The breakfast routine begins with two slices of wholemeal bread mindfully retrieved out of the plastic bag. These are gingerly placed in the toaster-oven, whose timer is slowly twisted to the right about 60 degrees.

It’s a good guess for the duration of 10 minutes, seeing as this spring-loaded dial is no longer punctuated by minute-markers; every single line has long since faded into oblivion.

No matter, the cheery bell still works. It goes off with a robust “bing!” which means it’s time to get the olive oil spread out of the fridge.

Fake butter it may be, but a generous dollop is slathered onto the toast’s crisp surfaces, corner to corner.

The making of a decision comes next: Nutella? Kaya? Or jam?

Marigold mango yogurt goes into a glass bowl. One Dole banana is neatly sliced into discs and inserted decoratively. Ten no-brand golden raisins are sprinkled all over, their tiny prickly stems carefully picked and discarded first.

A mug of coffee is made, a glass of water is poured.

The entire spread is positioned on a Tiger Beer serving tray, which she picks up and carries from the kitchen to the dining table. From there she collects the blue pill box. It, too, goes on the tray.

The succeeding stop is finally the last: The living room.

She sets the tray down onto the coffee table and surveys the familiar space. The newspaper is already there, and the black handbag as well. Cushions plumped, the sofa looks ready. She sits, positioning her calves on a heat-emitting machine made by EmTech.

Eight or nine years ago, she paid $6,000 for it, wholeheartedly convinced its electromagnetic therapy would do her cholesterol level and diabetes all sorts of good.

Never mind that her doctors summarily dismissed the glowing testimonials as bogus. It did have a four-figure price tag; there had to be something to those thousands of dollars. If nothing else, the heat on her skin felt good …

The EmTech is placed under her calves, then under the soles of her feet, then against her lower back. Each position is comfortably maintained for half an hour.

In the interim, the food is eaten, the newspaper read, and yesterday’s stock market closing prices recorded in a large diary.

The morning passes. It’s close to 11am.

Most mornings pass this way.

Comfort food

What’s my role? I’m the means to the bread and bananas.

I’m the one who provides the car ride to NTUC every Monday. It has to be Monday and no other day, so that she gets her Pioneer Generation discount of 3%.

Mostly, she looks at breakfast foods. In particular, she’s picky about the bread. The loaves are scrutinised, and only the bag with perfectly square slices is chosen. Not a single piece can be squished.

Far be it from me to quash the intent with which she goes about this selection; it is as much about the oats and rye as it is about the fibres of independence she strives to maintain. Breakfast is the one meal she needs no help preparing, and as long as she is able, she will exert full control over it.

Uncategorically.

This was brought home to me one Monday when she didn’t feel like making the trip. I went to the supermarket anyway, having asked if there was anything specific she wanted.

“No.”

I bought the usual groceries and put them away, and the maid then said: “Now I go NTUC.”

The reason: “I buy bread and banana. Ma’am say cannot ask you to buy bread and banana.”

Quality control

I took a deep breath, and zipped my mouth shut.

After all, I had braced myself for both the bitchy and the bizarre when I first volunteered my Mondays several years ago. I saw a need, and recognised that I was in the best position to meet it.

Sentiment was not the motivator; it was sheer grit. I was fully aware that it’s one thing to take someone to NTUC once. It’s quite another to do so every week. Especially when that someone is nearly 90 years old.

That having been said, I’m a happy camper nearly 90% of the time. When the good spirits wear thin, discipline kicks in, and the smile is generally still heartfelt. On the really bad days, I remind myself: Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love Him. (James 1:2)

But wry humour is not always enough. Take the Monday we happened to be looking at instant coffee. The Moccona bottles were regular sized, not 25% extra, and there was no special offer that day. “Never mind lah,” she said, “I still have.”

“I bought you a bottle the other day; Cold Storage was having a special offer.”

“WHAT? Why did you do that? You must stop buying things for me …”

On it went, until I unzipped my mouth and took issue, right then and there, under the “Coffee & tea” sign at aisle 25 of Ang Mo Kio Hub NTUC, before a crowd of intrigued elderly onlookers.

“Do you know how crazy this is? I can’t buy you coffee. I can’t even buy you bread and bananas. I live in your house, and I can’t buy you anything?”

There, it was out. The absurdity of it all. Her insensitivity. My incredulity.

Or so I thought.

The sound and the fury

Until God pointed out: You facilitate the function of her life, but you have not engaged the heart – neither hers, nor yours.

I rebutted: I am not allowed in that private space. The doors are shut tight.

And why do you think that is? He said.

Silence.

Then my ears heard the “me” in my sound and the “I” in my fury, and my eyes began to see that the maid is an extension of her independence: Getting the maid to go out and buy bread and bananas is as good as buying them herself, and to purchase her own coffee granules is to enjoy her brew that much more.

Asking the same of me is to be relegated to the reality of what she no longer is (young) and can never again be (able-bodied). Every good work I extend my hands to do, therefore, is gruesome, and countered with resentment and resistance.

Can I blame her? Dependence is very, very hard to learn, and dignity, once damaged, is quickly ravaged by shame.

Jesus stands apart from the limelight of my days and knocks at the dark doors of my nights. Whereas He would enter into the shadows of my soul, I prefer to call attention to the glorious list of things I have the faith and hope He would do. That’s my idea of love, thank You very much.

But God’s onto me. He’ll have me know that living on my terms is not life; neither is love by my realisation of it.

Her life’s not about me doing my part. It’s about Jesus in the centre of it all and calling me to enter with Him, right into the love He has for her, in His heart.

Who is equal to such a task?

“Go, surrender all the pride and presumption you possess and be poor in spirit, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me.” (paraphrase mine, from Mark 10:21,22; Matthew 5:3)