TLDR: Death is often seen as a tragic outcome in a person’s life. What if death allows us to better appreciate Impermanence, Right View, Right Effort, and Gratitude?
SPOILER ALERTS! This article contains spoilers!
The movie “How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies” is a Thai family-themed film that skillfully blends humour with poignant moments of love, compassion, joy, and equanimity. Proceed with caution, as some minor spoilers will be shared here.
Check out the movie trailer here. (The trailer alone is a tear-jerker; prepare your tissues!)
The movie centres around a grandson, M, and his maternal grandmother, Ah Ma. M competes to become Ah Ma’s favourite, devising a plan to surpass Ah Ma’s three children to secure the largest portion of her inheritance – the ancestral home before Ah Ma succumbs to cancer.
M and Ah Ma had many hilarious and mind-bending interactions. They show us how their relationship evolved from M’s initial feelings of Greed, Aversion, and Ignorance towards Ah Ma and Ah Ma’s initial distrust and scepticism of M’s intentions to a deep bond of love and joy, cherishing the shared moments in life.
Impermanence
We celebrate birth, yet we cry over death. birth and death come as a pair. Death casts a shadow over us from the moment of birth. As Buddhists, the Buddha encourages us to contemplate death as one of the 5 Recollections that we should regularly reflect upon. There is no guarantee that we will live to a long, ripe age. ‘
Once in Ajahn Brahm’s retreat at Jhana Grove in Australia, Ajahn Brahm somberly stated, “One of you may not be alive next year…” and he intones on, “And don’t you all look at the elderly gentleman at the back, for there is no guarantee that the young may not die earlier either!”
M shared with Ah Ma about her cancer diagnosis, which came as a shock to Ah Ma’s three children, who tried to conceal the diagnosis from Ah Ma.
This situation highlights the common fear that adults have when it comes to discussing death with their parents.
My father is a 4 times cancer survivor. I have witnessed his transition from being youthful and active to being slower and weaker; impermanence is revealing itself in my life with my father.
Talking about death and discussing his final wishes with my father, especially at this late stage of his life, remains a sensitive topic for me. It makes me ponder whether it is taboo for me or my parents.
During a discussion with M’s cousin, the topic of the “elderly smell” came up. Sometimes, we might avoid spending time with our aging grandparents or parents just because they “smell” funny. This reflects our aversion to unpleasant odors and our attachment to pleasant fragrances like perfumes.
Worse, some may not even notice any smell at all. Aging is a painful process for the body; it cannot detoxify at the same rate as it deteriorates.
The elderly are conscious of their failing bodies. We do not need to add more hurtful words to their physical discomfort.
As younger Buddhists, we are more knowledgeable about the suttas and the proper teachings of the Buddha. This can lead us to dismiss the rites and rituals observed by our Ah Ma and Ah Gong, such as abstaining from beef consumption for those who worship Guan Yin.
(Spoiler alert: Despite beef being her favorite, Ah Ma vowed in front of the Guan Yin altar to never eat beef again for the rest of her life so her son could recover from his illness.)
Questioning antiquated rites and rituals may be necessary, but it is also crucial to recognize the importance of rituals upheld by the elderly. If we do not take the opportunity to learn more while they are still with us, we risk losing the social, cultural, and religious narratives embedded in these traditional practices.
Right Effort:
At first, M embraced the role of the dutiful Grandson, expressing his desire to be a “full-time Grandson” and help Ah Ma with her congee stall business. However, M’s perspective shifted when Ah Ma mentioned the need to wake up at 5 am, leading to the following hilarious exchanges:
M: Why so early?
Ah Ma: The early bird gets the worm.
M: The worm that wakes up early will be gobbled up first. The worm that woke up late survives.
Greed is the motivating factor that energizes M to be closer to his Ah Ma. This explains M’s previous careless attitude and behaviour, like “microwaving the water” instead of using a kettle, showing little regard while cleaning Guan Yin’s altar, and buying beef soup for Ah Ma without realizing that Ah Ma does not eat beef.
These instances humorously highlight how we sometimes neglect to show proper respect and care toward our elders when completing tasks for them.
In Buddhism, Right Effort is part of the Noble Eightfold Path. What would count as Right Effort in this context? M’s mother exemplified Right Effort by rescheduling her work shifts to join Ah Ma in aquatic exercises, accommodating Ah Ma’s chemo appointments in her busy schedule, and wholeheartedly attending to Ah Ma’s needs, purely out of love without concern for inheritances.
M’s initial thought was that his mother was also working hard to curry favour to be in Ah Ma’s good books, but he stood corrected.
In summary, Right Effort is not the mere performance of the acts of wholesome deeds but rather also the wholesome mental states behind them. Arising wholesome mental states (caring for Ah Ma) and abandoning unwholesome mental states (disregarding inheritance as a motivating factor for caring).
Gratitude
Gratitude is a big word, yet it is subtly depicted in the movie’s day-to-day scenes. The simple moments in life remind us to value each other’s presence.
In a particular scene where M and Ah Ma are preparing bags of vinegar for takeaways:
Ah Ma: You’re not doing it tight enough.
M: If it’s too tight, the vinegar will suffocate.
Ah Ma: Chuckles and laughs at M’s comments.
Many Asian children consider it a sacred duty and responsibility to provide their parents with pocket money while working. Therefore, it pains me and makes me feel “bad” that I am unable to support my parents financially during my 1-year unemployment period.
I ended up spending more time in Singapore than in my hometown of Malacca with my elderly parents because I felt awkward and uncomfortable relying on them for food at home.
This movie makes me realize that the greatest gift that our parents want from us is Time!
During a discussion with M’s cousin, who inherited a fortune, M’s cousin remarked, “Do you know what old people really want, but none of their offspring can give it to them? Time.”
Our elderly parents and grandparents do not need fancy vacations or material goods from us; they crave our undivided time or whatever time we can spare.
In a society where we must earn a living, sustain a lifestyle, and offer material comfort to ourselves and our loved ones, the true joy and happiness our loved ones seek lie in the moments we share in our time spent with them.
We might initially hold certain misconceptions and motivations when spending time with our loved ones, particularly concerning money and inheritances.
However, as the movie unfolds, we learn that with Ah Ma’s love and compassion, even the obnoxious and greedy M can undergo a positive transformation. Let us brush off the impurities of our heart, for we all naturally have the Buddhanature as our birthright; we simply need to re-discover it again so it can “Shine bright like the Diamond!
It’s important to spend quality time with our elderly grandparents, parents, or other elderly relatives/friends. To echo Angie Chew’s sentiment, “Their tomorrows will be lesser than their yesterdays.”
Expressing our love and gratitude to our loved ones should be a regular practice. If saying “I love you” feels challenging, imagine how much harder it would be when they are no longer around.
TLDR: Singapore is rapidly ageing and it is important to educate ourselves on death literacy, and aging, and develop spiritual friendships to sustain us through our golden years.
“As Buddhists, we should develop spiritual friendship as a refuge in old age,” Dr Ng Wai Chong explained, striking a chord deep within my heart.
I recently attended the 12th Global Conference on Buddhism organised by Buddhist Fellowship at Expo Singapore. Dr Ng’s talk on “The Challenging Happy Problem of Dying in Old Age” really got me thinking.
Brother Wai Chong defined death literacy as “the knowledge and skills that make it possible to gain access to, understand and act upon end-of-life and death care options”.
These include understanding what good end-of-life care looks like for individuals, what happens when someone dies, what legal processes need to be followed, and what support is needed and available at different stages, among other things.
Issues and vulnerabilities for the Buddhist community
In addition, he pointed out that there exists a group of ageing monastics in Singapore.
He raised the pertinent question, “Who will take care of our ageing monastics if they do not have a family / kappiah (volunteer helper) / devoted supporter / affiliated monastery?
This came to mind when Brother Wai Chong brought up the fact that such cases are becoming increasingly common due to isolation of the old.
A dream of mine is to live together in a queer commune with other queer Buddhists in order to offer support to one another.
These could include support whether physical (accompanying one to the doctor, cooking for one another when sick or ensure that falls are immediately taken care of), spiritual (meditating together every morning or chanting together before a meal every evening), emotional (commiserating over my lack of love life or offering comfort during breakups), or psychological (offering a hug or words of comfort during times of depression or when one’s friends and family is not supportive of our sexual orientation even though it is not explicitly prohibited in Buddhist scripture).
Thus, it was gratifying to hear when Brother Wai Chong talked about Older People’s Associations (OPA) that are groups created to serve the needs of older people.
He used the example of the “Happy Village” OPA conducted online using Zoom that he was a part of, to demonstrate how technology can be used to help connect people.
Conclusion
What I have written is but a fraction of the rich and educational talk Brother Wai Chong presented. I think the most impactful part of the talk (at least for me) was where he highlighted the importance of spiritual friendship as part of active ageing.
If anything, I am looking forward to future sharing on the topic of death by him.
For if anything is a certainty, it is the certainty of death. Instead of being afraid of it, why not embrace the inevitable, and take steps to prepare for it today?
TLDR: In the second part of our pilgrimage series, Tate Aung acquires a symbol, a wooden Buddha rupa. She experiences a pivotal moment of renunciation by giving away a prized possession, exemplifying the importance of relinquishing attachments for spiritual growth. Next, Angela Tan’s contemplation on death during a Ganges River cruise in Varanasi leads to profound insights on life’s impermanence and the cultivation of of virtues in pursuit of liberation.
Going on a pilgrimage often brings us to some unexpected realisations and experiences. In this second instalment of our three-part pilgrimage series, we delve into two reflections by two fellow pilgrims, Tate Aung and Angela Tan as they navigate the paths of renunciation (Nekkhamma) and death contemplation (Maranasati) amidst the sacred landscapes of India.
From the pursuit of generosity to contemplating life’s impermanence, their narratives offer some poignant insights into the essence of spiritual growth and the pursuit of enlightenment.
Nekkhamma by Tate Aung
In the serene setting of Rajgir, a town in the district of Nalanda in Bihar, India, I made a significant acquisition – a beautifully carved wooden rupa made of wood from the sacred Bodhi Tree.
This rupa of Lord Buddha in his most austere state of renunciation was to me a symbolic reminder of the suffering the Buddha felt, along with his unwavering determination on his path to enlightenment. Reflecting on my disposition, characterised by what I perceive as a lack of Viriya (effort) and a tendency to procrastinate, I had wanted to place this rupa in my home as a stark reminder to infuse more effort into both my spiritual practice and work life.
The journey of this rupa did not end with its purchase. I carried it to the Mahabodhi Temple in Bodhgaya, where it received blessings at the Buddha Metta statue.
It then further continued at the deer park in Sarnath where the Buddha first proclaimed the Dhamma to the world.
While our group circumambulated with the rupa around the stupa (commemorative monument)at the deer park, the recited teachings of the Dhammacakkhapavathana Sutta and the Anatta-lakhana Sutta from ~2500 years ago echoed in the air. I would think that layers of blessings were bestowed upon the wooden rupa.
I had brought along another rupa on the trip to the deer park to offer to Kruba Joe, a monk accompanying us on this pilgrimage. However, while everyone was meditating, I became quite distracted and was in a deep dilemma on what to do when I saw that the rupa intended for Kruba Joe had a small crack at the back.
As good as my intention was to give it away, I could not unsee the crack on the rupa’s back and thought how “less-than-beautiful” it was when compared to the other rupas gifted to the other monks who were around.
Right then, I recalled the goodness of my dear kalyāṇa-mitta(spiritual friend), Kaylee, who previously gave a singing bowl to Phra Danny (despite her initial desire to keep it for herself…)
Inspired by her example, I too decided to give away the “ultra-blessed” Austere Buddha rupa intended for myself to Kruba Joe. Honest to Buddha, the Austere Buddha rupa not only had very good craftsmanship but also cost twice as much, hence I did feel the pinch and was quite unwilling to part with the rupa, and more so, the blessings associated with the rupa.
Oftentimes, most of us only give away things we don’t need, and things we don’t find difficult to give away.
You could say that I was delighting in the pleasant sense-object like the rupa, and growing a dangerous attachment to it that could cause me some suffering over it in the future.
Hence, the act of giving away a prized possession became an expression of renunciation, serving as a reminder to not only give away what is easy but to part with what is most difficult (which includes renouncing our defilements).
On the topic of renouncing our defilements, while I was at Rajkir, Bihar (prior to reaching Uttar Pradesh), I had indicated to my dear kalyāṇa-mittas(spiritual friends) that yes, I would be taking the Eight Precepts, and hence would not be eating after 12:30pm.
Yet, the allure of an exquisite buffet upon arrival at our hotel in Uttar Pradesh tested my commitment. Succumbing to temptation, I found myself on the brink of breaking my precepts during this pilgrimage. In a moment of intervention, a wise kalyāṇa-mitta, Heng Xuan, gently told me off by mentioning that “..breaking your precepts is very bad kamma…. you said you were going to take 8 precepts”. He also said something along the lines that it was bad for my “Sacca Parami” (transcendent virtue of truthfulness) too.
That stopped me in my tracks.
This timely piece of advice halted my wavering, and I chose to recommit to the precepts, a decision we celebrated as a team, captured in a joyful photo with the entire DAYWA group observing the eighth precept successfully.
The conscious and intentional act of stepping away from temptations which lead us astray from our commitments is a powerful act of renunciation.
Pana time for eight preceptors
In essence, this entire pilgrimage served as a powerful reminder that every action we undertake is a fuel for our Parami (Virtues). The habit to renounce not just material possessions but also our inner defilements, such as tanha (craving), becomes crucial in propelling us forward on the raft towards the shores of Nibbana.
Maranasati (death contemplation) by Angela Tan
Witnessing the four sights of ageing, sickness, death and an ascetic, the Buddha sought a way out of suffering. On this pilgrimage, the sight of death (through viewing cremations happening right before our eyes) was a particularly impactful one.
Burning Ghats
After days of meditation and visiting holy sites, we were treated to a cultural experience; a cruise on the Ganges – one of the most sacred rivers in the world.
Prior to boarding the Ganges cruise, we learnt that some Hindus believe that people who die in the city of Varanasi can achieve moksha (liberation). As part of their death rituals, some Hindus cremate their deceased relatives at a famous ghat (defined as: a level place on the edge of a river where Hindus cremate their dead.) Then, their ashes are put into the Ganges river where some Hindus believe that the deceased can reunite with their god Shiva.
As we boarded the cruise and headed for the famous cremation ghat, I could not help but anticipate sadness. I carried with me some preconceived notions of death – in Chinese culture, death rituals are often associated with a sombre sense of loss and heavy feelings.
Upon disembarking near the cremation ground, my eyes were indeed filled with tears – from the fumes of five recently deceased bodies burning all at once! When my watery eyes cleared, I saw family members of the deceased surrounding the fire, looking at ease with where they were and what they were doing. It was nothing like what I expected. There were no tears, no wailing, an absence of distress.
On the contrary, there was a sense of acceptance. And I was not the only one who felt this. Later on the way back to our evening rest, other pilgrims shared the same sentiments too. Death, to the Hindus, is a natural part of life. This is part of the notion of “Right View” expounded by the Buddha.
This experience led me to reflect that no matter your situation, whether you are rich or poor, happy or upset, sick or healthy, death is inevitable. It is a short sprint between life and death.
What matters most is to continually do good, give generously, learn earnestly, forgive steadfastly and patiently cultivate.
The next day, contemplating this experience about death allowed me to have a joyful meditation session. I was able to disengage from my ever-planning mind and enjoy the present moment, one breath at a time. Having returned from the pilgrimage, I continue to practise death contemplation whenever I walk past funeral services.
Conclusion
As we draw the curtain on this chapter of contemplation and revelation, both Tate’s and Angela’s stories shed light on the intricate journey of spiritual growth while seeking enlightenment. From Tate’s journey of renunciation, marked by the relinquishment of material attachments to Angela’s profound contemplation on death and impermanence, their encounters remind us of the transient nature of existence and the urgency to cultivate good virtues that aid us to liberation.
May their insights inspire us to be more determined in our spiritual practices, guided by the light of wisdom and the aspiration for Ultimate Happiness and freedom.
Wise Steps:
1. Reflect on material (or mental) attachments: Take time to identify attachments to material objects and contemplate the possibility of letting them go for a better cause, understanding that renunciation can lead to spiritual growth and a lessening of our attachments . The same could apply to our mental attachments – to objects, experiences, views and perspectives.
2.Embrace impermanence (anicca): Contemplate on death regularly to cultivate our acceptance of life’s transient nature and prioritise actions that contribute to spiritual development and well-being. Regular reminders on impermanence also provide us with a sense of urgency to practice.
TLDR: Grief is a challenging process, especially after the death of a loved one. But we can draw inspiration from the teachings of the Buddha, especially about the Four Immeasurables—the cultivation of loving-kindness, compassion, appreciative joy, and equanimity—to work through difficult emotions, counter cognitive distortions, and develop a deeper relationship with our grief over the long term.
View outside the hospital room—there’s always light at the end of the tunnel (September 2023)
When was the last time you talked honestly and openly about grief and death? For many, coping with the death of a loved one can be difficult and painful. In the Singaporean or Asian context, death is often also regarded as taboo, spoken about only in hushed tones, and consigned to the corners of our lives.
Often, we just can’t, or don’t know how to, or simply don’t wish to confront it, because it’s just too unpleasant to contemplate.
But it’s precisely because grief and death are hard to talk about, that we need to offer it our deep attention and understanding. In the Upajjhatthana Sutta (AN 5.57), the Buddha describes the Five Remembrances, which are recommended for frequent recollection. These facts of life include the truth that we cannot avoid death, and one day we will be separated and parted from all that is dear and beloved to us.
My personal experience of such loss was my father’s struggle with cancer and subsequent passing. In May last year, he collapsed suddenly at home, and had to be rushed by ambulance to hospital.
At the time, his condition was still unknown, so multiple tests had to be conducted on him while he was still in the high-dependency ward. It was only months later, in August, that he was diagnosed with end-stage bile duct cancer, and it was more severe than anticipated. The doctors estimated that he had only around four weeks left to live (and they would turn out to be right – he had five weeks).
Those final few weeks of my father’s life were a difficult time for me and my family, especially my mother and sister. Every day involved a routine of shuttling between our workplaces, hospital, and home, as hospital visits became a regular part of our lives, and we would take turns to keep my father company. Amidst the sterile smell of antiseptic solution and the periodic beeping of the machines, the constant hum of activity was overwhelming.
I remember navigating a complex web of emotions. Guilt weighed heavily on me during those days spent by his side. I often questioned myself whether I had done enough, and if I could have done more as a son.
I thought about all the times when my Dad suggested going for overseas trips as a family, like to the Great Wall in Beijing—but I always said I could never find the time. The painful reality was that I had prioritised other aspects of life, like my work, above family time.
Now it would be too late. I’m reminded about how it’s been said that the four saddest words in the English language are “it could have been”.
But instead of wallowing in guilt and despair, what if we viewed death and grief as valuable opportunities for deeper reflection and personal transformation? After all, over the last few weeks of my father’s life, my family and I had some of our deepest conversations with him—about his memories, our family history, and about the meaning of life and death itself. Amidst the darkness, glimmers of light can still shine through—even in the face of loss, there is still room for shared connection and precious moments of joy.
One way of understanding death and grief is through the Four Immeasurables, or Brahmavihārās. Described by the late Buddhist teacher Ayya Khema as “the only emotions worth having”, the Four Immeasurables offer us a helpful framework to practise developing positive mind states and avoid negative ones.
By cultivating the Four Immeasurables, we can emulate the mind states of enlightened beings, while sowing the seeds of limitless (and hence ‘immeasurable’) goodwill towards ourselves and others.
Metta: Loving-Kindness
The word ‘loving-kindness’ is interesting. The first half is ‘loving’—and as the late Queen Elizabeth II famously said, grief is the price we pay for love.
In other words, grief is the natural extension of love, because they are inherently intertwined. Grief reveals itself in the corridors of the pathways we once walked together with our deceased loved ones, in the empty spaces of rooms where they once lived and laughed, and even in the scent of their belongings—like the old books that my father once owned.
Since love entails grief, should we just love less, or even give up on love? Clearly, that’s a misconception, or what psychology would refer to as a cognitive distortion.
The second half of the word ‘loving-kindness’ holds the clue as to why. The key lies in how we love—when we dwell less on our attachment to our loved ones, we can devote more attention to answering their needs more effectively, and express a deeper level of kindness towards them. The practice of metta itself can inspire such kindness and generosity. As the writer Leo Tolstoy put it, “Kindness enriches our life; with kindness, mysterious things become clear, difficult things become easy, and dull things become cheerful.”
We can show metta to our loved ones in simple ways, even just by spending quality time with them. For instance, I would ask Dad during my visits what he would like to eat, but he had no appetite, and often he felt nauseous.
He also mentioned he felt cold at night so I brought him a quilt with a sign reading “My Dad”, even though the hospital provided plenty of blankets. To keep my father focused on positive thoughts, my sister and I asked him about his childhood memories, his life as a teacher, his growing-up years, how he met our mother, and what it was like bringing us up.
Every day felt like Tuesdays with Morrie, the 1997 memoir by Mitch Albom about his visits to his terminally ill former college professor. As the poet Philip Larkin once put it: “We should be kind / While there is still time.”
The quilt for my Dad (May 2023)
Just as Dad used to recite lines of poetry to me as a child, so I read and recited poems to him at his bedside as well, such as the poem ‘Invictus’—which is about resilience in the face of adversity. I also shared stories from the newspapers with him.
At the time, the Singapore presidential elections were ongoing, so I would update him about it too. With my dad, I learnt the value of cherishing every moment with loving-kindness.
Karuna: Compassion
Another valuable mind-state is karuna, or compassion. It’s not about feeling sorry for our loved ones, but about feeling with them, and journeying alongside them for as long as we can.
This journey can be difficult, which entails recognising suffering as an inevitable part of life, and often also fosters a deeper sense of compassion towards others who are also suffering or grieving. We are not alone in our pain.
My dad’s struggle with terminal cancer was undoubtedly painful. Each day, as I pored through the lists displayed by the hospital staff describing pumps, tubes, vials, injections, pills, and wipes, I couldn’t help but think about mortality, vulnerability, and frailty — in the end, it all came down to this.
It was the first Noble Truth staring at me in the face. The fear and uncertainty that accompanied such terminal illness were paralysing. Every morning, I would wonder whether the doctors would bring worse news, or if that very day might be my dad’s last.
Dying people also sometimes make strange sounds—in my father’s case, especially towards the last few days, it was a kind of dry gasping and rasping. I remember one particular night when the pain from the cancer was particularly unbearable, and his face would be contorted with grimaces of pain.
Witnessing someone you love endure such physical suffering is heart-wrenching, to say the least, and it leaves an indelible mark of sorrow.
But this is when the Dharma provides the timeliest of medicines. By acknowledging suffering rather than pushing it away, we can discover a wellspring of strength within ourselves. After the hospital administered painkillers for my father each day, my family and I would also chant at his bedside, including the name of Amitabha Buddha (Namo Amituofo), mantras (like om mani padme hum), and the Heart Sutra (Xin Jing, also known as the Prajna Paramita Hridaya Sutra). As we dedicated the merits of such recitations to him, he would noticeably breathe more easily and sleep more peacefully.
As a friend advised—and as medical professionals also affirm—the sense of touch is usually one of the last faculties to go. As my father drifted off to sleep each evening, I would often hold his hand, providing not just physical but also emotional and spiritual warmth.
A loving touch, fuelled by tenderness, offers not just a sense of connection but also serves as a balm from pain.
Besides showing compassion towards our loved ones and others, we mustn’t forget to be compassionate to ourselves too. Caregiver burnout is a real danger, and it’s crucial to remember that while we may feel consumed by grief, we must also prioritise our own well-being.
The Buddhist teacher Mushim Patricia Ikeda has formulated a “Great Vow for Mindful Activists”: “I promise, for the benefit of all, to practice self-care, mindfulness, healing, and joy. I vow to not burn out.” Taking time for ourselves is not selfish but necessary for healing. Whether it’s seeking support from friends and family, or engaging in activities that bring us joy, self-care allows us to replenish our energy and find solace amidst sorrow.
Mudita: Appreciative Joy
Losing a loved one is a painful experience. Losing a parent, in particular, brings an added dimension of loss: their departure represents the closing of a chapter in our lives. Parents are usually the source of guidance and support for us—their presence symbolises a sense of stability, security, and belonging.
With their passing, we may feel lost, unmoored, and unanchored, with all the childhood memories and family traditions associated with them also threatened by loss.
But what if we transformed this mindset of feeling fearful and threatened into a more positive mind state of being grateful and appreciative? Mudita, or appreciative joy, reminds us that we can choose to focus not on fear or regret but rather on existing opportunities for gratitude.
I’m reminded of Ajahn Brahm’s oft-shared story in Opening the Door of Your Heart about how a life is like a musical concert—we should applaud at the end rather than grieving that it has concluded.
In the case of my father, I was deeply inspired by his sheer emotional strength. Despite everything he went through—treatments, operations, and long hospital stays—he never allowed himself to become consumed by despair.
He demonstrated what true grit looks like, and he imparted valuable lessons about finding strength within ourselves during life’s most challenging moments.
Devoting time to cultivate appreciative joy can be deeply cathartic. On the afternoon of my father’s passing, my family and I had a “Showers of Love” ceremony, during which we had the opportunity to clean and dress my Dad’s body for the last time. It was like a sacrament and a blessing—a final act of service to convey our gratitude to him, and bid him farewell.
Together with my mother and sister, we helped my Dad to put on his favourite suit before we laid him in the casket.
As I said in my eulogy for him at the crematorium, it’s just like the words of Shakespeare—“the wheel is come full circle”. The whole service was personal, heartfelt, and deeply meaningful.
Dad also specifically said to thank the medical team at National University Hospital who supported us closely over those final few months. That’s exactly what my family and I did: we personally delivered appreciation cards and a gift basket to the hospital staff.
Writing a long appreciation email to them was also a way to pay tribute to their dedication and support. In addition, we put up a five-star Google review for the funeral company (The Life Celebrant), as they bestowed a meaningful and dignified farewell for my father. Such gestures not only honoured my Dad’s wishes, but also cultivated appreciative joy for all who helped to support him during the challenging period of his final days.
The garden at the hospital (May 2023)
Upekkha: Equanimity
Grief and death can offer valuable lessons about the nature of life itself. Developing upekkha, or equanimity, can help us to find peace and cultivate gratitude for the present moment. My father’s experience showed me that accepting impermanence doesn’t mean giving up hope or resigning oneself to despair.
Rather, it means acknowledging reality while still nurturing a firm optimism and resilience that can inspire others.
By embracing impermanence, we can cultivate a deeper appreciation for the preciousness of life, especially of a life in which we have the opportunity to encounter the Dharma. We learn to cherish every interaction, every smile shared with our loved ones, and the beauty of every fleeting moment, precisely because we understand that “all conditioned phenomena are impermanent” (Dhammapada, verse 277).
I’m reminded of a talk, years ago when I was an undergraduate, given by a medical doctor who was a featured speaker during the Dharma Camp organised by the National University of Singapore (NUS) Buddhist Society.
As he observed, when we die, we usually don’t die all at once—instead, we die in bits and pieces. The eyes or other faculties might first weaken, and then the major organs go one by one, until finally, it’s the heart or lungs that cease to function, and then breathing itself gives way.
The piecemeal nature of the dying process prompts the question: where is the self? However hard we might try to locate or isolate this aspect of ‘me’ or ‘mine’, we find that the self ultimately dissolves.
There’s no solid or stable self that can persist or endure no matter how hard we attempt to grasp it.
Similarly, the Soto Zen priest Tenku Ruff describes grief not as a thing in itself but as a process or continuum that unfolds at a pace of its own. There is no single right way to grieve. We can give ourselves permission to experience our grief without judgment or self-criticism.
Based on our respective situations, we can find out for ourselves what works best, such that we can hold space for healing and honour the memory of our loved ones.
Rituals can be particularly helpful to cope with grief. In the Chinese Buddhist tradition that my family and I practise, we chanted sutras and mantras, and dedicated merits to my father every seven days, starting from the day of his passing.
We also commemorated the 100th day since his death, which happened to fall exactly on 1 January this year. It was a touching tribute that allowed me and the family to process our own emotions while paying homage to my Dad’s legacy.
As the palliative care physician Ira Byock suggested in Dying Well, the suffering of dying can be alleviated through deathbed rituals that are designed to promote forgiveness. The dying can be encouraged to engage in the following five steps, summarised as: “Forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you. And goodbye.”
Imagine if we don’t have to be on our deathbeds before we engage in such rituals. What the Dharma teaches us is how to attend to our grief, just as we can be mindful of our breath during sitting meditation. Instead of resisting our feelings, we can pay attention to our sorrow, loneliness, and the whole myriad of complex human emotions that arise from the experience of loss. We can observe these feelings with kindness and wisdom, before we open our hearts, and let them go.
I’m sure my Dad would have approved.
Wise Steps:
Treasure precious opportunities to connect with our loved ones while they are still around, especially by spending quality time with them.
Engage in meaningful rituals with the right intention, whether in terms of deathbed rituals that promote forgiveness, or chanting practices that can help to dedicate merits to our departed loved ones.
Practise mindfulness, including of our own grief, and seek support from friends or family who can provide support and guidance when navigating through difficult emotions.
May you rejoice in the merits of this Dhamma contribution and be well and happy wherever you go.
TLDR: Joey shares her emotional journey following the sudden loss of a lifelong friend to cancer, leading her to embrace the power of gratitude and find deeper meaning in life.
The Shocking Diagnosis
“Bad news, it’s a mass. Need to do biopsy now to check.”
It was a Whatsapp message from you. My mind went blank. I resisted the urge to Google “mass in lungs diagnosis.” I did not want my imagination to run wild.
After enduring a prolonged cough and episodes of breathlessness that persisted despite visits to several GPs, you went for a specialist check-up at a hospital and were admitted immediately.
A friendship that withstood time
I have known you since Secondary 1. Although we were not in the same class, we were batchmates in Girl Guides and our friendship blossomed. Over the next 25 years, we journeyed together through important milestones of our teenage years. Coming from dysfunctional families, we became each other’s confidantes and support when stressful incidents at home were too overwhelming.
I could not recall the exact number of through-the-night phone calls, late-night hangouts, or sleepovers we had. We sang, chatted, and watched TV, and only went home when the storms had fully subsided.
“I’m really very scared. My girl is still so young.”
This was your subsequent message before I could draft a comforting reply to your previous one.
Journeying through life’s milestones together
As we stepped into adulthood and got swept up in our careers, we did not meet as often. But we witnessed each other through major life events, celebrating our joyful moments and exchanging encouragements during challenging times — landing dream jobs, bad bosses, heartbreaks, death in the family, getting married, securing our BTO, and becoming mothers.
Our friendship had only strengthened with time, expanding to include our families. There is something magical about watching our kids play together. I fondly reminisced about the fun times we had during our youthful days.
I once told you that I hoped we would still meet up regularly for tea in our golden years to complain about our husbands, children, and perhaps grandchildren.
You said you imagined it would be hard to hold your tears in on your daughter’s wedding day.
Confronting the Unthinkable
“Likely is stage 4. I need to do chemo”
My heart sank. Thousands of thoughts ran through my mind. “But we are only 37. What about her girl? She is only 6. What is the prognosis? This is too sudden. This can’t be happening. Am I dreaming?”
“Thanks for watching over my child and family. Love you girls,” was your last message to me.
Over the next week, I watched you deteriorate rapidly, confined to the ICU, unable to talk or eat, and remaining sedated as cancer ravaged your lungs, stomach, and brain.
I always believed that you would overcome this, that you could return home and recover. I knew that you were strong-willed and you did your best. But health is beyond our control.
You left us one month after your stage-4 lung cancer diagnosis. It was too sudden, too unexpected, and too tough for me to accept.
Everything feels surreal. Seeing you lifeless on a hospital bed, surrounded by those closest to you. Your funeral. Your cremation. It’s like a bad dream unfolding, and I’m powerless to stop, wake up, and find relief in the realisation that it was only a dream.
Life, Death, and Illusions
Death is the one life event that will happen to us with 100% certainty. However, it remains an abstract concept for many. Why is that so?
Our brains are great illusionists, often failing to let us perceive the true nature of reality.
The human brain is programmed to draw from our lived experiences to create a neural map of our lives, incorporating relationships with people, places, things, routines, habits, and expectations.
It is a mechanism to help the brain “save computing power”, enabling us to make sense of and predict what is happening moment by moment. The possibility of your death was nowhere in my neural map; my brain needed time to assimilate this fact and rewrite its algorithm to navigate this world without your presence.
I hope that after my brain has integrated the code “death of a loved one”, I will gain a little more wisdom to be closer to ultimate reality.
However, the way our brain is wired prevents us from seeing things as they truly are.
It tends to gather information through our five senses, making false assumptions and setting unreal expectations about how events should unfold or how our relationships with others should be. It likes to take shortcuts to conserve energy, clinging to an old mindset or defaulting to comfortable habits and routines.
Our brains want to exist in a predictable, permanent, and lasting world.
And so, we grasp, we chase, and we shun.
Seeking Meaning in the Midst of Loss
We pursue the next high-paying job, promotion, or the latest flashy phone, car, or house. We take for granted that our family and friends will always be there. We avoid discussing illness and death because we cannot imagine a future where either we or our loved ones will be gone.
Your death has prompted me to reflect on what makes life meaningful and where my priorities should lie.
If we want to have a better life with fewer regrets and more joy, we need to rely on the Dharma to overwrite the faulty algorithms in our brains.
The first week after I lost you was excruciatingly painful.
My mind struggled to accept that you would be forever absent from my future. I believed we would have many more chances to continue our yearly tradition of surprising each other with birthday gifts and treats.
Now that you are gone, I wonder: do you know how much I love and cherish our friendship? I was engulfed by overwhelming loss and sorrow. Soon, this morphed into a feeling of unfairness. The cancer had stolen my best friend, robbing all hopes, possibilities, and dreams of watching the kids grow up as we grow old together.
“Grief is love with no place to go” – is a popular quote to describe grief.
As time passed, grief silently reshaped itself within the contours of my daily life. I found this quote untrue. While life comes to an end, love lives on. The love and connection we share live on within us. It endures even after death.
With your passing, our friendship has transcended beyond the physical dimension of space and time, transforming into a spiritual relationship. You remain my best friend in this lifetime. I express my love through internal dialogues with you, often wondering about your journey in the next life and dedicating prayers, well-wishes, and merits to you.
In our physical world, where most relationships are transactional, our understanding of love can be restricted. Our expressions of love are sometimes limited to tangibles such as gifts, time, and physical touch.
The Buddha taught us about love and compassion, which is the wish for sentient beings to be free from suffering and attain happiness. A concept that is easy to grasp but difficult to embrace. If we ponder closely, love and compassion are a spiritual state of mind more than they are physical actions.
“The space is boundless,
So does your compassion.
You wish to be all living beings’ bridge [to the other shore],
It was 4 am and I lost sleep. It was the first night after your passing. You were such a devoted mother, dutiful wife, responsible worker, and one of the kindest friends I ever had.
Why did this have to happen? I have always believed that every significant person and event in our lives is there to teach us important lessons.
Yet losing you so suddenly to cancer seems senseless. We did not even get to say a proper goodbye. I kept questioning myself repeatedly: what was the lesson I needed to learn? I just could not fathom it.
We had been a part of each other’s life for 25 years and remained so close. It felt like a beautiful story which needed to end abruptly and the author struggled to write a conclusion to make it a meaningful read.
As I lay in bed, a deep sorrow gripped my heart tightly. The intense pain in my chest grew every minute, making it hard to breathe. It was too unbearable.
At the next moment, I felt love surrounding me and then enveloping me. It was a peaceful and kind energy that wrapped around me, consoling me with its warm presence, telling me that it knows my pain and suffering. That this too shall pass.
Gradually, the tightness in my chest subsided. I felt lighter. Tears flowed freely, and gratitude surged through every cell in my body. I was certain it was you. I finally knew what the lesson was.
It was friendship.
Appreciating Life’s Beauty & Moments
Through you, I learned what makes a good friend and how to be one. Our precious and beautiful friendship had enriched my life and for that, I am immensely grateful to you.
Over the next few weeks, this gratitude took root and grew. Alongside grief, I experienced a renewed sense of appreciation for events, objects, and people in life.
Saudadeis a Portuguese word that describes a longing for something that has been loved and lost, yet it also captures a sense of joy for having been loved and lost. This “joyful sadness” described my feelings perfectly.
Allow saudade to sit and experiencing it fully within me has given me insights into life.
Life’s meaning is not something to be found; it is created moment by moment in our everyday lives, and gratitude fuels it best.
Gratitude as a Way of Life
Gratitude gifted me with fresh eyes to perceive the beauty and qualities in objects, people, or moments. It helps me to slow down, be present, and be thankful for the good and bad that enter my life.
Gratitude makes the most routine, mundane, or dreadful tasks meaningful. While waiting patiently for my morning coffee, I silently expressed thanks for all the elements that made it possible for me to enjoy my drink. Not taking things for granted makes my life more vivid, rich, and meaningful. My coffee tastes much better now.
Perhaps if we consider gratitude as a way of life more than just a feeling or mental state, our lives will have more bliss, peace, and meaning.
In gratitude, I see you. In gratitude, I see our interconnectedness. In gratitude, I see the Dharma.
Wise Steps:
The love and connection with our departed loved ones transcend physical existence and transform into a spiritual relationship. We can dedicate merits and well-wishes to benefit them in their next life which helps us find solace in grief.
Our brains are masters in creating illusions which obstruct our perception of reality’s transient and ever-evolving nature. By embracing self-awareness and applying the teachings of the Dharma, we can reduce regret and cultivate greater happiness.
Gratitude is a powerful tool for healing. It can help us find a renewed sense of purpose and appreciation for life even during the toughest times.
