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.