The other day

I took my father for his monthly check up at Gle­nea­gles, and being the way he is, my father is usu­ally very sian about his monthly check ups. Prob­a­bly from not know­ing what the doc­tor will say, prob­a­bly from expect­ing the doc­tor to say that his con­di­tion has deteriorated.

While we were sit­ting wait­ing for our turn at con­sul­ta­tion, an elderly man walked in with two women we later found out to be two of his eight chil­dren, and went straight to the recep­tion counter and asked if he had to pay any­thing first. His daugh­ters chided him and said in Man­darin that it was all set­tled and asked him to sit down.

He did, next to my father, and struck up a con­ver­sa­tion. Some­thing about whether we were from Sin­ga­pore (there were many Indone­sian Chi­nese at this hos­pi­tal). Pa said yes. The elderly man asked if I was his son. Pa said yes. The elderly man asked how many chil­dren. Pa said three. The elderly man said eight? Pa said, no, three.

The elderly man said he had eight chil­dren, and asked how old my father was. Pa said eighty, then sev­enty eight, at which the elderly man smiled and said in Man­darin, “Haiyah, lit­tle child! I am ninety-six, lit­tle child”. Then he got up and went to the recep­tion counter and asked again if he had to pay anything.

Pa spoke with­out turn­ing to me, “Wah, ninety-six. Still so fit”.

I don’t know for cer­tain, but I think my father was slightly more sprightly at con­sul­ta­tion and for the rest of the day.