harsh environment: Alone at
home, perhaps with a foreign maid, or in an old folks' home.
If life is reduced to a bed, clothes, meals and four walls, it is not much
better than a prison.
I think the first, and best, line of defence against elderly depression
lies with families. While we may strive to achieve more and build our own
families, we shouldn't be blind to the possibility that we may be
neglecting a loved one. Most of us will make time to spend with children –
why can't we make similar sacrifices for the elderly?
They played an integral part in shaping who we are and, different
generations notwithstanding, we have many shared memories.
What can you and I do to bring an older loved one back into the family's
arms? We can try to get other family members involved, to bridge the gap.
We don't have to do it alone. For instance, get our grandparents involved
in some common activities.
Growing up, I was a football fanatic and my grandfather and I would watch
matches together. I found it painful, even irritating, to have to update
him on Liverpool's latest striker. But I think he needed to learn more
about me than about my favourite football club.
I certainly did not want the questions or distractions; but what the proud
man needed was a listening ear, and for us to appreciate that he still
cared about us. I don't know whether I ever did reciprocate with the same
concern.
If all this strikes a painfully familiar chord with you, I would suggest
you start by finding out your grandparents' names.
I only found out my grandfather's name when he died – and I never told him
how much he meant to me.
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