Dying Thoughts

A few months ago, while I was back in Singapore for the Chinese New Year celebrations, my mum brought up a lovely topic after reunion dinner.

I reproduced that topic that very night, while having drinks at Carl's balcony after our respective reunion dinners. 

Carl my dense friend immediately slumped his shoulders in disappointment, guessing that the topic must involve when I'm getting married.

Well, not quite.

On the contrary, that topic revolves around death.

My forward-looking mum had brought up the topic of funerals and wakes (on Chinese New Year's Eve, no less), and how my current generation of siblings and cousins is likely to be clueless, helpless and therefore useless the moment any member of the older generation dies.

And therefore, the dying generation has to take it upon themselves to start planning their own wakes and funerals and after-death arrangements.

Carl's python-size biceps shrank and shrivelled on cue.

"Is your mum okay,' he asks nervously.

Meanwhile, a happy Stanley poured himself another round of Rioja, swirled the big-ass wine glass and took a deliberately appreciative sip.

"By now, you should know that Adam's mum says random shit," Stanley says, filling our glasses with more wine.

That's where Adam gets it all from.

Stanley's right.

My mum is random, says the darndest things at sometimes the most inappropriate moments.

But what Mrs Lee said that night would be eventual truth.

After all, everybody dies.

And in the Lee family, we're already preparing for one such case: Aunty Choy San.

Aunty San is among the richest relatives but is currently battling cancer (last I heard, doctors had given her months).

That night started on a good-enough note.

Everyone was skirting around the issue of Aunty San's health.

She sat on our family couch looking drained, the alertness of her eyes dimmed as though the physical act of eating with people is punishing.

Aunty San, whom I remember as very skinny in the last family gathering photo on Christmas Day, had put on weight.

"But that's not good," my mum whispered urgently in the kitchen, pointing out that it was water retention that had caused Aunty San's belly, legs and hands to swell.

"And now she finally has melon breasts," my mum said, making an exceptional effort to set down her tray of food just to place both her palms in front of her own melon breasts to make her points. "Now our breasts can fight - we're about the same size," my mum added with a twinkle in her eye, slightly jiggling her own set of boobs for effect.

But Aunty San's condition, though no laughing matter, was level-headedly discussed much later that night.

It started with a discussion of inheritance.

An uncle who has some knowledge of estate planning, warned Aunty San about inevitably passing on extra burden to her children.

According to Uncle Weng (who is never married and thus has no worries about passing any of his wealth to his non-existent children), both my cousins, (who each owns a condo already) would have to pay additional tax according to Singapore law, for owning another property.

"That applies to property that's inherited - so you'll want to get around this law by setting up a trust fund with specific instructions that can help them by pass this law."

I swear I hadn't seen Aunty San this wearied.

Leave it to my mum to change the topic to save the day.

"Have you chosen your funeral photo?"

The family chattering suddenly hushed as if an invisible conductor had dramatically waved his hands for everyone to shut the heck up.

Taking it as a sign of interest from the sudden surge of undivided attention from every member of the Lee clan, old and young, healthy and dying, Mrs Lee merrily carried on.

"I've chosen mine - there, you see that photo on the shelf? That'd be mine."

Said photo shows my mum smiling happily at a restaurant taken about five years ago.

Food always makes her happy.

When nobody knew how to respond to my mum, Aunty San - perhaps the obviously most eligible of the elders - said in a wearied tone: "I have chosen the photo, cheongsam. I just haven't chosen the time to go."

Not one to pick up on social signals, my mum added: "If I can pick a time to go, it would be after a filling meal of roast duck, followed by a hearty session karaoke and then a nice bubble bath - and when I sink into my pillow to drift to sleep, that would be the time."

At that moment, I chose my time to go.

I quickly slipped on my shoes to escape death at the Lee family and seek solace at Carl's home for the second part of my plan.

Later at Carl's balcony, I can't help but bring up this depressing topic.

At the age of 40, our parents and elders are nearing their final days, and whether we like it or not, we'll have to be prepared for the day.

Carl does not like it.

Stanley does not like it.

Well, neither do I.

But that topic did get us thinking.

Are we financially equipped to deal with potential hospitalisations of our parents?
Do we have sufficient sibling support within the family?
Can we cope with our emotions?

That night, Stanley raised a glass to toast to my mum, Mrs Lee.

"The way I see it, your mum has singlehandedly saved you, your sis and brother from all future Chinese New Year questions of when you kids are getting married.

"That woman started a trend of asking the elders when they're dying.

"And your mum didn't just do a mic-drop, she did a death drop.

"So wham bam, thank you ma'am."

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Oh My Godson

Six years ago, I became a daddy.

An honorary daddy, but a very important title no less.

In 2014, my godson Matthew Joshua Lim was born on this earth to two gorgeous parents - Eric Lim and his wife Corina Seah.

Eric was my university classmate and one-time roommate when we were both studying overseas.

Corina is Eric's JC sweetheart.

Today's post is inspired by my godson Mattie's sixth year on this earth. And because in just a while, I'll be heading over to the Lims' with my partner J, to meet them for the first time in months.

Stanley my sex bunny friend is naturally very excited by this aspect of my life.

He's first of all very keen to know more about Eric, who, in his national service days, was a police inspector.

I want to inspect everything about that policeman, Stanley would say in a sultry manner every time I talked about Eric.

Eric - though not to me - is almost every girl and some men's wet dream.

Tall, geeky, ever-the-good mannered boy, and a school jock.

Eric eventually joined the police force after university and began a very successful career in putting bad guys behind bars.

Stanley would always say he wouldn't mind breaking the law if the arresting, searching and probing was performed by Eric himself, and especially because being put behind bars can be promising, according to some of the films Stanley's been watching.

My godson Mattie though, Stanley wasn't that thrilled about.

Stanley doesn't quite like kids, which is why he would only smile politely every time I showed him photos of my beloved Mattie.

But today, the post is all about little Mattie and how he's changed my life.

On this day six years ago, the tiny being was in my very arms.

Mattie felt soft and warm and, trust me, the moment I carried the newborn, I instantly felt a connection.

It's like Mattie's body warmth and my body warmth met and communicated and recognised each other's presence.

That very afternoon at the private maternity ward of Mount Alvernia, I looked at Mattie in his swathed bundle and swore that I would be the godpa who would throw him in the air, run after him and encourage him to learn to ride a bike, never mind if you fall; and be the godpa he runs to for a hug every time I visit.

Kids grow up really, really fast.

For almost every day in the first few months of Mattie's life, my partner J and I would drop by Eric and Corina's maisonette home to see the little rascal.

I shared my first-time-parents friends' joy when they sent me videos of Mattie crawling.

And once in a while, when I'm too busy to visit, they would video call me with Mattie looking all over the place and making gurgly noises in response to my coo-ing.

When little Mattie took his first step about a year later, J and I immediately made plans to go to the Lims for a celebratory drink.

And when Mattie learned to speak, we taught him to call me Papa (which would melt my heart) and J, Uncle J.

Alas, time flies and now, Mattie's running around playgrounds, almost too elusive for papa to catch.

On Mattie's birthday, J and I arrived at the Lims' two hours ahead of the bash so that we could spend quality time with the little rascal before he had to be passed around and be carried by other caring uncles and aunties and for general photo ops.

As if on cue, Mattie ran towards the gate on my arrival, his shrill greeting of 'papa, papa!' reaching before his tiny exuberant self.

Instinctively, I scooped him up and tossed him in the air thrice, sparking even more shrilly giggles.

When Mattie landed on earth once again, he hugged my hips tight, melting my heart with his next few words.

"I miss you papa; why didn't you come see me earlier?"

After getting loud, purposeful kisses from me, Mattie went on to hug his "favourite Uncle J", getting  a tight hug, a kiss on his forehead and a series of tickles which set him giggling for the third time.

That morning, Eric's house smelt like a busy kitchen - their helper Inda was busy whipping up chicken curry to feed the adults in one corner of their open kitchen while keeping an eye on the air fryer where she's making batch after batch of chicken nuggets for the kiddos.

Corina, her fringe plastered on her sweaty forehead looked at J and me with a relief, as if to say 'please take my energetic son away from me for a while'.

The next hour went by swiftly.

J was catching up with Eric and Corina - who both looked thankful for the respite while I paid full attention to their son.

So while they sipped tea and ate failed batches of Inda's nuggets, my hands were kept full with Mattie in his playpen.

"Bury me with toys, papa!"
"Papa, fight with me!"
"You are the bad guy, I am the good guy, papa!"

Who said godparenting was an easy task?!

Soon, it was time to open papa's presents before everyone came.

As per J's idea, I wrapped Mattie's presents Russian Doll style: His first present (a batman bag) would lead to his second present (a batman pencil case), his third present (a batman figurine) and his fourth present (a batman water bottle).

J filmed Mattie's reaction as he unwrapped each item, recording his gasps, his surprise and his joy.

Mattie was obviously thrilled with his latest batman collection, and it melts my heart that my boy is so, so happy.

As Mattie busied himself tearing up the gift wrap with his tiny hands, I looked back at the adults.

J, smiling as he filmed; Eric interjecting with appropriate Oohs and Wows as Mattie made each discovery; and Corina resting her head on Eric's shoulder looking on like a proud mum.

J and I exchanged glances and he winked at me.

Meanwhile, our birthday hero was in his element, repeating the words "wow, yay, batman" to no end.

At that moment, I hoped with all my heart that Mattie would grow up to remember this day.

Because papa and Uncle J will remember this moment, as we grow old.

Happy birthday darling Mattie.

We love you.

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

New Normal, New Skills

First it's the bloody photos of Dalgona coffee.

Everyone and their grandmother starting making the ridiculous drink that takes so much time to whip up, only to have every of those painstakingly deconstructed ingredients end up reuniting in the same stomach in two gulps after the photoshoot.

And then, there're the endless streams of group Zoom photos.

Recently, I'd been seeing post after post of friends baking soft breads.

The circuit breaker period in Singapore has really forced many more bored people online, giving them too much free time to follow trends.

"Aren't these people supposed to be working from home or something?" Stanley said the other night via a three-way WhatsApp video call with me and Carl our dense friend.

"And if I hear the words 'new normal' one more time, I swear to God," Stanley said.

Carl looked up and waited for Stanley to complete his sentence.

Stanley glared back quizzically at Carl asked. "What is it Carl?".

Realising that there would be no Part Two to Stanley's remarks, Carl went back to chewing his fingernails.

These days, my Friday nights have been carved out for the boys where we would get on a WhatsApp vid call after dinner and chat till one of us says our phone is running out of battery.

That night, one of our topics was just when we would get back to the good old days.

For Carl the gym rabbit, it's to return to his routine of pumping iron.

For Stanley sex bunny, it's to return to his routine of pumping.

"Why can't we pretend to all bump into each other at Cold Storage? That way we can meet," Carl said like a child attempting to cheat ice cream out of his parents.

"And what? Get thrown in jail together?" I ask.

"Well, that's promising -- considering that first we get to see one another at Cold Storage, and then go to jail where I might finally get some legitimate sex," Stanley said, perking up. "It's at least something. I'm getting no sex at all at home."

"Or, why don't you guys just come over to my place," Carl said seriously.

"Are you stupid or what Carl," Stanley snapped.

Carl paused and actually considered Stanley's question, unsure if he would be judged if he chose the option 'what'.

"Do you know how many itchy gay men had been caught going to their 'friend's' house during this period? I'm not going to be a part of that stats," Stanley said, before adding quickly, "not that we're gonna have sex when we meet right?"

Carl scrunched up his face and shook his head violently at that suggestion.

"I guess," I said, "we'll all have to wait a while more before we can actually meet. And even then, things may never be the same again. It's a new normal."

"Adam, I swear to god," Stanley responded.

Carl waited to see if Stanley's finally going to reveal what he's swearing to god about, but after five seconds of nothing, worked on chewing his fourth fingernail.

On most nights, our video calls end up with us just staring at one another, not needing to speak because we're so close we no longer feel that silence needs to be filled with noise.

Stanley loves my theory.

"You're absolutely right Adam. It's only with strangers whom I feel the need to fill our silence. Which is why over the years, I fill it with moaning and groaning. Works all the time."

That night, I ask the boys how our Circuit Breaker has changed them.

Carl was first to answer, raising his hand.

"I've lost weight -- my arms are getting thinner and if I don't do anything about it, I'm going to lose the favourite part of my body," he said with a pout.

"I feel like I'm gonna lose the favourite part of my body too," Stanley said, "and it's also because of disuse," Stanley said dully.

In the last two months, it was like the whole of Singapore went through a whirlwind arranged marriage.

We were forced to commit into a relationship with CB because we had no other choice.

Some of us who couldn't conform, sneaked out to have affairs.

Those who did try to make the marriage work did what they could: They pretended to love their CB and curated photos to show the word how happy they were: Look, we made Dalgona coffee! Oh, we had Zoom drinks! Hey, soft breads!

But soon, the marriage takes a toll and everyone starts getting grumpy and annoyed with their CB spouse and can't wait for a divorce.

Carl, who was working on his fourth fingernail, paused and asked which of our married friends I was talking about.

Stanley couldn't be bothered so he took another sip of his Pinor Noir, a habit he picked up since being confined to his three-storey home.

Since the Circuit Breaker, Stanley has become more alcoholic, sometimes drinking as early as 11am.


But there are those who are using this period to really fine tune their skills.

Literally.

When Carl isn't exerting his python size biceps, chewing his fingernails or digging his nose, he puts his fingers to good use on the piano.

Our musically-inclined friend has been playing the instrument nearly every day and his latest rendition of Stanley's all-tine favourite Cantonese song Zhui by Leslie Cheung proved that Carl's fingering skills are tip-top.

Also picking up new skills is my uni classmate Sasa.

Apart from coming up with her own routine of conference calls and making her incompetent subordinates feel stupid in the morning, and Zoom yoga sessions in the late afternoon, Sasa has been fine-tuning her culinary skills to perfection.

I would know.

The other day, she drove by and passed me homemade Yong Tau Foo.

And I must say she has perfected the recipe -- her YTF pieces, stuffed with fresh minced meat and chestnuts -- made for a very happy meal.

Stanley's version of a happy meal also involves stuffing fresh meat, but into things of an extremely different nature.

And right now, our sex bunny friend is craving it.

Carl the dense one again looked up but seemed afraid to clarify further, so he instead carried on with his fingernail chewing task at hand.

And then, Carl raised his fingers at the camera, proudly showing us that manicure can be achieved with skillful and precise chewing.

"Well done, Carl. Your nails actually look like they've been properly cut," I said, impressed.

"I can think of doing other skillful things with my mouth too. And the digits I'll be putting into my mouth will definitely be bigger than fingers," Stanley said.

It's obvious we all need to break out of this CB soon.

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people

Bromance Forever

The damned COVID19 -- which should rightfully be captured, stored in an air-tight jar and tossed into the burning flames of Hell (Chinese Hell to be precise -- we have 18 torturous levels) -- has been affecting lives all over the world.

Closer to home, it's caused one of our National Service (NS) brothers to nearly go bankrupt.

Roger owns a relatively successful events organising company, providing his clients a range of services from putting together their annual D&Ds and running ad hoc roadshows to planning corporate events.

As you can imagine, nobody who wants to live to see his next birthday and Christmas is venturing into crowds.

Roger poured his sorrows in our NS group chat the other day.

"Bros, I'm leaving this group for a few days to clear my head and walk away from social media noise for a while... just wanna let you know that I'll get Adam to add me back to the group soon".

Roger's cryptic post naturally stirred up concern in the Red Berets group chat.

Being Roger's appointed spokesperson, and my ties to him as his official buddy in NS, I shared the context with the rest.

For the fourth month in a row, Roger's company has been bleeding.

Not only does he have to deal with his overhead costs which include paying the salaries of his staff, he's had to cope with clients cancelling or postponing events for the rest of the year and at least the first three-quarters of 2021.

It was all too much for Roger to bear.

After all, the business is all he has, and the savings in his bank account are evaporating -- and he has two school-going children and a wife who's only starting to look for a job now.

"Oh dear..." Stanley my sex bunny friend said in the group chat.

"He's fucked" came Stanley's private message to me two seconds later.

"And not in a good way either."

"I can't even tell him to sell backside -- that's bound to fail amid a global pandemic," said Stanley, Career Adviser.

Just then, back in the main group chat, Saiful, who works as a consultant in a big-name oil company, suggested we pooled money and helped Roger tide over his difficulty.

"I'm in!" responds Freddy.

"Me too!" says Jon Fang seconds later.

"I'm in!" Nick says.

"I'm in too," Wei Quan adds.

"By right," Stanley says to me privately, "I should be sexually excited that so many men are saying 'I'm in', but given that I'm not on the receiving end, and quite the contrary, the giving party, I'm not sure if I am enthusiastic about this exercise," said Stanley, Financial Controller.

In a matter of  20 minutes, Saiful had managed to gather the commitments of 18 of us in the group, who each made donations separately to Saiful who would consolidate the money for Roger.

It was a particularly moving gesture.

Most of  the brothers in our group chat who spoke the least on most days, were some of the first to offer help when our brother is in need.

I shouldn't be surprised.

The Red Berets had been through thick and thin as a group.

Individually, I too had seen Stanley the sex bunny go through thick and thin -- he usually tosses out the thin ones and goes for the extra thick.

The group of us were acquainted as conscripts as part of our mandatory National Service.

The unit we were assigned to was a gruelling one, which Stanley often says is training ground for future career assassins.

Because of the demanding nature of our unit, it bonded most of us.

My favourite memory of my NS days are the nightly gatherings.

Before bedtime, we would sit around to chat, passing around childhood snacks like Mamee and making a mess on someone's bed.

Stanley's favourite NS memories also involve nights and beds and mess.

For Roger, he once told me that the best thing that happened to him during NS was getting to know a "good bunch of bros".

Fast forward to 20 years, it's amazing that most of us are still in touch, albeit linked to just one group chat, and just a handful of large-scale gatherings once every few years.

Yet, Saiful's kind thoughts and suggestion that day is enough to remind us that we don't need to always contribute good morning messages in the group (Derrick, that's you!), or share porn (Chan -- you gotta stop it. Or at least share gay porn for Stanley and my sake), or chat openly to show that we care for one another.

Today, it's Roger who's down.

Tomorrow, it could be me or anyone else.

"You can count me out," Stanley says to me.

"I'm always down -- on my knees, on my fours -- and trust me, that's a good thing."

"And when I'm down, and I say I'm fucked, girl, I truly mean it."

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people