A Contract Ends, but the Longing Lives On

“Ah Teck, thank you. You’ve really improved a lot.”
Seeing the family’s sincere gratitude and affirmation filled my heart with deep emotion.

In 2019, I had just begun my journey in Bereavement Care Profession at Xiao En. Nervous and unsure, I took on one of my very first cases. Thankfully, everything went smoothly, and I felt a wave of relief. I never expected that two years later, I would meet the same family again. Back then, they had said goodbye to their mother. Now, they were saying goodbye to their father.

This time, I was no longer the timid newcomer. I could lead younger colleagues with me, face the family with calm, and receive their words of gratitude with a heart full of thankfulness.

My path into the Bereavement Care Profession was never easy. I first worked at a casket shop. To my family, this was “old people’s work.” They were furious and baffled by my decision, even throwing down harsh words: “If you want to work in this industry, then don’t come home.”

After living away for a year and a half, they eventually let me return, but every day after work, my mother would leave a fresh bowl of flower water at the door. Only after “cleansing myself” could I step into the house.

My parents allowed me home, but they never asked about my work. To them, funerals were unclean, inauspicious.

It wasn’t until my cousin asked me about my experiences that I realized the truth. My parents had been listening quietly all along.

And in that silence, I understood—sometimes, acceptance begins not with words, but with the quiet act of listening.

Time Is Limited, Life Is Uncertain

Later on, conversations about life and death gradually began to surface at home, and my parents slowly started chatting with me more casually about little stories from my work, no longer using silence to avoid the subject. From then on, the basin of floral water once placed at the doorway was gone.

Then came the COVID-19 outbreak. My father was unfortunately infected while at work and was sent to Sungai Buloh Hospital for isolation. As his condition worsened, his body grew weaker by the day, and my worry deepened.

One night, I received a call from him. His voice was frail, and because he was struggling to breathe, he begged me to quickly get the doctor. Since my father didn’t speak Malay, I was always the one to translate and relay his words to the medical staff. I immediately notified the hospital, and fortunately, he received timely treatment and managed to pull through.

“If I hadn’t picked up that call, would he already be gone?” Even now, that thought sends chills down my spine.
After this incident, I began making more time to go home and be with my family.

A Day in the Life at Work

Every morning when I arrive at Xiao En Centre, I begin my day by visiting each memorial hall — greeting the departed, offering meals, and making sure the rooms are neat and ready. When the families arrive, I guide them through the rituals and explain the flow of the ceremony.

At the very end of a funeral, comes the most significant moment: the send-off. Before this, I always set aside thirty minutes for the family to have private time with their loved one. It’s their chance to be alone, to say the words they haven’t yet found the courage or moment to say.

At Xiao En, we deeply treasure this “last companionship.” Because we know that in silence, the heart can breathe; in stillness, families can gather their emotions and speak the unspoken. Those thirty minutes are not just about time — they are a gentle space for farewell.

Yet, behind closed doors, some families still cannot bring themselves to speak. I often wondered: at the very last moment, why is it still so hard to say the words?

It wasn’t until that day came for me — when I stood before my own goodbye — that I finally understood: sometimes, even before you can speak, the tears have already spoken everything.

On the Night of April 11, 2024, I Received a Call from the Hospital

Dad was admitted to the hospital due to discomfort. After my sister and I completed the admission procedures, it was already 8:30 p.m., so we decided to head home to take care of Mom.

After resting at home for a while, the hospital called to inform me that Dad insisted on getting out of bed, which could easily cause an accident. They asked me to persuade him to rest and not move around unnecessarily. I comforted him briefly over the phone, then hung up and placed the phone face down on the table, trying to continue with what I was doing — though a lingering unease remained in my heart.

At 11 p.m., the phone rang again. I turned it over and saw the hospital’s number displayed. That uneasy feeling grew stronger as I answered the call. The voice on the other end said, “Your father’s heart has stopped. Please come to the hospital immediately.”

My sister and I rushed there as fast as we could, clinging to a sliver of hope that Dad might pull through. But when we arrived, before we could even reach his ward, the emergency doctor was already standing in front of us.

“ It truly felt like a scene from a drama — the doctor told us, ‘I’m sorry, we really did our best.’ They had been trying to resuscitate Dad from 10:30 p.m. until 11:15 p.m. For a full forty-five minutes, right up until we arrived at the hospital, but still… they couldn’t bring him back.”

Only the sound of my heartbroken cries echoed through the hospital.

About ten minutes later, I forced myself to calm down and began thinking about everything that needed to be done next.

As a Bereavement Care Professional, I knew clearly what every step should be. But as a son, every step felt unbearably heavy. Holding my father’s death certificate, I couldn’t bring myself to sign it. In the morgue, seeing my father lying still, my tears broke loose again. Returning home, facing my silently waiting mother, I could only manage to say, “Dad is really gone.”

From choosing his burial clothes, urn, and niche, I fulfilled my duties as a son. From arranging the proper religious rites to ensuring every ceremony went smoothly, I carried out my responsibilities as a Bereavement Care Professional. Yet every time I walked into the memorial hall, I had to brace myself again and again. All those familiar procedures became piercing reminders: the hardest farewell is not guiding others through their loss, but saying goodbye to your own loved one.

“ The moment I saw Dad lying in the coffin, the grief was overwhelming. From 8:30 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. —just a few short hours — and I had lost my father. ”

My brothers rushed back from out of town, and the four of us — siblings — took care of everything for Dad: washing his face, dressing him in his burial clothes, placing paper money… With every step, tears streamed down uncontrollably.

When the day of the funeral came, it was time for the “last moments of farewell.” In the past, I was always the one standing outside the closed door, quietly keeping watch. But this time, I walked from the outside in, standing before my father.

Outside the door, I was the professional undertaker; inside, I was the grieving son. In the past, I wondered what the families were feeling behind that door. That day, I finally saw it for myself — the silence, the heaviness, the unspeakable sorrow.

From then on, every time I faced a grieving family, I could understand their pain a little more deeply. My career as a funeral director gained a new layer of empathy.

During those days of arranging Dad’s farewell, I stayed overnight at the funeral home. Every nightfall, I would walk to him and whisper, “Good night, Dad.”

Because of work, I was almost always out from dawn till late at night. Even though we lived under the same roof, I rarely had the chance to see my parents. By the time they woke up, I had already left; when I returned, they were already asleep. Day after day.

And when I finally had the chance to say “Good night” to Dad, he could no longer hear me.

Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late to Regret

My contract as a son with my father officially came to an end, and all the longing and memories were placed into a niche marked with the code “0919” — my own birthday — so that my love and remembrance would never lose their way. His passing made me treasure every moment with my family even more. Though work remains busy, I make it a point to wake early for breakfast with my mother, or to carve out time for family trips, because I now know — some things, if left undone, will never come again.

A family portrait that will never be whole again is the regret I will carry for life.
Since then, whenever I serve a family, I do so with deeper care, hoping they find peace and comfort in their final moments of farewell. I’ve come to realize that every “special request” often holds a story unique to the departed and their loved ones. Having walked this path myself, I better understand the weight of their grief and longing. If fulfilling those requests can offer them solace, I will do all I can — because their farewell is also my greatest lesson as a Bereavement Care Professional.

Above all, I hope we never wait until it’s too late to regret.

(Editor’s note: This article is based on the author’s oral sharing, written by The Interview’s reporter.)

This Original article first appeared in《 The Interview 》. [ Click Here ]