Less than an hour ago, my paternal grandfather, Ye-ye, who had been coughing all morning, suddenly started gasping for breath.
I called all the nearby hospitals for an ambulance, but none was available. On top of that, my parents were in Ipoh for the weekend visiting my mother's parents. So my uncle and I decide to take him to a hospital ourselves.
Now, in the car, I barely know what road I am on. All I know is that I cannot lose sight of that Daihatsu in front of me because my grandfather, who has had Parkinson's disease for a long time, is in there, semi-conscious.
Also, that car will lead me to the hospital where at least someone can tell me what is wrong with him.
At the hospital, the doctor tells us my grandfather has a chest infection. His Parkinson's only makes things worse. The doctor pulls us outside the hospital room and says: "You have to be psychologically prepared that I won't be able to do much for him.
"The main thing is to keep him comfortable."
Ye-ye spends a week in hospital. Everyone is edgy and tense. He looks like a skeleton covered with parchment, tubes all over and an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.
Hope is the worst thing to have at this time. Hope is a fragile thing that can be dashed in seconds. It is easier to expect the worst.
The day we took hin to hospital, the day he was gasping for breath, he had looked so weak and in so much pain I wondered why he did not just give up.
But today, he will not be able to do much except lie in bed all day and get fed through a tube even though he has been discharged from hospital.
I am his oldest grandchild, which means I get my way all the time -- in his house anyway.
When I started kindergarten he would take me for walks and would recite rhymes and songs. I remember laughing at this grey-haired man who tried so hard to amuse me.
By the time I am in Primary 3, I have enough Enid Blyton books to start a library.
As I get older, the love for reading, a habit he has indirectly instilled, becomes one of the most valuable things anyone has ever given me.
Already, I notice that his writing is uneven, but I am too young to understand that he will eventually be diagnosed as having Parkinson's disease, which makes the brain degerate and the victim slowly lose control of his motor functions.
I cannot remember what we talked about -- certainly nothing deep and meaningful. My Cantonese was not up to scratch. And he was not very expressive either.
His way of showing he cared was to give me things. Mostly cash, a dollar or two every time I saw him. Somewhere in my room is one of the last dollar notes he gave me. I remember thinking I should not spend it.
Soon, he will be unable to do even that. It hurts to see him like that but I don't know what I can do. I want to say something but I have no clue what to talk about.
Sometimes, he gets hallucinations, or he thinks he is back in the Japanese Occupation an tells my grandmother to hide everything. Sometimes he yells at the people closest to him.
Eventually, he starts sleeping all day except for his meals. He cannot even sit up and he can hardly talk.
I feel guilty I have come to regard visiting him as an obligation, angry nature has taken over the one thing he truly owns -- his brain. Often, I think of the walks he used to take me on.
Mostly, I feel helpless.
The nurse tells us that even though he seems to sleep most of the time, we should hold his hand and talk to him. Loudly. He needs stimulus.
One-way conversation is not easy. My sister tells him about her work and her boyfriend. I tell him about the newspaper. I do not know if he understands. But it does not matter anymore.
"Why does he have such a strong will to live?" I ask a friend whose father died not too long ago. "Why would anyone want to suffer so much?"
"Maybe he just wants one more day of having someone come visit him," he said. "One more day of having someone hold his hand and talk to him."
The day Ye-ye came home, the doctors told us that we, as a family, had to decide what we wanted to do if he suffered a relapse. Did we want to send him to hospital? Did we want to let go? What quality of life could we give him?
I used to think I had the answers. I read enough stories on medical ethics, the will to live, health costs and dying with dignity to think giving up would be easy.
I had the answers -- in theory. But that has become a blur of grey with Ye-ye lying helpless on his bed, struggling to open his eyes or move his mouth.
This is my Father's Day wish for him. All I want is a five-minute conversation with him -- a real conversation so he can tell us how he really feels, what he really wants and what he thinks of all the fuss around him.
All I want is for him to have a normal, painless, happy Father's Day.