Making My Grandmother Proud, One Big Bite At A Time

After a stroke took my grandmother's ability to talk and eat solid food, I found myself repulsed by the idea of having a proper meal. But something changed my mind.

My grandmother had a stroke two days before Christmas. Upon learning about it, I retraced my steps to figure out where I was and what I was doing when the stroke occurred. I then realized I was enjoying a pork bun at Honolulu Cafe in Greenbelt 5 at the time.

Grief began to consume me because although she survived, half of her body was paralyzed and she could no longer talk. She would not be able to eat solid food, either, and that meant she would now rely on milk supplements to be fed via a nasogastric tube.

It was so hard for me to accept this, especially since I had always enjoyed listening to her stories. It was also she who first taught me about the magic of food and how pleasurable the act of eating can be even in the toughest times.

The next several hours were tough. I could not bring myself to eat properly. The idea of having a proper meal, let alone an enjoyable one, seemed very wrong.

But my body betrayed me, eventually. I sensed that it was about to crash 20-something hours later. I was at a mall back then, as I had a work event I could not bail out on at the last minute. As soon as I got a chance, I ran to Cibo and I ordered a serving of its famous Linguine Alla Ghiotta.

The moment the pasta dish was served, I lost control. I devoured it right away.

There were lots of things going on in my mind at the start of the meal, including memories of my grandmother looking so animated while sharing stories from her past and enjoying her favorite food. They were fond memories, sure, but realizing that I would never see her like that again hit differently. I felt a stabbing pain in my chest, and it felt like I could not swallow any more food. I had to take a break.

But all of a sudden, I was reminded of a New Yorker essay I’d read about a woman enjoying a slice of two-layer chocolate cake in a New York restaurant in the wake of the Sept. 11 attacks and how that “simple, sensual moment” baffled author Colum McCann, who was working as a server at the establishment at the time. And he was still conflicted about the act a decade later, writing:

“I still have no idea—after a decade of wondering—whether I am furious at the woman and the way she ate chocolate cake, or whether it was one of the most audacious acts of grief I’ve seen in a long, long time.”

A switch flipped in my brain. All of a sudden, the thought of devouring that pasta dish right in front of me no longer seemed wrong. It was now the opposite; I thought maybe McCann had a point, that it was possible for such an act to be a display of audacity.

Besides, my grandmother had always insisted on feeding us even while things seemed to fall apart. To this day, I have so many memories of her pushing a plateful of food toward me, telling me to eat even when I could barely breathe after crying nonstop. Even when there were deaths in the family and everyone was busy grieving, she made sure no one would get hungry.

Before I knew it, I was shoveling swirls and swirls of pasta into my mouth again until all of it was gone. I then ate the bread the dish came with, using it to wipe the plate clean. I ordered dessert, too—two scoops of chocolate gelato—and finished it quickly.

I knew I was making my grandmother proud.