Between Life and Death
Yes, the title is a bit grand. This article originates from some thoughts and feelings I had after a video call with my mother today.
Perhaps I may be judged as cold-hearted, but helplessly, this is who I am.
In my limited reading history, the opening lines of The Stranger always echo in my mind: "Today, mother died. Or maybe yesterday, I’m not sure." The protagonist’s indifference to family stirred a resonance in me.
I never claim to be a "conscientious person." In fact, I always believed I lack some basic understanding—perhaps a genetic consensus—of such feelings. Despite growing older and empathizing more with "familial affection," I still feel that someone as indifferent as me doesn’t deserve the love I’ve enjoyed.
Today, my mother visited my grandmother and video-called me while I was struggling with environment configuration. Gathering my thoughts, I forced a smile and answered. By my calculation, it’s been nearly eight months since I last went home.
I’d forgotten what illness Grandma has—probably Alzheimer’s. She just stared at the cold screen—perhaps warmed slightly by the electronics—at the other end of my video. My mother and aunt patiently prompted: "Look, who is this? Do you remember him?" I raised the volume, "Grandma, do you remember me?" Yet I felt no expectations. In my memory, eight months ago, Grandma already spoke very little. Now, unable to recognize me behind the glass and choosing not to speak was only natural as her cells declined.
I often find humans remarkable—or rather, cells themselves are remarkable. What exactly is thought? What is language, after all? Is it just a function evolved by cells to survive? But that doesn’t matter. When cells age, they can disable functions to conserve energy—like flipping a switch.
Emotion is perhaps the most anti-cellular-intuitive mechanism humans possess. Cannibalism among kin isn’t rare in nature—everything is for survival. Yet emotions seem to defy genes’ urge to persist: they make us mourn the death of loved ones and even feel pity for strangers. Even during famines, we hear of "exchanging children for food," not "killing children for food." Animals, too, have the saying "a tiger does not eat its cubs."
But I seem to have only a weak sense of belonging to such emotions. I think the first time I realized this was watching Aftershock with my mother. During family scenes, she was already in tears, and I couldn’t empathize—proud even: "Look how hard you cried. I didn’t cry at all."
After the call, I suddenly recalled fragments of Grandma in my memory. Every time we met, she cheerfully called me "Miao Miao" and slipped me a few hundred yuan—that was her custom. At meals, she’d remind me, "Listen to your parents," her accent making it hard to understand. This image occupied my memory for a long time—unchanged until last year. I found a family photo from then, and everything matched. But eight months ago, during a visit, her image no longer matched my memory. She no longer shuffled over, money in hand, calling me with a smile. She still sat watching historical dramas but now ignored me. I expected her accented nag: "Listen to your parents," but she no longer wore her hat—she had shaved her head. Whatever she wanted to say was tucked under that hat or swept into a basket with her hair.
When Grandma’s image deviated from my memory, I realized she’s over eighty; our meetings may be few.
Yet did I feel sadness? Not really. I only pity Alzheimer’s. It severs all connections in your mind, erasing evidence of your existence bit by bit. If I live to be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I’ll surely consider an elegant way to end my life.
Yu Hua once said, "The departure of loved ones is not a storm, but a long, persistent dampness in life." This seems not to apply to me. In my twenty-plus years, I’ve lost a few close relatives. My maternal grandfather died early; my memories of him are mostly from preschool. If I had to say, he was bearded and stern. On the day of his funeral, I arrived late because I’d been playing computer games and was scolded by my mother. I walked behind the pallbearers on a muddy road, headband on—that’s my only vivid memory.
As a child, I was often sent back to my ancestral home, so I remember my paternal grandfather better. He loved smoking a water pipe, its gurgling echoing in my ears. I recall him lifting me onto an opera stage to play pretend sword fights while he laughed below. He once kept a dog; we walked it under a big tree—still there or not, I forget, but the dog died, hit by a car. My grandfather died a few years ago, already hard of sight and hearing. Once, he told my grandmother there was a stranger upstairs watching TV and wanted to shoo me away with a broom.
I can’t remember when he died—maybe during class. My sister messaged: "Grandpa passed away." I was unsurprised, telling her, "Don’t be too sad." She replied, "Why be sad? Grandma is free, Grandpa is free too." In that, we agreed.
"A long, persistent dampness in life"? After Grandpa’s death, we still visited home on holidays. Nothing changed for me except fewer people to greet. I’m such an indifferent person; when Grandpa’s mobility, sight, and hearing declined, I stopped making new memories with him. Old memories fade with time’s flow.
As I grow older, farewells will become common. If I’m lucky to reach that time, I may face the loss of those who share deeper bonds—my parents.
Honestly, I’ve imagined countless scenes after their passing. Will my longing hide in the dinner table, in a decoration, in clothes I can no longer wear, in a yellowing photo album? Will I one day tear up at a meal? Maybe, maybe not.
I must be a cold-hearted person.
This Content is generated by LLM and might be wrong / incomplete, refer to Chinese version if you find something wrong.