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
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