CHAPTER 79

2025-08-21

The coffee in the hospital was terrible. Such a poor-tasting drink, yet it was a must-have at every meal. Even though it wasn't tasty, I still had to drink it.

I first had coffee when I was six years old. My family of seven moved from our single-family unit on the seventh floor of North Point New Village to a two-bedroom, one-living room apartment on the second floor with a long balcony, a significant improvement in our lives. My father bought a new half-length pot chest in the living room and filled it with luxury items. Several bottles of foreign wine were stored behind glass doors, and in the drawer was an English tea set and Honolulu coffee.

One Sunday morning, Dad brought out the coffee, boiled water, steamed the coffee, strained the grounds, and added condensed milk. My oldest brother, my second oldest brother, and I all tasted the freshly brewed coffee. I loved the rich aroma and sweet milk; it became my standard. From then on, I loved the aroma of roasted coffee beans. Dad only made it when he felt like it, so he didn't drink it often.

As I grew up, I mainly drank milk tea, mainly because I found coffee to be very “hot”, drying my tongue and easily causing a sore throat. Even after I moved to Canada, I kept this habit. In my early years in Canada, supermarkets had blenders where customers could choose and grind coffee beans. There was always some powder left at the front of the machine. I loved the taste of coffee, so I would often dip my finger in the powder and hold it to my nose for a while. My younger son still remembers this.

Westerners can't live without coffee, and hospitals always provide it. Honestly, the hospital coffee is awful; I have no idea why it's served on menu.

Dinner was served at 5:00 p.m. in the psychiatric ward. On the first day, my appetite and mood were poor, so I didn't drink coffee. But I saw an older, thinner male patient, his hands shaking, asking for coffee from other patients. He quickly drank more than one cup. His eager expression made it seem like he was relying on coffee to "satisfy" his addiction.

From the second meal on, I let him drink my coffee, too. He came uninvited for the third meal. I'm kindhearted, but I don't like others to feel they deserve it. Also, the diabetic meals I eat aren't as generous or varied as those of other patients. By the fourth meal, I was already feeling hungry. Coffee, while unpalatable, filled me up a bit, so I drank it before he asked for it. He stopped coming to my place after that, and I refused to let anyone eat or drink my food.

Luckily, old friends often brought me some delicious treats during my visits, including Hong Kong-style stuffed bread and dried meat. The nurses would hand out snacks before bed, and I always chose filling biscuits and cheese.

Knowing when to feel hungry and protecting your rights is a sign of recovery.