Happy new year...

If  we open the window of our heart
[We] will see the beautiful dream of youth
Even if the future is hopeless
It will somehow make the sighs in [our] chest disappear
Beautiful dream of youth, where are you?
Hopefully you are always in our hearts
If we open the window of our heart
[We] will see the beautiful dream of youth...

On the TV sparks and flashes of fireworks exploding over the night sky across the island. I hugged mum tightly, and closed my eyes to savour the passing moments after the clock struck midnight.

I can't recall the last time I spent new year's eve/day with mum at my side. Even though it's quiet at home, and even though mum was almost falling asleep, I am glad I decided not to go into town to see the celebrations live. "I'm so lucky to have you with me this year," she whispered.

The new year has come, and though less than an hour of it has passed, mum was again worrying about things. As she prepared to go to bed, she began to talk of past events and distant memories, began to recall the people and events that made her upset, that make her feels frustrated and angry. Almost everything revolved around money... cold, meaningless money. In fact, a few hours ago, my brother actually called to ask for it, to sponsor him in his future plans, as if mum has not done enough in paying for everything for the wedding. Doesn't have enough and can't afford this and that, he complained. No happy new year, no well wishes. Just called to ask if mum could send him some money.

I'm not sure how to react. A new year has come, yet the problems, the topics of worry and sources of discussion are still the same. But this is life. These are the circumstances. These are the people we have to deal with, whether we like it or not.

I listened to mum's complaints, stroked her back to reassure her, to tell her not to let these trivial things bother her. "A new year has come. Be happy, be healthy, this and every year", I said.

Deep down, there really is nothing else I wish for...

Wedding plans

I met up with mum in Tainan today, in the ancient capital of the island. On the shores of this city brimming with age-old temples, monasteries and relics, the Dutch once settled and built a fort where they began trading with aboriginals in the precious hide of the Formosan Sika Deer. This is a city of history, but also has recently been named by the Wall Street Journal as capital of culinary delights.

The main reason to come here is to get a tailor-made suit for me to wear to the upcoming wedding. My sister-in-law has many close friends in the fashion industry here, and she recommended I make a special trip to get myself measured and suited up. Even if it means travelling to the south of the country, the good deal and expertise, I was told, is worth the trip.

We got to the tailor store, and a lovely older man took out a measuring tape and started to note down my dimensions. "You have a really nice build, perfect for making a suit", he said, as he took out all sorts of fancy fabric and donned them on me. I looked at myself in the mirror, admired myself a little, and smiled when I noticed how good I actually looked (something I rarely do). With mum's help and advice from the tailor, I picked a blue-black fabric with stripes, a beautiful pinkish striped tie, and two colours for two tailor made long-sleeve shirts, light grey and light purple. As I left the tailor's, I was excited at what I will receive in the mail in two week's time when finished product wiil be mailed to my home.

Later, mum and I went to the department store to pick out new bedding for the newly weds, to be used on their 'first' night together at our home. Money aside, mum appeared so happy as we went about shopping for the new couple, and she had maticulously been planning how to set up the 'wedding room' for that special day. "We have to make it very special..." she said.

I looked at her, and deep down felt warm and comforted to see her smile and so happy. It is all so beautiful, so magical, so memorable. The coming together of two people, the joy and celebration, the hopes and well-wishes of so many people in the background. What could be more joyous than this?

While I feel warm and happy to be part of it all, to be involved in the wedding plans for my own brother, I cannot hide feelings of being envious. I'm not going to say it out loud, for I don't want to ruin the atmosphere and make it about 'me' and about my feelings... but I do wonder more and more as that big day approaches, when and whether I can one day also experience the same, not for someone else's big day and life-long commitment, but for my own. I would love to plan, to think of all the little details, fine touches, touching little words and speeches, express all the gratitude and love to all the people in my life...  But it's not the time. Not yet. Not ever?

Perhaps wallowing in self-sorrow, I imagine myself at the wedding, smiling, celebrating and toasting the new couple... but deep down, feeling kind of lonely that there will be no-one by my side.

 But that's just the way it is, I guess...

Short retreat

(Sitting in a loud internet cafe, with lots of gamers players their games and listening to loud pop music... so my thoughts might not be so conherent...)

Outside the window, there rows and rows of banana trees, rice paddies and flower fields. Rural Taiwan has a charm that is warming to the heart, and that makes me feel calm and at home.

The last two days I left Taipei and headed down to the monastery in Puli for a short retreat. Partly, I wanted to get away a bit, have some time to think things through. Partly, I wanted to give mum some time and space, as she wanted to deal with some issues that she could better deal if I were not around. When I call her to check up on her, she jokes that she feels so much freer without me around and scrutinising everything that she does!

However troubled I feel or I am, I always seem able to find myself at the monastery. The surrounding mountains, the view, the quiet setting brings me to this moment, away from worries and myriad of proliferating thoughts and anxieties in my mind. And the Hawaiian monk who lives there, has for years been my spiritual guide, my confidante and like a father-figure.

It was only two days, but I spent some of the time meditating. Even though I try to meditate at home, there are always many distractions and disturbances, wheras at the monastery, perhaps the serenity of the place and ths gaze of many Buddha statues prompt me to practice more diligently than if I were any where else. Other than meditating, I spent time doing some light translation work, sweeping the floors and cleaning
Outside, there is a golden statue of the Buddha, and for a number of years, I've been responsible for washing and cleaning the Buddha. They say whoever cleans a Buddha statue will receive great merit... to me, it is something I thoroughly enjoy doing, like a ritual cleansing. As I scrub away the moss, bird faeces and stains of nature from the Buddha's body, I feel like I'm cleansing some of entanglements and attachments of my mind...

At night, I would spend hours talking to the monk, about Buddhist practice, about Dharma, about life. I poured out my feelings, feelings that have been accumulating throuhgout the last few months, if not years. Torn, I said I feel, between my duties as a child, and my duties to myself. I guess I put a lot of pressure on myself, and am always trying to please others, trying to make others happy. But all the while, I often forget about myself.

"Whatever will happen will happen..." I can stay around, thinking I could make a difference to mum's life by keeping her company... but I am growing older, and have to decide for myself what I want to do with my life. I could live for someone else, live to please and live to make someone happy... but ultimately I am only able to make myself happy, if I choose to.

"Is it selfish to want to be happy?" No, it's not. All any one ever wants is to be happy. It is very human. Happiness is all we ever seek in life, and the Buddhist practice is all about life lived in peace and happiness, away from worry and suffering.

"But being happy, does it mean you don't care about other people's happiness?" Being happy doesn't mean that you don't care about other . You can be happy, and you can wish other people to be happy. But you cannot make someone happy. "You're already doing the best you can," the monk reminded me, "You've done so much to care for your mother, and I'm sure she knows it..." Hearing that, I felt a tear burst...

I do try... I do try to juggle between my own life elsewhere, and being there for her whenever I can. I often question myself whether my phone calls, my little postcards and gift packages, my surprise visits are ever enough. I do ask myself often whether I am loving and caring enough, and whether she feels it... but really, if I look back, if I think back at all the things I've done or tried to do to make her feel cared for, I have only ever done what I could in the circumstances, nothing more, but also nothing less. And that is apparently enough. And I think I can be proud that even though I'm already grown-up and live so far away from her, she is still so close to me and  so close to my heart.

Sometimes in life, we have to be a little 'selfish'. Selfish not in the sense that everything is about me, about what I want, about getting what I want, and having no regard for the feelings or wellbeing of others. 'Selfish' as in you have to think about your own life, your own future and make plans accordingly.

It is not wrong to want to do something with your life... it is not wrong to want to find love and settle down one day... and it is not wrong to be away from your parent, especially when you've already reached a certain age. Doing all those things, whether at the same time, or one by one, does not mean that I have to forsake my mum. And I think I know myself that I am not someone who can just turn away and forget about my mum, for she will always be on my mind, for she is my mum, and I love and care about her.

I guess for a long time, I thought to myself and imagined that I needed to give up everything I have going well just to be with her until the day she passes away... But she wouldn't want that. And I definitely would not be happy in the long run.

 "You need to take care of yourself well before you can take care of others..."

Time to take care of myself...

Exhausted

"You look so frail," my cousin said, "So different from last time I saw you." Which was just over six months ago. I'm not sure if it was the jetlag, which seem to be especially acute in the afternoon (which is way past midnight Montreal time). But I do feel tired, frustrated and agitated for some reason, and have been feeling this way ever since I got back to Taiwan.

It's probably a combination of factors. Dealing with mum's illness face-to-face takes a heavy strain on me and my mind, even if I don't do much during the day. And the heavy conversations we've been having also is very strenuous. All the while, I'm kind of on the edge, wondering what's happening, if anything, between me and my friend, who I miss and think of often, but at the same time feel wrong to feel that way, especially given the uncertainties and unknowns. In short, my mind is in flux, driven and weighed down  by a mix of up and down emotions, tiredness, worry and stress, and it is all really tiring me.

And this tiredness, this agitation I am beginning to feel physically too. My skin itches and the red rashes are coming back (seems to happen every time I'm in Taiwan, possibly due to the sudden change of climate...). I feel my stomach is becoming more and more upset, and my appetite is also down too. Some meals I just don't feel like eating much, if anything, and I feel kind of moody too. Last time I weighed myself, I actually am now a kilogram or two lighter than my mum, which is worrying (but good for her, since she hasn't lost too much weight since her treatment!)

Time to slow down, take a deep breath, take a break, and recuperate...

Dear friend

I have this friend I've only met twice in my life, but she and I seem to connect on so many levels. For one thing, she is seven days younger than me, so she's a Pisces, a dreamer, an idealist, a leftist, and a jurist-in-training. But most importantly, she and I share similar experiences, fears and traumas of living with a parent with cancer.

I've only met her twice in her life, once at an event, where we only spoke briefly. The second was  earlier this year, when I made a special day trip to just go see her. But we've mailed one another back and forth at regular intervals, and almost always the main topic of our messages is about how our mums are doing.

I look forward to her messages, and read them as if they were written about my feelings, about my dilemmas and insecurities. She writes about how torn she feels having to juggle her professional life and studies with taking care and being there for her mum. I write about my mum's latest chemo treatment, and the heart-wrenching side-effects it has on her, and how helpless I often feel seeing her suffer and in pain. She writes about how it pains her to see her mum so weakened and so changed physically and mentally by the illness. I write about my frightening nightmares, my fears of receiving that phone call one day that may be the last...

Sometimes her messages brings me to tears, and perhaps my words have the same effect on her. At other times she makes me smile and feel warm inside, because she cares about my wellbeing, and about my mum, who she's never even seen before. And I care about her wellbeing, and her mum's health too, for for some reason, reading about her mum's trials and setbacks makes my heart ache, even though I do not know her personally. More than once I have been tempted to write a little card to her mum, to show her support, to tell her to hang on there and not to give up on herself. And last time I saw my friend, my mum actually had a gift to give to her mum-- a bottle of propolis, which works wonders and alleviates pain for patients receiving chemo.

Even though we do rarely meet or see one another, when I read her messages, I am filled with such gratitude, with such a sense of inspiration and encouragement. Perhaps because she manages to strike a deep chord within me, and she lets me know that I am not alone in what I feel, in what I experience.

It is comforting to know that despite the distance and many degrees of separation, despite only have met twice in our lives, we can relate to one another in so many ways.

Taiwan Teddy

I wanted to buy it myself to add to my collection. A special edition, German-made white teddy bear to commemorate the 100^th anniversary of ‘Taiwan’ (actually, of the Republic of China…).

A few days ago, I had seen it on sale at the store next to my house, and today was the last opportunity to buy it. After lunch, mum and I went for a walk, and I actually wanted to sneak up to the store to get that teddy, somewhat embarrassed that I, a big boy already, was buying a teddy. 

Mum said she wanted to come along too, and in fact she wasn't all that surprised about me wanting to buy a teddy, seeing as I have a collection at home. Every time I travel, I have a soft toy with me, and she knows that. 

I took a good look at the soft toy, but hesitated a little because of the price. It does look and feel very nice, the fabric is so soft, and really there is a difference exactly because it's made in Germany. I decided to buy it, but mum beat me to the cashier. 

"It's from me to you," she said, "You can take it home, hold it in your sleep when I'm not around". I wasn't sure whether she meant when she's not close by, or whether she meant something else. But I was moved, and will treasure this teddy bear for ever and ever.

When she got home, she asked if she could have a hug. With the teddy, she meant. I gave the soft toy to her, and watched her caress the bear like she would a child. For a few moments, she leaned in close and closed her eyes. What a beautiful moment that was.

The Taiwan Teddy is number 136 of 200 in the world. And through my mum's caress and embrace, this special edition teddy just became even more special.

Talk

"This caring heart of mine... I cannot just switch it off like that..." I put my hand on mum's back, gave her a few gentle pats, and put my arm on her shoulder. I hugged her tightly, and turned away, temporarily not wanting to see her, to look into her eyes, because I knew that it would too much. I was so close to crying there and then in the park. The stream of hot spring from the mountains whispered and cried as it flowed quietly by. Warm, white mist rose from the rock bed into the cold, cold morning air.

A little hike after breakfast somehow turned into an emotional discussion. I can't recall exactly how it all began. I think I was telling her about my life and my friends in Montreal, in a way, to reassure her that I am happy where I am, and to let her know that she has nothing to worry about. Because if there is one thing she does, it is to worry about me and my wellbeing.

I think she felt that she was imposing on my life, and that I was giving up all that just to be with her. She felt bad, having to impose herself on me and on my brother, felt guilty that she is ill and that she is making us worry. "It would be so much easier if I were...."

I did not let her finish. What silliness! What nonsense! What a thing to think! How could she even think or believe that? "This is my life, and I made a choice to be with you now. I'm not making big sacrifices, it's what I want to do, it's what I can do, because I have the freedom to travel and I have no obligations at this stage of my life..."

This is the conversation I've been wanting to have with her for a long time, yet at that moment I felt tongue-tied and lost for words to describe how I felt, or what I really wanted to say. I've been wanting to tell her how I feel, and I want her to know that if I had a choice, I would not do things differently. "It's the bond between a mother and a child. I am doing what I can to be with you, to support you, because I want you to be happy, I want you to take care of your health and get better..."

Such difficult words to say, and for a long time I've been wanting to say them to mum, but never had a chance. And these thoughts have been bubbling inside of me, waiting to come out, because I'm not sure who I can talk to and who can understand what I'm going through... Maybe I should have been more tactful, been more careful what I say, and be more sensitive to her feelings when I tell her how torn I often feel between leading my own life and wanting to make sure that she is alright. Because I know, I know deep down, every mother wishes their children to fare well, to succeed in life and to have a stable career and a stable, comfortable life. And  I know that she would want nothing less for me. But I also know that she cannot shake away the feeling that her illness and her condition has dragged my life, and my brother's life, down.

"I really want you to be happy. I want you to take good care of yourself, and to promise to be strong, to not be afraid..." Such difficult words to say, yet there is nothing more heartfelt or moving. Overwhelmed by emotions, suppressing my tears, I could almost not breathe. Deep down inside, I myself am afraid... I am afraid that she feels much mental anguish, much physical discomfort because of her condition, and she does not need to also feel responsible that she is weighing down on my life or my future. The last thing I ever wanted was to add more stress and more frustration to her life.

Maybe I'm becoming obsessive about her health and her wellbeing... maybe I'm too attached and I care much too much about her wellbeing, and am forsaking my own. The sleepless nights, all those days and nights thinking, crying, worrying... The dramatic loss of weight in the last two months.
If only she knew, but I cannot let her know.

"I'll be fine," she said, "I'll be strong, and I know I have a number of years still."

"That's what I want so hear". It is really what I want to hear, perhaps for selfish reasons so I can tell and justify to myself that it is alright for me to leave one day and not look back. But it is really what I want to hear, because I want her to tell herself, to believe herself that there is hope yet. Hope in the face of hopelessness...

What is love...?

Love is... many, many things. And somehow tonight, there was a scene that made me suddenly realise what love really is.

As mum was getting ready for bed, I handed her a gift I had gotten her before leaving Montreal. She has always loved lavender, the flower and the colour, as well as its soothing, calming scent which makes her sleep more peacefully and rest better at night. So I picked up a big box of lotions, scented oil and cream made of the purple flower. As she sat on her bed and opened the box, she was filled with such joy.

"Thank you," she said, "You're always so thoughtful. And you really shouldn't have spent so much on gifts..." But I wanted to buy the gift, and many other things, for her, because I knew she would enjoy it, and benefit greatly from it.

And that is love... knowing what someone likes or needs, and going to lengths to give that to someone, because you want to, because you know it will make the person happy, because you know that it will make you happy knowing the other person will derive joy from your act of giving. That is love.

I always thought I never understood love, and that I am incapable of giving or showing love. But, really,  love is... putting a blanket over someone, because you are afraid that the person will feel cold... putting little pieces of fish and vegetables on someone else's plate, because you want them to eat well and get a balanced and healthy diet... Love is... pouring someone a cup of water, regardless of if the person is thirsty or not... it is worrying because someone is suddenly having a bout of coughing. And yes, love is even asking whether the person has gone to the bathroom that day, and how much came out...!

Love is many things, and it involves care, giving and affection. Care for care's sake, giving without wanting any thing in return, and affection that comes from the heart, and that finds its source in the warmth, kindness and compassion of the human soul. Love is... calling every (other) day (and sometimes every night) to make sure the other person feels your concern for their well-being... writing and leaving someone little cards and notes to make them feel special... Love is travelling great distances to see someone, because you want to spend time with them, because you want to make them feel less lonely, even if it is only for a little while.

Love is wondering if the person sleeps well at night, and asking how they are feeling or if they are troubled by anything. Love is sitting there and listening, offering support and a soft pat on the back, or gently  stroking the other person's hand to let them know you are here for them and that you care.

Love can touch others, but it can also touch yourself, sometimes in ways that can move others and even yourself to tears. Little acts, which may appear so meaningless, little words and thoughts, which may be invisible to others, suddenly have so much meaning, suddenly becomes all too clear and all too natural. That is love... an irresistible force of emotion, that is so difficult to describe, so hard to pinpoint, exactly because it manifests itself in so many different way, at so many different times, and toward so many people.

Love just is.

Selfishness?

Mum left early in the morning for a massage session. It's a routine of hers, especially just after a session of chemo, to help get rid of the toxic mix of drugs quicker. And it seems to help, as every time she comes back from the massage, she looks and feels fresher and less tired.

So I was left alone with the morning to think and meditate. It's only the second full day here, yet it somehow feels so much longer. I do want to be here with mum, but at the same time, more and more, I feel I have an obligation to myself to continue my life in Canada, or at least finish off the studies I began two years ago.

Is it selfish to feel this way? Is it selfish to want to be happy, to want to be in a place where I have dear friends, a loving cat, and a comfortable home surrounded by my personal things? Or should I think of mum and stay with her for as long as it takes, till she recovers (if she ever)? There is no real answer...

Mum and I talked about this, and we talked about this even just yesterday. Of course, her first reaction was that I should get on with my life, start pursuing (or at least, beginning!) a career and settle down. All children have to leave home when they grow up.  Don't worry about her, she would say, but somehow I always detect a hint of sadness in her voice.

I try... I really try to be with her as much as I can. Looking back, in the last two years, I've been back and forth between Taiwan and Canada at least five times. And a number of times I've been to see mum whenever she's in Europe. I treasure every encounter, value every moment I spend with her (sure, sometimes there are tensions and frustrations when you're with your mum too long...), and I don't regret putting my life and studies on hold to be with her. It's what I can do, and what I feel is right to do. As my friend recently put it, mum is "number one". But is it enough what I do? Is anything ever enough at all?

Yet, more and more, I feel I cannot keep this up. "I'm almost 27," as I told her the other day, "And I can't continue living like this..." She agreed with me, even though she can still vividly recall the days when I was just a little baby, how she used to wrap her arms around me little body, and how I used to sleep so soundly in her embrace. I have grown up now, and I have my own life to lead, my freedoms, and my own happiness to pursue...

But why is it that  I cannot shake away the thought or possibility that she might have to bear suffering and pain all by herself?  If I could remove or share just a tiny part of her pain and suffering, does that alone not outweigh me being in a setting, in a place surrounded by my own comforts and friends?

Perhaps I care too much, perhaps I think too much how other people may feel, especially if the person is my own dear mother. Losing my dad and not having been on the best of terms in that last year of his life probably made me realise I could and maybe I should do things differently with mum...

But deep down, I know I really can't just fly around the world all the time. I may be able to do it now, because I have no real obligations as a student, but one day I'll have to get a job, and I cannot afford to just fly off at a moment's whim and spend weeks or months on end away. But why do I feel selfish to think this way? Why is it that I cannot bear to think of mum alone here, or imagine if she suddenly falls terribly ill, or worse...?

There is an ancient saying here which sort of sums up my predicament: "the tree wishes to be still, yet the wind does not stop [blowing], the child wishes to take care [of the parent] yet the parent does not wait". (樹欲靜而風不止，子欲養而親不待). Growing up, our parents are like trees that tirelessly shelter us from the ceaseless winds. They may want to rest, but they cannot. Having grown up, the child may wish to take care of the parents, but the parents are often no longer there. They may want to provide comfort, warmth and affection to the parents, but they have already departed...

I'm no where closer to finding an answer, and I'm no where closer to deciding what I want... And all the time I'm torn between wanting to be happy, wanting to make other people, and wondering whether I'm not being too selfish through it all...

Missing...

It's been a long time since I felt this way about anyone, if ever...
And I'm not even sure if I should be feeling this way at all, because in the end it may just be in vain, and end in heartbreak and hurt.

But ever since I left Montreal, I've been missing my friend a lot (I miss other things too, like my cat...). I think of him, wonder what he's doing, where he may be now. It's not constant obsession, but still thoughts of him and imaginings of his face and presence sometimes creep into my mind from nowhere. We've really spent almost every moment together in the run up to me leaving. Intensity and intimacy of that degree is hard to let go, really. really hard. And last night, before falling asleep, I found myself counting down the days till we see one another again. I imagined him lying right next to me in the same room...

It's all a bit too much. I really must distract myself more...

Early to bed

I had wanted to spend the night talking and catching up with her, but she looked tired. With every passing moment, she looked as if she could just collapse from tiredness. As I was showing her pictures of my life and friends in Montreal, I could feel her eye lids closing.

"I'm sorry," mum said, "I'm so tired... Today is the first day, and tomorrow I'll feel better." The first day after the treatment, the drugs are starting to work, starting to give off side-effects. Starting to kill off those bad cells, and also to kill off those precious anti-bodies and white blood cells which sustain a person's immune system and vitality.

She got into bed, barely past nine in the evening, Christmas Eve. Not that Christmas or such holidays ever mean much to me, but still, it would be nice to stay up and talk and bond a little more. She lay down, pulled the covers over her shoulders, and leaned to one side.

I gave her a tight hug. "Don't worry, you just sleep well. We can talk whenever."

Christmas Eve

I felt nauseous at the hospital. Even with all that bright decoration, even with all the brights lights, all the Christmas trees, poinsettas and roses, you cannot dim let alone hide the dreariness and sterile smell of a hospital ward. It may be Christmas Eve, but for many people here, it is another day of treatment, of hoping for a miracle, of prayers, and at times, of despair.

 I walked in with mum at my side, imagined all those times she had to come here alone by her self, imagined how much courage she had and still has to muster to face all the nurses, needles, and the hapless faces, sighs and cries of fellow patients. With one agile movement, the nurse removed her needle, and off came the tubes that wrapped around her shoulder and the pouch that clung onto her waist like the ball and chain of an involuntary prisoner. At least for now.

As we walked slowly home, the wind started to blow, and dark clouds were forming. The weather was changing, and a cold front is descending on the island. The banks of the little creek I used to play and run around on as a little child was overgrown with weed grass. Beautiful birds would suddenly leap into view from nowhere, and twitter elegantly.

"I have no real regrets in my life," she suddenly said, "There is really nothing much that weighs me down, too much." She recounted how lucky she feels she is, to not to have to worry about life, about getting by. She said she's traveled the world and lived abroad, all thanks to dad. She is free to do what she wants, can go out and buy what she needs. And the children are all grown up, and are more or less on track, so she's fulfilled her duty as a mother. "One regret I have is my health. I have a lot, but I don't have my health..."

I held and squeezed her hand, and reassured her that if she continues the treatment, she'll have her health back. But then, deep down inside, even I was unsure. I felt I was perhaps lying, to myself, to her... even though I hope for the best, even though friends always comfort me by telling me to think positive.

In the short period of time since I arrived yesterday morning, we have already had various exchanges about her retirement plans, and about where she sees herself. We've talked frankly about  death, about leaving, about the future, about where she wants to be, how her affairs should be taken care of. These are never easy topic to broach, yet at some stage in a parent and child's relationship it has to be dealt with. Better sooner, rather than later, or perhaps it might be too late.

I just listen with an open mind. I know mum is prepared, or at least, she has already made arrangements, and I'd like to hear it from her face to face. It is never an easy topic of discussion, and made even more difficult and impersonal over the phone.

She looked calm, and our footsteps were in sync as we walked. "Brother is getting married, and he's starting a family of his own. I'm just worried about you."

"What are you worried about?" I said, even though I knew what exactly. We've had various discussions on the issue of my homosexuality, but she still cannot let it go. She still tells me how much she wants me to "find a good shelter", which is a very gender neutral euphemism for finding a partner and getting settled.

"I'm worried about your relationship. About the strange relationship you have with your friend..."

I'm not even sure if what my friend and I can be termed a "relationship", but those are just details. Various times in the last two days, she's asked me about my friend, asked about what he does, and about why he is travelling all the way across the world to see me again. Some questions I cannot answer myself. But mum has seen the big teddy bear that my friend gave me last year, and even given the bear a few strokes on his big, huggable belly. At the same time, somehow she seems very interested to know what I plan to do with him once he arrives, at times mum even offered suggestions of places to go, places to eat. She even recently asked whether my friend "takes care of me well", which I found bizarre.

"Please don't worry about me or my life. I am happy with who I am, and I want you to be happy too."

She looked at me, and then looked away. Momentarily there was a hint of sadness and disappointment. She looked at me again, and that hint of sadness and disappointment was gone, or was perhaps suppressed. "It's your choice..."

"And I'm happy with it, mum," I said.

At the restaurant

At lunch mum and I went to a traditional Taiwanese eatery. It's what she felt like eating, and in the few days during and after chemo, if she feels like eating and if she can eat, then that's the most important thing.

We ordered a few simple dishes. Boiled sweet potatoes leaves with soy sauce and garlic, seasoned tofu skin, Chinese cabbage with fish skin, two little fish with lots of meat, a bowl of meatball soup and rice noodle soup for me.

Soon after we sat down, an elderly woman came in and sat down at the table right next to ours. She had white hair, a face graced with wrinkles, and held a walking stick, and she was with (what I think was) her daughter. They said very little, only the bare essential while ordering food. Once the waiter took the order and left, the daughter (I'm guessing) took out a smart phone and began playing with it.

Mum and I ate, and we exchanged quiet conversation and laughs about this and that. At times I'd tell her to eat this, eat more of that, because it's good for her, and I'd move the plates around so that she'd get a taste of everything, fearing that she might not get enough.

I felt the elderly woman watching us as we ate, as we spoke. It was not an uncomfortable gaze, for a few times our eyes met, and she seemed to want to say something to me. She fidgeted with her hands, while her daughter (I'm guessing) looked down and fingered her smartphone. I felt somewhat bad for the elderly woman, who seemed so much want to talk, want some company, but then her daughter (I'm guessing) was more interested in the phone than in her. She seemed to be looked over at my mum and I and watching us eat and engage in conversation with envy.

Getting up ready to leave the restaurant, I turned to say goodbye to the elderly woman. She just nodded and smiled.

Hair

The more I swept the floor, the more hair seemed to appear. Some many fine strands of mum's black hair, which appear especially visible on the polished white marble floor. The more I could sweep away the hair, the less mum will feel bad when she sees her own hair all over the place.

At breakfast, she questioned again whether she should appear at brother's wedding, as she's not sure how much hair she would have left in a month's time. Maybe it's the side effects talking...

"I'll go and shave if need be," I said. I had promised to do this before, last time when she did chemo, so mum would feel better about herself. It's just... hair! And I've always wondered how I would look with a shaven head, partly because I sometimes can picture myself living the live of a monk.

"Did you and your brother make a pact?" she asked. And it was then I realised that brother also said he'd shave his hair  if mum lost hers. He would do it, even if it's his wedding day. "How can he do that on his wedding day when he's the star of the event?"

I smiled. "People don't get married for the hair. People don't love a person because of the hair," I said. At least I should hope so. Hair is just strands of dead tissue. Sure, I sometimes do wonder if my hair looks good, and sure having well styled hair does make me feel better about myself. And if I woke up with a bad hair, I would tend to feel ugly and low.

But really... it's just hair!

Truth

We sat down at a snack joint, enjoying a healthy, light snack of green bean soup with barley.

"I feel so happy today," she said. On the phone earlier, she joked with my uncle that ever since I arrived, her illness has been half cured. She did look well, and has been smiling almost non-stop. At the market, hawkers and vendors she knew well would compliment her on walking next to such a dashing young man, making me blush.

I did not start the conversation, but she began and told me the truth. "It's spread," she said, "To the lungs". Two and a half centimetres, left lung. The lung is close to the origin of the cancer, the colon, so there was always a risk. And there was a period of time mum would cough for weeks on end. That may have been a sign already that something was wrong. It's under control, and the doctor said the spreading is containable with the latest chemo therapy. Containable, but for how long...? And what if it aggravates, and rapidly spreads...?

"I know. I saw it on the doctor's note." I looked away temporarily to shut away the sadness that was threatening to bubble up once again, and was reminded of that night I spent crying when I heard the news. Apparently, mum had told brother the news in an attempt to discourage him from smoking. And he in turn told me the news through an email. Brother had spent a few nights lying awake, with his phone by the pillow, just in case he gets a call at night. He said he had many nightmares with mum in them...

"I'll be alright," she said with a smile. What else would a mother say to a child? "I'm prepared for it." Earlier, she told me that she was planning to draft her will one of these days, but then I suddenly decided to come home early, so she has to make the time to do it.

As we walked home, I put my arm around her, and every now and then, I put my palm against her back, right where the left lung is. If only I had magical healing hands that could absorb the cancer through my palm...

I'm not sure what I'm feeling now, if anything. The jetlag is kicking in, and I just feel like lying down to sleep. And the joy of reunion is probably numbing any feelings of remorse or hurt. But now I know the truth and reality for a fact, and must learn to deal with it all.

Finally home

I rang the doorbell twice before opening the door with my set of keys. To my disappointment, mum was not home, and the great long greeting had to be postponed a bit because she had gone out for breakfast and for groceries.

I walked around the house for a bit, looking and touching things that seemed so familiar, and that each seemed to bear a story. The lavender scented shower gel I had bought last time just before I left, the bear mum bought for me on our last trip to Eastern Taiwan (but which I had left behind to keep her company...), the little pots of plants that I had nurtured back to health after they had suffered draught and wilted after the move last year... On mum's pillow were a few strands of fallen hair, which I caressed, gathered and threw away.

I heard the door open, and I sneaked behind it in preparation for the surprise. The door opened, and she was bent down collecting her grocery bag. "Wh...?" She was speechless, then from her speechlessness burst out laughter. She began to 'scold' me, in a pleasant way. "Why did you come back suddenly? I thought you were in Seattle. Did you abandon your cousins?" Then she put two and two together, and realised that the broken phone connection last night was from Seattle airport, just prior to boarding.

I did not say much, just opened my arms and hugged her tightly, resting my head on her shoulder, patting her back. "I'm finally home," I said. That moment, a moment I had been waiting for, seemed to last a long, long time. All else went quiet. All thoughts and anxieties went numb. And for a brief, yet precious moment, I was at ease right there in her arms.

She was overjoyed, even though she kept on telling me off for changing my plans and leaving my cousins and aunt behind in Seattle. "They'll be alright," I said, "Being with mum is more important!"

I hugged her many more times after closing the door. In my mind, in my naive and in my fantasy, everytime I hugged her I was passing well wishes and positive energies into her body. I felt her invitro-tube in a pouch around her waist, and I saw the long, thin tube that felt into the artificial node in her arm. Her hair was shorter, she had gotten it cut recently. Shorter, and much grayer than before. But overall, she looked well, and she sounded well. I held her hand, and hoped that she could feel the healing take place...

Bus home

Within 15 minutes of landing and the plane gates opening, I had collected my luggage and was on my way home. Thanks to the new visa-waiver programme, there were no questions asked, and the nice immigration officer stamped ’30 days stay’ in my passport and sent me on my way. My pace was quicker than ever before, and I made it out the terminal before anyone could.

I rushed to the bus to downtown Taipei, anxious of every passing minute. Though there is no ‘deadline’ when I need to get home, because as far as mum knows I’m not going to be home until next week, I felt like there was a clock ticking, and I wanted to be home as quickly as I could.

Unsure why, as the bus travelled toward the city, passing fields of rice and ponds, passing skyscrapers and the scaffolding around the latest construction projects, I became emotional. Emotional, as I thought about that moment of meeting, that moment I’ve been longing and waiting for for so very long.

I’ve cried at goodbyes, but I don’t think I’ve ever cried at a meeting. But now I know it’s possible, even though I’ve not actually met mum yet. In my mind, images of hugging her tightly were projected again and again. I cannot imagine her feelings, her sense of happiness, her surprise (pleasantly I hope…) when she opens that door and that moment she realises who it was and what I’ve been up to all this time. If the happiness of seeing a loved one and the rapture of a reunion could cure, then in my mind how I wish my arrival and my presence can cure her, if only by a little, little bit…

It seems like I’ve gone through a lot, waited a long time for this very moment, and now this moment is about to break. And it’s so beautiful, so very, very beautiful that it moves even me, and makes my heart weak and warm with emotions. After all that effort, after all that planning and consciously keeping it a secret to mum, after all the hurdles and distance in between, I’m so close.

So very close to finally seeing her again…

En route to TPE

Never have I slept so beautifully and so much on a flight, and there are now less than three hours left of this long 13 hour journey across the Pacific. The cabin mood lighting is just gradually coming on, dim and golden at first, to simulate the light and atmosphere during the birth of a new day.

After getting onboard, I was quickly served a good vegetarian meal, and soon after that I wandered off into sleep and dreamland. I remember a few moments of feeling the plane shake from turbulence, of admiring the reflections of little stars and moonlight on the metal on the wing outside my little window, and opening my eyes to see the flight attendants come by with drinks and snacks…

The vibrations of the engine, the ever constant hum of the fuselage all faded into the background. Even the guy next to me, with the glare of his laptop on almost the entire time, did not bother me as much as I thought (maybe I’m bothering him now, as he’s asleep, and I’m using my laptop…). Though, like often when I sleep, at times thoughts and voices echoed inside my head as I slept.

Some thoughts were filled with anxiety, I can recall, some were filled with fears, some were laden with expectations and longings, some were thoughts of guilt and frustration. Though, like often when I have flashbacks and snapshots of intense feelings and moments in that dream-like state of mind, I don’t and can’t recall what exactly flows through my mind. All these thoughts and flashbacks seem to flow like a fast moving river and quickly fade away into the abyss.

One thought that did stick with me though, and it is a thought seems to trouble me nowadays more than ever, especially flying across a vast ocean, is a nagging fear of something going terribly wrong with the plane. My mind seems at times to momentarily dwell imaginations of something grim happening, like a piece of crucial bolt coming off, or the engine falling apart (recent accidents in the air do not may be the cause of these grim imaginations…) And reading The Life of Pi, the epic story about the survival of a boy stranded on a lifeboat in the vast Pacific, has probably left me somewhat paranoid of something going horribly awry…

Another sort of dream (or perhaps more like a thought during sleep than dream) is the moment of meeting mum again after almost six months of separation. I can picture her face, her hair, her body, and her smell, but that image of her is more likely to be outdated and a figment of my fantasy and my expectations than anything else. No doubt, the recent chemo treatments will have weakened her, aged her, broken and changed her in many ways… perhaps in ways even my vivid imagination cannot possibly come up with… how do I deal with that? How do I approach her, how do I provide her with the care and comfort that she needs? How do I make her feel like she is not alone, and that she is loved and cared for…?

10973metres above the waters between Japan and Taiwan, 1333km and 2 hours and 6 minutes to go still. Almost there…

Meeting in Seattle

Before deciding to suddenly head home from Seattle, I had originally planned to meet my relatives in Seattle and spend two days with them in the Emerald City. I planned to take them around a bit, perhaps go to the wonderful Boeing museum just outside of time, and to share with them the wonders of fresh seafood the city is famous for. After this, I was supposed to go back to Vancouver, and “bring them” Christmas.

But all this changed when I heard about mum’s latest health condition. And without dwelling too much on it, I bought a ticket straight out of Seattle to Taipei. Though, I felt terrible having to abandon my relatives, and I apologised many times. I felt

Like I was letting my cousins down, especially as they seem to enjoy spending time with me, and enjoy my company. They actually told me that they were looking forward to long nights playing Risk, but now they have to make do without…

We did meet in Seattle as planned, and in the few hours we spent together, I showed them a bit around down. Down to the harbour front we went, and enjoyed a sumptuous meal of crabs, clams and mussels at a restaurant I had previously gone to by myself. Food indeed does taste better when shared. After that, we took a long walk around the market place area, and along the busy shopping areas that were decked with colourful Christmas lighting and decorations. 

At the hotel, just before I was about to leave, we exchanged gifts. For my cousins and auntie I had prepared a few small gifts, which made them very happy. A painting of a typical streetscape in Montreal by a local artist, a Times world atlas, and a few momentos of Seattle’s Mariners baseball team, since my cousins are really into the game. And I wrote a card, wishing them all the best settling down in Canada, and telling them to enjoy the spirit of Christmas—even though my sudden change of plans means I will no longer be able to spend the holidays with them.

My cousins gave me a gift together, beautifully wrapped with purple paper. It was a black, leather wallet, with a unique tattoo-like pattern of red roses and guns. “It’s special, because no one else has anything like it,” my cousin said.

Then my auntie took out a piece of paper and handed it too me. “This is for you,” she said, “Please keep it.”

“This is too much,” I said after seeing the cheque that I was given. “I really cannot take this…” But my aunt insisted, and pushed the piece of paper back into my hand again.

I never expected it, and what you least or never expect surprises you the most.

My aunt pushed the cheque back into my hand, and said: “You’ve done so much for us. You’ve really taken care of your cousin over the past year, and made so many trips to go see him…”

But I did just what I thought I could, just as any one else who cared would under the circumstances. I mean how much of an effort is it to go see a child who is living alone and who has just moved to a completely foreign land? I know what it is like to live alone at such a young age, because I’ve gone through it… How much effort does it take to once in a while call or write to encourage someone who is down and feeling he is falling behind in school because of language problems? Any support, any help, even if it’s from a distance, I’m sure can do wonders for a teen with low self-esteem…

And all the trips I’ve taken him on… I was going anyways, and having some company really did not make much of a difference, but in fact made it all the merrier. And I really wanted my cousin to get out more, to see more of the world, and to realise that his new adoptive homeland is a wonderful place with lots to offer, so that he’d settle down and feel more at home here.

“Your uncle and I want you to take this,” my auntie said, “You’ve done a lot for us…”

“I really cannot take this…” I said, even though I knew I could not get away without taking it. All that money can be used to fund my cousins living costs, go toward their tuition fees, go toward their education. I really did not deserve this.

After a lot of pushing back and forth, I relented, and put the cheque away. I put it inside a leather wallet that my cousins had just given me as a Christmas gift. But inside I thought of a way to ‘dispose’ of cheque, discreetly and sneakily. A cheque never cashed is a cheque never written, correct?

Waiting at SEA

Another long wait, another plane, another long, long flight. Weighed down by fatigue and racingthoughts, I am on the floor at Seattle Tacoma International as I write this. The day has been a blur, a rush, a frenzy of running around and killing time till this moment. Time to board the plane home to Taipei…

I called mum, but her voice was interrupted, muffled and broken due to the poor internet connection. It was frustrating trying to decipher what she was saying, especially as I wanted to know how she was feeling after having spent the morning at the hospital receiving her latest bout of chemo.

I wish I could be there right now, I wish I could will myself and jump through time and space just to be there right now. To hold her hand, to pat her on her back, and to whisper in her ears that it’ll all be alright—even if it is not.

“Go to sleep already,” mum kept on saying, “It’s already midnight! Why aren’t you in bed?” I did not say much, but deep down inside I thought of how little sleep mattered compared to her own wellbeing. She would no doubt scold me if she knew and how little sleep I’ve realty been getting.

She said she was feeling anxious about going to the hospital again for treatment. The last session caused half of her hair to fall off already, and she said she was worried that her throat would again be full of sores from the chemo. Believing that I am going to be in the US for a couple of days, she asked me to go to the pharmacy to look for a drug that is supposed to prevent throat sores in patients undergoing chemo.

But little did she know, in the frustrating free internet connection that kept on disconnecting while I talked to her, in the background planes were roaring to take off, and in less than an hour, I would be taking off too. Perhaps the poor Skype connection muffled the sounds of the airport terminal. “Take good care of yourself, mum,” I said quietly, “I’ll be there soon.”

Soon, but she had no idea just how soon. Soon, but I only wished it was soon enough. 

En route to SEA

On a plane again, sitting next to the window, watching the clouds below hurtle by. The last five hours or so since departing from Montreal have been spent in various stages of sleep and semi-awakeness. Almost as soon as I boarded the flight, my lids threatened to shut, even though I was initially excited by seeing how the plane got deiced just prior to take off for the first time.

The tiredness is because of having gone days (actually, nights) of sleep lasting not more than 6 hours. Especially in the last two days (again, actually nights…), having to pack and to mentally prepare myself for the long trip ahead made my mind restless, and also sleepless.

Another reason why I’ve slept little is because for almost every single day in the past week or so, I’ve either spent the night at my friend’s place, or he has spent the night at my place. It seems like we have been inseparable, like we want to see one another, even though sometimes I’m not sure if I’m being too clingy and needy by being constantly around him. And of course when we sleep with one another, there is talking, there is cuddling and whatnot that usually lasts till the early hours, making us both sleep deprived. (Not that this is a complaint…)

Having woken up at 3.30am, I quickly got dressed and made one final check of the two items of luggage, both filled to the brim with gifts and goodies, that I’m hauling back with me. My cat crowded at my feet, at some point dashing to and fro excitedly, or perhaps frustratingly. Somehow I always feel like when I’m leaving to go on a long trip, she knows it, she feels it. In fact, last night, I caught her lying very still on her back inside one of the suitcases, as if posing as a soft toy next to all the souvenirs for the folks back home. I gave her a long, soft stroke, and she began purring. It’ll be a while when I can hear, when I can feel the vibrations of her excitement and love…

It was a brisk and brief goodbye, and surprisingly not as difficult as I had pictured it in my head. Perhaps it helped that my friend did not accompany me all the way to the airport (as I had suspected he might…). Perhaps we were just so overwhelmed by lack of sleep that all feelings, words were somehow numbed. Even so, we hugged one another in the cold, and I gave him a few butterfly kisses on his cheeks, on his neck.

The taxi door closed with a thud, I looked out the window moist with dew and ice, and saw him standing there in the warm, yellow glow of the streetlights. We waved at one another, waved again and again. When the taxi began moving, he began to run after me a little, until I sped away and he could no longer follow.

It seemed like a cliché scene out of a romantic movie of lovers saying goodbye… but then again, it all appeared to be funny and lighthearted than anything else. It helped that we knew we would see one another again in a few weeks time, for a day earlier he had finalised his travel plans to come see me at home.

As the taxi sped toward the airport, as I was beginning my long, long journey home, my thought was with my friend. Thoughts of silent appreciation, thoughts of deep gratitude… thoughts of his face, his touch, his smile, of his scent that seemed to linger in my nostrils. And there were thoughts of the many beautiful moments we shared in the past few weeks, of the massages, the slow dance, the long talks and of the ways we have somehow managed to rekindle our infactuation with one another...

 Even if it is unclear, or has never been spoken outright, what we mean or what we are to one another, knowing that I have someone in my life who cares about me so deeply, is a source of strength and comfort. A gift that I could not imagine asking for… A gift I never imagined I would receive and take and carry with me as I face the uncertain and almost certainly difficult days ahead.

Overwhelmed...

He gave me a gift, one of many he has already given me in the past few weeks. And he gave me a card, hand-written, telling me what special influence I have had on his life, and how he looks forward to “strengthening” the bond that we share together…

Afterwards, we listened to songs together, songs he had on previous occasions sent and dedicated to me. Hearing them again, the songs and words today seem to carry deeper, more heart-felt meanings—meanings I never before heard or deciphered, but which today were able to bring me to tears. We slow danced, and I closed my eyes, as I gently rested my head on his shoulders…

His scent, his warmth, the softness of his stroke on my back, the softness of his voice as he quietly sang along, the tenderness of his body in my armsss... It was all too much, all too overwhelming, all too confusing, for I was unsure how I was supposed to feel…

Partly, I was filled with such warmth deep inside, such fulfilling feelings I have long longed for, but suddenly was washing over me. Partly, I am touched by the fact that I mean so much to him, that he cares so much about me and my wellbeing, that he continues to shower me with affection and gifts...

But I am unsure, under the ambiguous circumstances of where we are at this moment, how I am supposed to receive his overtures. Unsure, yet at the same time, I feel my insides crack and the walls around my heart break down more and more. I feel my breath skip, my heart race, and my face flush... Sensations that have long been suppressed and that I have kept away from are now unexpectedly surfacing stronger, and more intense than ever before...

Having to get on a plane and leave in a day or so does not make it all easier. More and more, as time ticks down toward the moment of departure, I feel I will miss him and his presence next to me dearly...

Goodbyes

Last day here in Montreal for some time to come. I went into the office to say goodbye to my colleagues, to my professor, and to give out holiday cards and gifts. I met a friend for lunch, someone I've not seen for a while, but even in that short period of time we sat together, we reconnected and were both sad that I had to go so abruptly.

Laughing, smiling, chatting and bonding cheerful I may have been, but inside I feel like  I'm leaving behind little pieces of me, and it's difficult to let that go...

Though... let go I must. Let go, turn and walk away. It's that simple.

But it feels strange to know that you don't know when it is you will again step on the same pavements, greet these familiar faces, hug and feel the warmth of dear friends and colleagues, and see the trees that crowd on top of Mount Royal...

Pre-departure anxieties

Two days from now, I'll be on my way, trekking across the world, on my way home.

Now, still at home, I'm packing my suitcase, while my cat plays hide and seek with all the bags, gifts and suitcases that are lying around, sprawled all over the floor. The house looks like a mess, my mind is a confused mess...

I seem to always feel this way the day or so before departing. Most of the time, I more or less know what to pack, when I'll be back, and what to expect. But this time, somehow the trip is filled with so many uncertainties. Not that we ever know or can know what will happen in our lives... but the uncertainty of what awaits me back home frightens me. Frightens me in a way that I cannot explain. All I can say is that I'm restless, I feel disturbed and feel like I'm leaving here with so many things still undone, so many things still unsaid, so many things still unsettled and unresolved...

It's like I'm being uprooted and transplanted again. And thinking of the great distances, the separation, the difference in time zones already makes me feel anxious and nauseous... I don't know how to describe what I'm feeling now, I really don't...

Spent an hour or so writing cards to close friends, wishing them all the best for the new year, but at the same time, expressing my heart-felt gratitude for their support and presence in my life. Once or twice, as I wrote the cards, I was moved close to tears... the last couple of weeks have been a rough ride, but throughout my friends, near and far, have been there to listen, to offer a shoulder to rest on, and I feel my words cannot convey the deep, deep gratitude I feel towards them.

One of the cards I wrote is addressed to myself. It may sound so bizarre, so utterly insane to be writing to myself. But it's not to my self now, but to a future self. Who knows what the next few weeks, months will bring... who knows what emotional and physical frame of mind I will be when I come back to this house, and walk through those doors again... In a way, the card to (future) myself serves to remind me (in the future), that however much time has elapsed, whatever happens to me or to loved and dear ones in my life, I am still here, I am still alive.

And that should be a source of strength and support to myself, even through the most turbulent and uncertain times.

 

Little toys for little people

My friends found it bizarre that I had entered the soft toys section of the store and left with my arm full of lovely, cuddly and colourful creatures of all shapes and sizes.

There was a cute crocodile, measuring almost a metre long, with a cute little lizard in between its jaws (maybe the image doesn't sound very cute, but the toy itself really is...). There was another crocodile, a female one, with what looked like wings on its back and a light blue dress. I grabbed a dog with outstretched arms that was soft to the touch, and so very huggable. And there was a little dog with soft, soft brown fur and little paws...

"Who are they for?" my friends kept on asking. With a small, mischievous smile, I only said that the toys will make some child very happy. Or at least that was the hope.



I quickly proceeded to the check out before my friends could follow, and almost immediately after buying, I put the toys, one by one, into a big transparant box, which I caught my eyes earlier as I walked into the store. As each animal entered the hole at the top of the donation box, I silently wished that the toy would bring a child, wherever s/he may be, much happiness and comfort. In the run-up to Christmas, $1 of every toy purchased is automatically donated by the store to help educate children around the world. And the box, swimming with beautiful and wonderfully colourful animals with infectious smiles and open arms, is a collection for local and international organisations that work with children.

I walked through the store, but didn't really feel the need to buy anything. I have everything I could possibly need, and want. And so much more! But as soon as I glanced at a poster advertising the great cause, I was reminded again that there are so many in the world who have so little... and reminded again what little it takes to give a child the simple, simple pleasure of having a toy to play with, to grow up with.


I grew up with soft animals, and still remember countless nights lying next to one which, despite not being able to speak when spoken to or to hug back when hugged, offered me much consolation and warmth. Even today, I have a modest collection of soft animals, one or two of which occupies space on my bed while I sleep to keep me company. Though the soft toy cannot replace lost parents or take away the pain and trauma of separation from loved ones, the permanent smiles, the softness of the fabric can take anyone to a place of dreams, a place where the world is safe and comfortable. If only temporarily...


I may never see the lit up suprised faces of the children who will receive the toys. I may never know where the toys will find a home, or whether the little creatures will ever be named. But I hope that a little gift will show a child somewhere in the big, big world that there are strangers who think of them, and strangers who care.

Doctor's note

It took a lot of wrangling and caused a stir in my department to get this piece of paper. I need a doctor's note detailing my mum's health condition in order to officially be granted a leave of absence.

Finally today I received it. Before taking it to the proper bureaucracy where this piece of paper containing very personal information will be scrutinised and assessed for whether my circumstances are deserving of a leave, I glanced through it quickly...

"Metastases..."

"suspicious lung..."

"disease progress recently..."

"life support and assistance required..."

Those words struck me, struck so hard and so painfully that I started to tear right here in the office. Thank goodness I was alone, and I quickly breathed deeply and wiped away my tears, wiped away my intense emotions.

I had known about mum's health from what (little?) she tells me. But somehow, seeing it on paper, seeing it through the  official diagnosis by a medical expert, the impact is more profound, more heartfelt.

Perhaps I have been denying my feelings, denying, unconsciousness, how bad her situation is, so I can keep on telling her to be strong, keep her telling little white lies that it'll all be alright...

Perhaps I've been telling myself little white lies too, so I need not grasp or realise the full extent of the situation, even though I know deep down that things are beyond my control, are beyond the aid of silent prayers, and silent thoughts of goodwill and kindness I send to my mum...

Be strong, I tell myself... be strong for mum's sake, for brother's sake, for the sake of everyone around us. But can I tell myself to be strong for my sake?

Voulez-vous une banane?

I got off the bus, after what seemed like a long and grueling journey. The seat was so cramped, and the bus was completely loaded. I had dozed off and slept half of the way, only to wake up close to the border of Ontario and Quebec when the bus unexpected swayed strongly in one direction. The rest of the trip downtown seemed to take forever, and my mind was filled with things I have to do, and of people and faces that seem to appear and disappear with memories of happy moments, but also worries of dark, brooding uncertain times ahead.

The bus terminal is right above the metro station, and there is a flight of stairs leading down to the underground level. Every time I pass through those stairs, there is a homeless person (or two) who stands behind the door and opens it whenever someone is passing through. And today  was no exception.

As I approached, a man in his thirties held the door open for me with one hand, and with the other he had a tattered paper coffee cup for spare change. Whenever I walk pass a homeless person, I am temporarily filled with compassion, but at the same time guilt. I never like to give out spare change, as I fear they may spend it on abusive substances.

I had already passed through the door, but something in me made me turn around. I was reminded that I had a banana in my bag, and without thinking too much, I just took it and asked: "Voulez-vous une banane?" ("Would you like a banana?")

A few times when I offered food to a homeless person, I've been shouted out. But this time, the man instantly flashed a beautiful smile. His face lit up, and his expression was one of gratitude and appreciation. "Merci, merci!" he said, and stretched out a soiled hand to grab the banana from me.
"Merci, merci" he repeated again.

I did not say anything back, except smile back and look at him deeply. For a split moment our eyes met, and I felt warm inside, warm from the joy of such a simple act of kindness, such a simply act of giving. Though I did not say anything, deep down, I said "thank you".

Thank you  for making my day...

Rush to Ottawa

Outside the window is a vast, frozen land, cold to the eyes, yet beautiful and ironically warming in the way it reminds me of a picture-perfect scene of winter. The sky was darkening, yet the white layer that blanketed everything seemed to radiate with a low glow.

I don’t know what prompted me to grab a light backpack, stuff it with a few pieces of clothing, and just board the bus. I cannot explain why, but it somehow just feels like the ‘right’ thing to do, even though I do not know or understand the reason behind it all.

Earlier in the morning, my friend had left to Ottawa for an appointment. Once or twice, he asked if I wanted to come along. I was tempted, but I never gave a firm reply. But almost as soon as he stepped out my door, I went on line and booked tickets for the 3pm bus. I guess I like to put on elaborate little surprises to make special people in my life happy!

And now I’m on that bus, racing on a snow-lined highway towards the city. My mind in a way is racing toward that moment of showing up at his hotel room. He still has no clue, and in my mind I’m thinking about all the ingenious ways of how to surprise him.

It’s crazy, and I cannot explain it. I don’t think I want to see him because I am in need of his consolation and support in light of recent news of mum’s ailing health. I think I want to see him, because he seemed to want to see me… or at least that was the impression I got. And I want to see him also because… I just want to see him, and be with him for however brief a time we can spend together.

Conversation with mum

"Human beings are like this, so fragile. People are like this... With age there is so much misfortune. Just have to accept..."

I know she can become down sometimes. Not so much a symptom of the illness or the treatment, but,  perhaps, a manifestation of facing fear, facing possible death.

"I pull lightly, and already 5, 6 strands of hair come off. And this is only after the first treatment," she said sadly, "Maybe I shouldn't go to the wedding..."

How silly she was being, how self-demeaning! How painful it is to hear that!

 "How can you not be there? You're the mother!" I said gently and firmly, but was in fact frowning and struggling hard to contain the tears. I can only imagine what injured pride and self-esteem made her talk this way, what shame she felt if she were to be in a room full of people, to be the centre of attention, and wonder if people could see her thinning hair or her wig. Earlier she had discussed the symptoms, the broken throat, the hair loss, and complaints that she has been coughing a lot... Coughing... lungs...?

"Sometimes, the illness makes you think in extremes," she admitted.

"Don't think too much," I said, perhaps the only thing I could think of saying, yet I knew deep down that it was not enough. Not enough to show how much I really care, how very much I would like to be right there with her, to hold her and tell her by looking into her eyes not to worry, not to fear-- even if deep down, I do worry, I do fear...

She told me how cold it had suddenly gotten, and I told her to dress warmly, and to wrap herself with that blanket I had recently bought her and shipped to her.

"I do use it. Really, thank you for that," she said.

For some reason, perhaps because of the overly sensitised frame of mind I am in now, that "thank you" lured a tear from the corner of my eye. It was such a special thank you, perhaps in the way she said it, perhaps in the way I heard it. It was a thank you that seemed to strike my core, reverberate and touch my very soul. The soul which so cares, so deeply loves and so deeply wishes all the best for my mum. The blanket, however warm, however much it had cost, can only convey a little part of that care and affection. The "thank you" touched me, because she understood, because she felt my love...

And that was such a blessing, for some reason, a blessing that warmed my heart to know that even though far away, I am trying to make a little difference, and bring a little bit of light into her life....

Immeasurable gratitude

I was tearing so heavily, heaving and sobbing like never before, and how at that moment I so wanted someone to be next to me...

How weak I felt, how weak because I could not control the emotions take over me for such a long time. When I stopped sobbing and just as I was about to go clean up my face, I heard the frozen  creaking of the stairwell leading to my front door. Peeping through the glass, I could just about make out the face of my friend.

I don't know why when I saw him, I became so emotional all over again. Tears that had stopped and began flowing again almost as soon as he came through the door. It was a mixture of gratitude, of being so glad that he rushed through the night to come see me as soon as he read my blog, of knowing that he cares so deeply for me, and at the same time, of feeling guilty that I was again dragging him into the emotional mess of my life, even though he has enough of his own.

I hugged him, felt the sweat on his t-shirt, for he had not even taken the time to change and had immediately rushed out the door to get here as quickly as he could. The journey on the metro took forever, he recalled, as he wanted to be with me, to comfort me, only after reading the first few words of the previous post.

We talked for a little while, about my fears, about how the news reminds me a little too much of dad in those final days of his life. Maybe I am thinking too far ahead, imagining things and letting my frail, tattered state of mind get ahold of my thoughts... Imagining things in ways that are worse than they are, than they really are. But sometimes one needs to prepare for the worst, to mentally and physically brace oneself for that day, that moment of goodbye...

I meditated for a while, in a way to calm my mind, and afterwards I felt 'fine', even though in the circumstances could any one be really 'fine'? My friend hugged me, held me, lay close next to me, put his arm around me. Though my sleep was short and interrupted, every time I opened my eyes, I could see his face, feel the softness of his skin, and feel our gentle, warm breaths mingle and intertwine in the cold morning air.

Though mentally drained, I felt such gratitude, such immeasurable gratitude that mere words, mere 'thank yous' cannot possibly express or fully convey what I felt and wanted to say.

Disturbing news....

I read it and immediately started crying again... Crying so intensely for the second time today
 I feel myself breaking, shaking deep down inside... never, never have i ever felt so hurt, so pained, so shaken.

I had heard from mum that she has not been well, but never did I realise it was so bad.

Brother wrote to me, something he rarely does. So it must be serious.
 The cancer had spread to mum's lungs.

Exactly this is what took my dear father away...

I don't know how to deal with this... I really don't.

I can only cry.. cry, cry. But even tears cannot take away those cancer cells...
even my love for her, my deep prayers of her recovery cannot kill those cells...

I wish to speak to her, to comfort her, but I'm in no state to talk to her. She cannot hear my tears, she cannot hear my hurt, my sobs, for it would be even more difficult for her.

And I only want to lighten her load, not pile more on.

I feel sooo powerless and so exhausted.

How it all began...

How did it all begin...?

If I think back, perhaps it was that night at a restaurant with him and two other friends, early December 2008. The fact that there were friends there did not at the time make me realise it was a date. But today he told me he thought it was our first real date. If I think back hard enough, I can somehow picture myself getting very excited, perhaps getting nervous. I did do my hair, something I rarely do, spray on some perfume, and put on the nicest looking red shirt that fits my figure well. All the actions and signs of someone excited and expectant of something to occur, but just unsure what...

That night, we spend the first of many nights talking. Just talking, just sitting face to face, sharing our life stories so far, sharing our experiences, expectations, dreams and aspirations. I got to know him, know new friend, and grew fond of him, and he got to know me-- know me in a way that I later found out was the beginning of his infatuation toward me.

We talked into the wee hours of the morning, yet I was not tired. I remember going to bed smiling, and telling my friend what a wonderful night I had just had. I don't think I ever spent such a long night with anyone like that, just talking, just sharing. Even the most intimate and closely guarded secrets of my life and my family came pouring out bit by bit, something I never did before, something I still keep closely guarded deep inside. But somehow it felt right, somehow it felt like I could trust this person, somehow I felt I could connect with this person on many ways, even though at the time he was someone I only met and got to know a month or so before. I felt there was maybe something developing, and the feeling was mutual perhaps, but I was unsure.

I had just been in Canada for barely three months. I had seen him once or twice, and noticed him. Something inside attracted me to him, and I found myself stealing glances at him, in the classroom, at social gatherings. Something about him, his smile and jolliness made me feel warm inside. But I dismissed those feeling as just feelings I would get seeing some good-looking person on the street. Nothing would ever come out of it, I thought to myself, because nothing ever did.

Fast forward, and it's been two years since that special night together. There have been many, many more special nights together, nights not just spent talking and sharing, but night involving very intimate and sexual encounters that after so many times never seem to tire. Somehow, after all this time, though unspoken, though never formalised, we have developed something, something I'm not sure what exactly... It was all the more complicated by the fact he was still in a relationship at the time I met him.

Two years later, today, I felt again how closely connected I feel towards him, and I realise again how attached I have grown toward him. We have spent so many nights together in the last two, three weeks, as if we cannot let go of one another. Work for both of us has been stalled, and we seem to spend a lot of waking moments reflecting, dwelling in our memories, and being with one another.

Today, after spending the night (again) at his place, began with him breaking down, howling and crying so intensely because he was so torn and tormented by his feelings toward me and toward someone he had recently met and quickly developed strong feelings for. I left his apartment, but quickly I went back to when I realised how much he was suffering pain and guilt in order to comfort him, to hand him tissues to wipe the incessant flow of tears down his face. I went back because I wanted and tried to be there him, and to show that I care about him and his well-being and happiness.

Somehow the conversation turned to my childhood. It was then that I poured out accounts of excruciatingly vivid and painful experiences images of being abused as a child-- poured it out in descriptions and details I have never ever shared with anyone other person in this big wide world...  It was my turn to break down, sobbing and grinding my teeth while reliving the painful, painful memories in my head, while my mind turned so, so dark and was plastered once again with the shame, guilt, anger, powerlessness, abrupt loss of innocence, and the ways it has affected, and continues to affect, my life. I stood up and wanted to walk away, wanted to just turn around and leave, turn around, rush home and cry in a corner, because it was all too much, all too raw, and all too unexpected...  But somehow, his own tears, shed perhaps because he saw me hurt and crying, and his outstretched arms beckoned me to go back to him.

Perhaps it is true what they say: nothing brings people together better and closer than tears and hurt... perhaps not even compared to the carefree laughters and joys that seem to last so few precious moments, for the "life of man [is so] solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short". And what comfort and warmth it is to have someone to be there to listen, to hold, and just to be there so that you do not feel all alone in times of trouble and hurt?

Again, like so often in the past, like so many nights or days we have spent lounging around in bed and next to one another's warm bodies, the bond, the very intimate and personal connection we shared that very night two years ago is still there, is if not stronger, then at least has been thoroughly tested over the last few months by turbulent events.

There has been so much drama, tears and hurt... yet all of this counterbalanced and overwhelmed by laughter, inside jokes, and climaxes from intensely passionate love-making that have taken us both by surprise, and taken us both to whole new levels of getting to know one another in a very short period of time. I'm not sure where we are now, or where we are heading. And I don't want to give him pressure, and I don't want to push him away. But I think we both realise how much we mean to one another, and what a difference being in one another's lives has made to our lives, whether together or apart.

 Like we said and agreed on, life would be all so easy and simpler had we met under different circumstances, had we just chance encountered one another on the streets and got to know one another without the baggage of having to hide and bury our feelings for one another...

But this is the situation, however frustrating yet at the same time lovely and intense, that we find ourselves in now. And perhaps one day, we can look back when the turbulence has settled, and realise what did not break us, made us stronger. Whether together, or apart...