The Last Photograph

Finally, I got a WhatsApp message from a Miss Chan from the funeral parlour this afternoon. It came at the right time, and I was grateful for that.

This morning, I thought I had done something really stupid when I looked at a photo on the computer and was thinking about deleting it for good. Miss Chan was asking for a photo. It is the photo of Uncle Nine, the only photo I took for him when I visited him at an elderly home.

It all came back. At 2:21am on 2 December, I was woken up by the mobile phone an hour after I fell asleep. The other side of the phone started to say after she had confirmed my identity, “I am a nurse at Pok Oi Hospital, and we found your telephone number on his file. I am calling to tell you that Mr. XX九 was critically ill, and we think he may not survive the night. Would you like to come and see him?” My half-conscious mind only reminded me that I needed to take my father to attend a medcial appointment at 9:00am. “No, I can’t come, sorry,” I said to the nurse. “Should we call you if he passes away?” she added. “No, thanks.” That was the best I could say. I was sorry after the other side hung up the phone. Not because I could not go to see him for the last time, but because I had not visited him since the COVID-19 pandemic broke out.

I called the elderly home a few days later to ask for the details of his funeral, as I assumed he had passed on to the better side of the world. My phone call was transferred from a clerk to a nurse and then to a woman, and I had to confirm her position as a social worker. She told me she knew nothing about the funeral as the case was referred to XXX funeral service agent. So, I asked her to look that up for me, as I would like to pay final respect to the old man. She agreed, and I left my number with her.

A week later, having received no reply from the social worker, I searched for the funeral service agent myself. After several calls, I got in touch with a Mr. Wong, and he gave me the date and time for the funeral. A few minutes later, something came to my mind, and I called Mr. Wong again to tell him Uncle Nine once said to me that he was baptised in a Catholic church when he was young and poor. He told me his stepson intended to have a Taoist funeral for him, though the referring social worker said he was a Catholic. He asked if I could remember the name of the Catholic church, but I could not.

On Christmas Eve morning, I met Ann, a former colleague, at the reception desk of Pok Oi Hospital to wait for Mr. Wong, the funeral agent. I overheard him talking to someone about me joining the funeral, and I introduced myself to them. They were Uncle Nine’s stepson and his wife. The funeral master eventually came at 9:15 am and told us that the funeral ceremony would be held according to the Catholic ritual at the mortuary chapel and then the Taoist at the crematorium. That’s flexible, I thought.

I was upset when the stepson declined to check the identity of the corpse, and when I saw the state of Uncle Nine, even after they had put makeup on his face. I asked myself how on earth that had happened: the mouth of the corpse was wide open, a hand was poking forward, and the knees were all flexed. The worst part was his black-and-white funeral photo-it was not a photo of a man, but a skull wrapped in thin crepe paper. They could not find any photos of him and just blew up the photo on his identity card. I later found out that he had his identity card renewed in early 2024. He was emaciated even a year before he passed away.

The Catholic ritual was nothing but 3 bows and the viewing of the corpse. It lasted for less than 3 minutes, and the stepson and wife declined to view the corpse before the coffin was sealed. The Taoist ritual was even faster at the crematorium, and the stepson declined to press the button to start Uncle Nine’s last journey. I was completely lost after all the rituals had been performed. Was that a funeral ceremony? Was it worth the money paid? Why did he have such a raw deal for his last business on earth? I have been to many funerals. Even those on income support had a much better service than this. He had resided in a religious elderly home and had his own case social worker, but in the end, he got this treatment.

Just before we departed, I asked Miss Chan if it was possible to use another photo for the grave plaque if I could find a better one. She welcomed the idea. I left without asking for her contact.

I went through all the photos in my cellphone and eventually found one I took for Uncle Nine in 2014 when I took him out for cold coffee and egg sandwiches on a visit to the elderly home. He told me that the staff members of the elderly home would not buy him cold coffee and sandwiches. I cropped the photo and realised I did not have the contacts with Miss Chan. I called Mr. Wong a couple of times and left a message for him to call me. He never did. 

This afternoon, Miss Chan texted me to ask for the photo, and I was very happy to send her that. I am glad that I have at least done something good for Uncle Nine, something that would make me happier than any others. Though he was one of the friends I made at work 29 years ago, I am glad I could do that for him. Rest in peace, Uncle Nine.