Surprise

I had to leave that place as soon as the mellow music began to sound in the background. Tears were filling my eyes, and my vision became a watery blur. Wandering around Danshui, I stumbled into the former home of Dr. George Mackay, the humanitarian doctor and Presbyterian priest who established the hospital I was born in. The old artifacts and the little room, which used to be his consultation office, made me emotional, and the music was what pushed it. Merely a few hours after landing in Taiwan, I was crying. Belated tears which I held because I did not want to appear weak, because I did not want to see my mum see me cry.

Three hours earlier I arrived home, put down my suitcase, quickly showered to cleanse myself of the sweat from hauling my belongings up the five flights of stairs. My heart was racing, and I was smiling unexpectedly from the anticipation of seeing mum again. I called her, and as expected, she was at the hospital.

Immediately I sensed something was wrong. It was in her voice. It was so... sad, so... silent. Gone was the energy with which she spoke when we spoke earlier just before I boarded my flight at Incheon. I rushed to meet her at the gates of the hospital. When I saw her, she somehow felt me coming and looked up. With arms outstretched, she beckoned me to come closer. We hugged and I patted her gently on the back, close my eyes momentarily as I savoured that moment of reunion.

There was a sadness on her face. A sadness compounded with disbelief, and perhaps confusion or even fear. The prognosis is not good. There is a 'lump', this time around a lymph gland. The doctor recommends immediate chemo.

"Some things cannot be predicted..."

Eight sessions, with around a two week interval in between each one. Each one lasts around two to three days. And each one takes a week to recover from. Until the next session.

"I've been eating well, sleeping well, and even 'doing it' well. Who would have known?"

The treatment will be more intensive, and the drug will be stronger than before. Hair will fall out. We strolled slowly together. I was close to tears, but clenched my teeth so that the tears would not flood over my eye lids and run down my face. How that moment hurt. How, as those words left her mouth, I felt like a heavy, heavy weight weigh down on my previously flighty and light heart.

"Last year when I stopped the treatment, the effects of the drugs took a long time to go away. And now I have to inject more poison into my body. I will become so tired, so weak..."

Right then, I felt like turning away, running away and crying quietly in the corner where one could see me, where no one could touch me. I knew I could not. I must be strong. I must be there for my mum. But how strong can I be when even now, as I type, I tremble at the thought of my mum under going treatment again? How strong can I be to have to watch her suffer, watch her strength fade from day to day, helplessly watch her feel the immeasurable amount of pain and anxiety that I cannot do anything to take away?

Mum is at work now, for an hour or so longer until she finishes for the week. As I walked to kill time before she finishes work, she accompanied me to the door. I walked slowly away, and turned back to see her stand there in front of her office and look back at me. I gathered the strength to wave at her. And she smiled back. She still stood there, and watching me as I disappeared into the crowd. I turned back again, only to see her, with sunken shoulders and a lowered head, gradually make her way into the office.

Mum, I am home.