Fridae

Death and I make really bad bedfellows. Not that I have anything against him, because I know he's just doing his job. But I've never liked funerals in general. All the crying and sadness that comes attached with it is just too depressing. Shouldn't we be celebrating the fact that the dearly departed are indeed going to a much better or more deserving place? If they have been really great people, then I'm glad that they are going up to the pearly gates. If they were the horrid, nasty, evil types, then chances are that they would be descending into the fiery pits of hell. Either way, justice is served in the afterlife. Whenever I'm attending a funeral, I'm quiet on the outside. But inside, I'm dancing a tango with Lady Justice.

Of course, throw in the death of the boyfriend's relative into the works and the above-mentioned philosophy starts getting shaky. What do you do when a family member of the boyfriend has passed on? Do you attend the wake? Do you go for the burial? Do you speak of the dead in past or present tenses? Do you go to the wake and help carry chairs, serve peanuts and entertain the guests with witty little anecdotes of the deceased? Do the relatives even know that you are not just the boyfriend's best friend, but rather, the boyfriend's BOYFRIEND?

Those were my thoughts two weeks ago when I was in the cab, on the way to the boyfriend's at 1.45am. The boyfriend's grandmother had just passed away that afternoon. One thing led to another, and the time of death was declared in the afternoon a little over 2pm. The boyfriend who's an air steward got the news via SMS at 10.30pm after a flight. I got THE call at 10.33pm while signing out from work at the hospital. Truth be told, I'm terrible with crying people. I can handle a deranged or angry person any time. But give me a wailing person and my voice starts to quiver, hesitating about the right comforting words to say. Fortunately, the hospital has resources for such occasions: a little serene-looking booklet called 'In Your Time of Need' (or something along those lines). Let's just say that it was very useful as a thesaurus, substituting the simple words like 'death' and 'dead' with 'passed on' and 'dearly departed'.

All that said, the story revolving around the boyfriend, his family and me is one of much irony. I first met his grandmother's when I went over to his place for a 'sleepover'. The boyfriend's Malay whereas I'm Chinese. Using what little knowledge I had of the Malay language, I put together a smattering of words that sounded somewhat like a greeting. I guess she understood me when she raised her hand and gave a toothy grin. She was a very nice lady, very kindly and the sort that you knew was very much loved by her family. Kinda like my grandmother. It was at that first meeting though, that I had this premonition. When I saw her dusky-looking feet, I sorta guessed that she there might be a point in time in the near future, when she would have to get the leg amputated.

Lo and behold, nearly eight weeks later, the boyfriend's grandmother was admitted in the hospital for leg problems. That's irony number one. Irony number two was that she was admitted into the ward where I worked. Now, hospital protocols don't really allow the male nurse to be in charge of the female patients for fear of the legal implications. So there I was, going all about, telling little white lies to my colleagues to take good care of 'my best friend's' grandmother. I did what I could, constantly updating the boyfriend's parents about the grandmother's condition. I even taught the maid and the mother how to inject the blood-thinning medication in the hopes that her leg would get better. The doctors wanted to amputate. But the grandmother wasn't very keen on doing it. Life over limb and vice-versa, I guess.

Still, the grandmother passed on, at least not due to the leg problems, but rather an accumulation of fluid in the lungs. And there I was at the boyfriend's at 2.00am. Looking at her body that was draped in several layers of cloth, it felt very surreal to attend the wake of a loved one's loved one. I didn't have much to say other than a memorised line from 'In Your Time of Need' which I basically used on everyone I met at the wake. I wanted to grab the boyfriend's hands and comfort them, but I think the parents who were clueless about the boyfriend's sexuality didn't need another shock for the day.

So what does a smoking homosexual do when he's got nothing comforting to say at a wake?
He says it with a cigarette.

I smoked a grand total of five sticks during the entire span of three-and-a-half hours that I was there. The boyfriend who saw my frequent exits from the house to fag away, intercepted with his mother and her barrage of health products. The boyfriend's mother sold health products for a living, you see. One of these fantastic products was a smoking-deterrent where all you have to do is 'soak' the cigarette in the aroma of the deterrent. This would result in a relatively bland-tasting cigarette and thus deterring you to smoke. A bit like Professor Calculus putting pills into Captain Haddock's Loch Lomond to make the whisky taste like crap. If you must know, I tried it and indeed my cigarette tasted like a cigarette without the menthol lights.

But I digress. Point is, it was all quite bizarre actually, the mother, the boyfriend and me sitting on a bench outside the house while she elaborated about the effects of the smoking-deterrent on the cigarette. All this happening at 4am in the morning in the middle of a loved one's wake. Later on, the mother and I sat outside and talked for a bit about the boyfriend and his dietary habits. And this is going to sound very clich�d, but I felt like the son-in-law at that point in time.

Maybe it's true when they say, that a departure of a loved one brings everyone closer together. I guessed I worry too much about what the parents were going to think of me. After all, it's not every time that the best friend turns up in the middle of the night just to console someone. We have phones and SMSes for that. Still a loved one of the boyfriend is a loved one of mine. I'm sure the boyfriend's grandmother is in a much happier place now. Who knows, she might even be dancing that tango with Lady Justice on my behalf now.

And of course, with much better looking legs.

Jonathan Zhang, 22, has been gay for eight years and a nurse for four. You can read the combined average of the above in his blog at www.spankthemalenurse.blogspot.com. Ah Men! will be updated every other Sunday.