Work, work

I cried at the office today. It was while speaking to a friend I had promised to meet for a long time. I had to call and cancel our appointment, because I was just overwhelmed with work and did not have time to even go out of the office. It has been like this ever since I got back from my leave two weeks ago.

She is a really sweet person, and just last year became a mother to a healthy and beautiful baby. I have seen the baby twice, and held her in my arms. When I see the baby's eyes, I feel how lucky she will be her whole life, because she has such a caring and loving mother that is my friend.

I am not sure what it is about my friend, but everytime I speak to her, she brings out the 'child' in me. Her voice is so soothing, her words so comforting. Just after I retired from Taiwan, I called her to tell her I had come back. The way she told me everything would be alright made my voice waver. It was as if she could feel my pain, as if she could reach inside and touch me, even though we were just on the phone. The motherliness of my friend is so powerful.

And again today, the same happened. I felt really bad having to cancel our appointment, but she was very understanding, and supportive. She told me to take it easy, and said we could meet when I am less busy. I thought of the many many days that have gone by since I returned to work, I thought of the days that I went to the office and just sat down without getting up until it was already night time.

At that point my eyes started to water again, and as if she could hear my tears, she told me to hang on there, to be strong, to go on despite the odds. That made me just feel even more touched.

I sat down at my desk, full of things to do, full of papers to be looked at and emails to be answered. I shut my eyes tightly and wiped my tears away. It was then that she said to me something that was so touching...

"...my parents passed away when I was just twelve, and I know how hard it is. When I feel sad or when I want to have my parents around, I would pinch myself. When I feel the pain, I know I am half my mother, and half my father. So you hang on there. Take a deep breath, make yourself a nice cup of tea, and just sit down for a few moments..."

And for those brief, few moments thereafter, the pressures from above, the bickering, the work politics, the money problems I have had to be faced with ever since the very moment I returned to work barely two weeks ago just disappeared.

Disappeared... like the clouds that would float on high and disappear the next time you look up.

2am

Close to 2am. Taiwan time, close to 8am.
Mum is in hospital again for her bi-weekly chemo therapy. It is going well she says, and most likely she can go home tomorrow later afternoon. My auntie is there, sleeping in that narrow couch-bed I used to sleep in, and as I called she was out to buy breakfast. Mum says she still has the appetite to eat, so she wanted this oat meal mix and some fried rice and cereals. “Just like what you bought me when I was in hospital,” she said.

Yes, just as I had bought her back in February because I thought that was the most healthy and nutricious that I could bring her while she lies confined in that hospital bed for those days.

“Have the doctors come yet?” I asked. Because they usually come check up on the patients a little after eight. Not yet, but they will come, mum reassured me. And today she will find out whether after all these treatments the cancer index has diminished. In other words, whether all those grueling and tiredsome days spent at the hospital, whether all those spasms of nausea and all that exhaustion has all been worth it.

“Take care,” I said, and I thought of her face, her eyes, and that dazzling, natural smile of hers that I had captured in a shot just after the doctor told her she could go home again. How I wish I could see her so happy, see her be so healthy. How I wish I could see her.