Forgotten, and forgotten again

No one will tell you that leaving a country to live and to build a new self... is a painful process. Even if you can communicate fluently in English, you will still have many misunderstandings with others due to different backgrounds and cultures. At the same time, everything you take for granted—from everyday food and jokes among friends to internet algorithms and TV commercials—will change drastically because of the change of country.

Loneliness and Self-Reconstruction of Overseas Immigrants

What's even more terrifying is that nobody knows who you are. Nobody knows the school you went, the places you've worked. People aren't even sure what country you're from, especially Taiwan. Our impression of South America and Africa is one of poverty and backwardness; I never imagined that one day others would look at me with the same perspective. After my first year in Australia, leaving the olive grove and moving to Adelaide, I felt like I was forgotten. Nobody knew who I was, and aside from temporarily staying at my alcoholic ex-boyfriend's house, working at a pizza shop, and going to school, I had no other social circle.

Until I met Ms. X, she was the first patient to remember my name.

Glimmer of light: being remembered in Australian nursing homes

Working at a care agency, I go to different nursing homes every day. I work at Company A during the day and Company B at night, and the next day it's a new team, new colleagues, and new patients. I'm always filling in for people who are temporarily absent. The workload is always heavy and urgent, making it a necessary part of the nursing care novice's journey. Ms. X is just one of the many patients I've met by chance.

After two agonizing months, I finally landed a job at a five-star nursing home. I knew that if I worked there for six months and got along well with the nurses, I could get a higher-paying job at better agency. Even though the hours were short, I agreed to continue.

Ms. X was in her eighties, with a crown of silvery-white hair, and she often wore a pink dressing gown.Whenever she saw me, a warm smile would light up her face as she called out my name.

I asked her once how she managed to remember me.

"You are very attentive," she said with a smile. "I've remembered you ever since you were back at the agency. Your name is Erin."

She had no idea how much those simple words meant to me at that very moment. I had just emerged from the chaos of my life at that agency and stepped into this five-star aged care facility. I couldn't remember a single one of my former colleagues, and not a soul there remembered who I was.

I was there for her through many painful times, helping her to the toilet, applying ointment, and sometimes I would listen to her stories from her youth in her room. The last time I saw her, we were talking about the orchids on the windowsill.

"Does it need watering?" she asked.
"My grandparents used to grow orchids, and they said that orchids don't actually need much water."
My mind flashed back to my grandparents watering the flowers. I wondered how they were doing in Taiwan.

A few days later, the cancer cells defeated Ms. X.
Her room was cleared out, and a new resident moved in.

Neither is home: The ultimate questions about aging, immigration, and settling down.

I often think about how many people like me on this land, carrying the burden of being forgotten, caring for a group of people also forgotten by most. Especially those immigrants who are fighting against all odds, burdened with huge tuition fees and student visas, striving to stay. They must patiently face cruel illness day and night, confront the cultural gaps of a foreign land, and pin their hopes on imagining a better future.

Do they, like me, also feel forgotten when someone passes away?
Are they worried about being forgotten by their own fellow from homeland? Or about forgetting who they originally were?

When I'm caring for someone, I often have wild fantasies. I imagine myself immigrating to Australia, working, earning money, getting married, growing old, and living in a nursing home. I imagine myself, in my final moments, like the first wave of Australian immigrants, not seeing my familiar home, not eating food from my motherland, and having no one to speak my mother tongue.

A German grandmother once told me, "I immigrated from Germany to Australia and have lived there for most of my life, but sometimes it still doesn't feel like home. But when I go back to Germany, many people don't recognize me. Be careful, after immigrating to a new country, you might feel like neither place is your home."

In the dark corridors of the nursing home, amidst the pungent smells, the occasional din of television and wailing, I often try to shake off the helplessness, fear, and anxiety within me. I know that one day I will face the exact same moment; I will grow old and suffer from chronic illnesses. I hope that at that moment, I will see familiar faces, familiar food, and familiar language.