Before Google, Got Ah Ma

A story about the kind of love you can’t search for.

Che Cheam

These days, at 32, I can search for anything. Best food for sore throats. Cough remedies. How to stop missing someone who’s gone.

But back then — as a small, sickly child — I didn’t need a search engine .I had Ah Ma.

One evening, I coughed while scrolling my phone. Out of habit, I typed: “what to eat when—”But a voice from memory interrupted me.

“Che cheam.” (蒸橙子 steam orange.)

Just Ah Ma’s voice — steady, certain, and slightly scolding. Even now, it echoes clearly. She didn’t ask for symptoms.

She just steamed the orange, filled with salt, and placed it in front of me.

Poor But Never Unloved

We didn’t have much growing up. Doctor visits were rare — reserved only for fevers that didn’t go down. Most days, there just wasn’t money for clinics or medicine.

And I was always sick. Always coughing. Always lying on her rattan sofa like the world owed me pity. But Ah Ma never made me feel like a burden.

She gave me bitter tea in chipped mugs. She rubbed my back with Yu Yee oil. She’d mutter,“Bo bun toi.” (No big deal.)

Somehow, even when we had so little, she made it feel like it was enough.

The Last Cup

At some point, I stopped going over when I felt unwell. Told myself I didn’t want to trouble her. Told myself I could Google it. Buy medicine. Be independent.

But one night — after a hard month and a heartbreak — I fell ill in a way medicine couldn’t fix. And I didn’t want pills. I wanted her slippers shuffling on tile. The sound of her stirring soup . I wanted Ah Ma.

By then, she wasn’t boiling anything anymore. Her hands, once strong enough to carry a wok with one arm, now trembled just holding mine. She looked at me and whispered, “Lim sio chui.” (Drink something warm.)

Even when memory faded, her care didn’t. That was the last time she made me feel better. Not with herbs — but with her presence.

What Stays

Today, I can afford to see the doctor. I have shelves of supplements. Insurance. Stability.

But sometimes, in quiet moments, I find myself reaching, not for medicine, but for memory.

When my throat itches, I still steam an orange. I still boil herbs bought from the medical hall near her old flat. I still follow her steps — even if it never tastes quite right.

What healed me wasn’t the recipe.

It was her.

If your Ah Ma is still around, go. Let her fuss. Let her scold. Let her love you in her stubborn, Hokkien-speaking way . Ask her the questions Google can’t answer.

Because one day, all you’ll have left is the sound of her slippers in your memory.

A voice in your head saying, “Mai kao beh.” (Don’t whine.)

And a mug of something bitter in your hands — trying to recreate what was never just a drink.

I still do

Before Google, I had Ah Ma.

And in some quiet, irreplaceable way,

I still do.