Per Giagi

I haven't written in a very long time.

On May 17th, at around 10:00am in the morning, Giagi passed away in the palliative ward at VGH. I was on my way to the hospital at the time, and had spent most of every day (and every other night) at his bedside for the ten days of his hospitalization. For the last seven of those days he was asleep, and I no longer got to see the twinkle of his green eyes, or feel a squeeze of his hand.

It makes me cry to think of him still, and there are moments, such as tonight, where I feel like a part of me is missing. There are so many things he used to do or say that made me feel loved--little things that were so normal and predictable to me, which are now lost forever--his proud glances at me at the dinner table when I got a Jeopardy question correct; his way of knowing how to comfort me, in his quiet, reassuring manner; our shared love for dessert and an after-dinner espresso; how he would always set my favourite fork at the table for meals. It is all these little acts of love and kindness that mattered, and still matter...

He understood me and accepted me as I was, and loved me all the more for it. And I thought and think the world of him.

I find it still hard to talk about him and use the past tense when I describe him. He will forever be missed, but his presence and profound effect on me will never fade away.

Seeing him suffer during his last days and having to say goodbye were the hardest moments I have ever encountered. But sometimes, trying to continue on without him can be quite difficult as well.

Below is the eulogy I gave at his funeral on June 3rd:

I would like to thank each of you for joining us today, especially our relatives from Italy and Hong Kong. Vi ringrazio per essere qui con noi. 

My dad, or Giagi as I called him, was born to a simple and happy home in Senago, a town in Milan, Italy. His father worked in the hospital and loved to cook, and his mother was a homemaker. I never had the fortune to meet my grandparents, but I can tell that they were amazing because they raised my dad.

Giagi’s childhood was as good as one could be during World War II. He and his best friend Emilio, who is here today, played good-natured pranks on innocent strangers, and still enjoyed recalling these memories in their seventies. Giagi loved music, and though his family could not afford piano lessons, he taught himself to play the organ at church. He also loved to sing, and one of his earliest memories was singing on top of the dinner table and then crying because he thought he was being reprimanded. “Go to La Scala”, they said. He misinterpreted the famous opera house in Milan for “the staircase”, which is also translated as “la scala” in Italian.

As an adult, Giagi loved photography and travel, and is responsible for having captured the memories of many family members and friends whether at home or abroad. His favourite hobby in the years of his “second youth” as he called them was editing videos of family trips around the world.

I do not know how to sum up the life of such a wonderful man. In the past few weeks I have learned that the whole is worth much more than the sum of its parts. That having known him for my entire lifetime signifies more than just a strand of cherished memories, and that even now I cannot begin to fully comprehend the magnitude of his absence.  

Giagi was the best father that anyone could ever ask for. He lived to make his loved ones happy. He was ever dependable, always caring, and the most considerate person I have ever known. Every birthday, anniversary, and special occasion was a time to wake up to a card and flowers on the breakfast table. He was warm and soft-spoken, with a glint of boyish mischief in his eye. He was a man who found joy in the simple things in life. He was a man who was honest and true, and a constant source of comfort and encouragement.  

And what most people will remember him for is his cooking. It’s the reason why many of you befriended us, I imagine, and so I have Giagi to thank. He always asked my mom and I what we’d like to eat so that he could make it for us, and when he cooked, you could tell that he was in his element. He put his heart and his father’s memory into everything he made, and it was always delicious. Even his risotto. 

When I think about Giagi, all I feel is an immense love--an unconditional love that warms my heart. And I feel blessed knowing that so much goodness could have existed in one person. When you think of him, I hope you feel the same.