At 102, my grandfather’s memory is fading. Coffee keeps us connected.
For birthdays, we Chinese have a wish: “Cháng mìng bai suì.” May you live 100 years. Recently, my grandpa bested that by two.
Selfishly, I want him to keep going, but he’s not the same man who always moved through the world with such grace. Like the photos of his younger years, he also has faded.
At 102, he is one of an estimated 722,000 centenarians in the world. My grandpa (wo de wài gōng) lives in Taiwan, where his age is such a big deal that the mayor of Taipei, the capital city, sent him a personalized banner to hang at his home.
As a former biochemistry professor, my grandfather always loved talking about the latest scientific discoveries and debating politics. And these discussions have always been over coffee, a routine he shared with my mother, his only daughter, and passed on to me, his only granddaughter.
Coffee just may be my grandpa’s long-life remedy. It’s a morning ritual of sounds and smells, of grinding and pouring. Although he doesn’t make it himself anymore, he still drinks black coffee every day.
But as the years have gone on, these discussions have grown simpler. I’m just happy he still recognizes me and I can ask how his day is going. Each time I’ve seen him, I’ve brought coffee beans and a mug from the various newsrooms where I’ve worked.
I try to visit him once a year, traveling more than 19 hours across the world each time. He’s a living connection to a motherland I worry I’ll lose once he’s gone. Mortality and memory have been top of my mind in the last few years. I’ve lost an uncle and an aunt; another uncle has suffered multiple strokes. And my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s.
Catching falling memories has become a way of life.
Coffee breaks with grandpa
On my last visit to Taiwan, I planned our time together around his coffee breaks, when he was the most alert.
At the start of every visit, my grandfather liked to unfurl old photos of family members who first settled in Taiwan and explain our history. On many of those visits, I would furiously take notes and photos to try to remember everything. Now, I’m the one showing him photos, hoping to coax any remaining stories from him.
When my grandfather was growing up, Taiwan was still colonized by Japan, so his first and most comfortable language is still Japanese. One of his favorite things to do is to watch Sumo. He didn’t learn Mandarin until his 30s. Then, as a young medical student, the scourge of tuberculosis pushed him away from being a doctor to researching solutions in the laboratory instead.
His work landed him a fellowship at the University of Wisconsin during the height of the civil rights movement. Being Asian, he was the odd man out. When he took the bus, both White and Black students pointed him to sit in the middle because he didn’t fit anywhere else.
I’m sure there are more stories, especially harrowing ones filled with regret or racism, but I’ve never seen him express either. He just chuckles about the bus, describing how confused the other students were in placing him.
My grandfather doesn’t get angry. He’s always had a “live and let live” attitude that I deeply admire. And he never pushed his kids, my mother and uncles (wo de mā gēn and wo de liang gè jiù jiù), to believe as he believes. He once sent my mom money to return home from graduate school in the United States, and laughed as he told me that she had used the money to buy a car instead. A car, he adds, that she promptly crashed in a minor accident. This is a story my mom never told me.
One of the photos we talked about on a coffee break during my last trip was from his wedding. He told me how young he was – just 22 – when he married my grandma, who was just 21. I remember more than a decade ago when my grandmother (wo de wài pó) was sick, watching as he clenched her hand tightly, brows furrowed, sitting next to her hospital bed. She died at the age of 88, making my grandpa my last surviving grandparent. I worried that he would go soon after her.
To my relief, my grandpa has held on, but my mom says his mind has already moved onto another realm.
Jumbled memories, but still my grandfather
Sometimes, my grandpa’s thoughts can create confusion. For instance, grandpa frequently reports that my cousin died in a bike accident. The first time I heard this, I frantically messaged my cousin. He was fine, just exasperated, exclaiming, “Why does Grandpa always kill me off?”
None of us knows where these thoughts come from or why he’s fixated on my cousin’s mortality. My cousin wonders if Grandpa’s heavy news-watching and frequent naps blend reality and dreams together.
When his mind was strong, he could speak five languages – English, Mandarin, Japanese, Taiwanese and German. My grandfather was a respected leader in his field, teaching and running a medical magazine, but he was humble, never touting his accomplishments.
I remember as a child, going with him to tour the university (tái dà) and his laboratory. Decked out in a cap and patched blazer, he introduced me to his students and showed me how to diagram molecules. The university valued his contributions so much that they reserved an office for him as a professor emeritus long into his 90s. I wanted to be like him in writing and teaching, too.
When it was time to celebrate my engagement in 2018, I pushed to hold the party at the university rather than a fancy hotel. My grandpa proudly toasted our union. It was important to me that we held our celebration there because the university was so central to my connection with him.
A green thermos
I treasure my grandfather’s lucid times, like when his eyes sharpen and he asks whether I’ve eaten yet or enough, which in Chinese families is the closest gesture of love that one gives without actually saying the words.
As he ages past 100, I try not to dwell on what my grandfather has lost and instead focus on the memories we’ve made together, which are often triggered by the wafting aroma of coffee.
On one visit several years ago, I spotted a cool green thermos in the dining room, poking out among all of my grandma’s collectibles in a cupboard. I asked him if I could keep it.
“Of course, you can have it,” he told me. “But only if you promise me that each time you use it, you will think of me.”
That’s why I continue to bring him cups and coffee, hoping that when he uses them, he will remember me, too.