Back in Montreal

First full day back in Montreal. The weather's been mild, topping well above zero Celcius, with the remnants of the last snowfall already melted away. I met up with some friends for lunch in town, after which we strolled through the city centre.

The city seemed much more lively than how I remember it, with people filling the streets and sidewalks, enjoying the warm spell of weather that's unsual for this time of year. Beautiful people, bizarre people, people in miniskirts even though there was still a chill in the air, and this one girl who wandered about in a black Gothic outfit, constantly repeating "I'm special" to herself. I walked around, the shop windows were full with goods and shoppers, and here and there were signs of St Patrick's just around the corner.

It's good to be back in Montreal, but already the countdown begins till the next time I leave again.

太巴朗民謠 Tai-Ba-Lang Folksong

From the musical, On the Road (Haven't toasted me for a long time, you!)! Tai-ba-lang (meaning "crab", because of the abundance of crabs in the nearby creek) is a mountain region on the eastern part of Hualian, rumoured to be the birthplace of the Amis tribe.

"Hohaiyan" means "roar, ocean" in the Amis language. You can almost feel the majesty of the mountains and the sea, and the purity of the aboriginals singing and dancing in the plains of their homeland...

"Where are you coming back from?"

I approached secondary cautiously. I was honest at primary, and had declared that I have food with me. Not fish, meat products, dead penguins or birds. Just some cookies, dried plums, pastry, as well as two (stuffed) bears and a white space monkey named Yuri, who was still recovering from the traumatic experience of being patted down by a large TSA officer.

The secondary officer eyed me and my two suitcases. One black, one white; one big, one small, with the markings of AirWei on the top. He took my customs declaration form, dyed red with scribbles of what I had declared, and blurted out: "Where are you coming back from? China?"

"Taipei," I said, to which he replied with a puzzled look. "Taiwan. From Taiwan," quickly I added.

"OK. Thank you, goodbye."

And I strolled through the airport to the exit.

Goodbye, mum

It was a quick goodbye, and perhaps therefore less sad than expected.

I walked around the house again, silently blessing each and every room, corner, hoping that the house will take care of mum, and of itself, until I return. Mum’s help, Ms. Hsu was there too, and as I hugged mum tightly the first time, she looked up from doing the laundry, and jokingly said “No tears! No sad goodbyes!” Again, she promised to take good care of mum, told me not to worry, and said that I should call home often. Which I do.

Mum was in her pajamas, and a clear tube leading from a pouch around her waist was showing. She apologised for not being able to accompany me to the airport, and she felt bad that I always pick her up, but that she cannot do the same for me. No need, no need, I said. Life’s journey is often traveled alone.

Even though she was in her pajamas, she still wanted to help take my suitcases downstairs. She donned on a thin coat, and wore a simple pair of slippers. In the elevator I patted her back, told her to take care, to exercise everyday, and to eat and rest well. “So attentive and caring,” she said, as she smiled and looked at me.

The wind was blowing, and overnight the temperature had suddenly dropped to below 10C. I could feel it. Through the fragile sun, I could feel the wind, the damp, the cold as I remember it back in Canada. Even so, mum stood by the front door, braved the wind, which blew her hair sideways, and waited with me until a taxi turned the corner.

As I stepped into the taxi, just before I closed the door, I saw a mother, looking tired and frail, yet with all her strength and love accompanying her son, savouring every moment of togetherness, for as long and far as she can.

Goodbye.

Distant world

Everyone seems so busy, so lost in their little worlds on a screen. Everyone typing or clicking away on tiny keyboards, connecting with those in a far away place, or a virtual realm of existence. Who really notices and appreciates the real world around them?

Last night in Taipei

Last night in Taipei for this trip here.

I lie awake next to mum, awakened by her snoring. At least she is asleep, and I try not to disturb her, even though I'm bothered by the noise somewhat. For most of the night, she has been turning and twisting and having difficulty to sleep. It seems to be a reoccuring phenomenon on the first day of the chemo therapy. She would fall asleep for a little while, and then wake up again. As I'm close to her, whenever she stirs and moves, I wake up too. As much as I can, I try to comfort her, to make sure she's alright. So far, she has still be able to eat normally, but it may be different tomorrow, she said. She only threw up once, but that was perhaps because she ate a little too much before sleeping.

This time tomorrow, I should be well into my flight across the Pacific. It may seem like a terrible time to be leaving her, in the middle of her current chemo treatment and all. But we spoke about it again tonight just before bed, and she was confident, hopeful and in bright spirits. Earlier, the doctor said that if her condition improves, she may not need to finish all eight chemo sessions. Which means she does not have to suffer the adverse effects of the treatment longer than necessary, and which also means she will be fit to travel after May, and definitely in June. I encouraged her to keep that healthy spirit alive, to exercise, to continue to believe that it will all be better. And she seemed to really be determined to go on. For the sake of her health, for her own sake, for the hope of being able to travel and go see brother's newly renovated house, for going to stay with me and my little kitty for a while...

No, I do not feel regretful or too sad that I will be gone tomorrow. Perhaps because I know I will be back very soon. But more because I know that I have done the best that I can while I am here. Mum knows it, and she said those deities in heaven know and see it too.

Most importantly, I know it.

At least [I] still have you

I am afraid there is not enough time,

I want to hold you.

Until [I] feel your wrinkles

[Which] hold the traces of the years,

Until [I] can be certain you are real,

Until [I] lose strength,

For you, I am willing.

[I] cannot move

But still want to watch you,

Until [I] feel your hairline,

Holds the traces of white snow.

Until [my] vision becomes blurred,

Until [I] cannot breathe.

Let [our] shadows and reflections never part.

If
I can also let go of the whole world,

At least [I] still have you

Worth me to treasure and cherish,

And you being here

Is precisely life’s miracle.

Maybe

I can also forget the whole world,

Only [I] do not wish

To lose news of you.

The mole in centre of your palm,

I always remember where it is.

I am afraid there is not enough time,

I want to hold you.

Until [I] feel your hairline,

Holds the traces of white snow.

Until [my] vision becomes blurred,

Until [I] cannot breathe.

Let [our] shadows and reflections never part.

With great difficulty,

We have no command over our bodies,

I am afraid time is [passing] too quickly,

Not enough to look at you closely.

I am afraid time is passing too slowly,

[I] worry day and night about losing you.

I want nothing less than to [become] old in one night,

Never to part.

Over there.

Chances

What are the chances that the daughter my mum's new help is the secretary of the head of the oncology department at the hospital she goes to? With one phone call, mum did not have to wait too long to be seen and to begin her third session of chemo therapy.

Again and again, through a pure and innocent smile, an infectious and genuine laughter, the help told me not to worry. "I'll come everyday", she said, "And take good care of your mum. I can guarantee it".

I was deeply, deeply grateful, and repeatedly, said "Thank you, thank you, thank you".
How many is enough to express my heart-felt gratitude to the people who happen to be there and to be of such great help in life?

"Stationary condition"

I noticed the many deep folds in her eyelids, and crow's feet that trailed from the corners of the closed eyes. Mum looked tired, and temporarily rested while the nurse inserted the needle into a button-like valve just under her shoulder blades. I cringed, and felt my knees weaken. But in my mind, I imagined what it must be like for her, for the dozens of other patients around me, and the queasiness disappeared.

Earlier, on the doctor's computer screen I saw the words "stationary condition", and was relieved to read and hear that there has been no abnormal activity since the last CT scan. It helps to have the children around, the doctor said, and commented something about dropping birth rates in Taiwan. Perhaps nobody is as relieved as mum, who for the last couple of hours, or even days, was feeling worried and anxious. The cancer index has even halved, though the doctor suggested that she continue with the chemo treatment, and after a few more times it may not be necessary any more. I could see that mum was encouraged by the news, and I patted her gently, and told her to continue like this, to look forward to good things and future plans. For hope can drive a person, can help heal a little, and help boost the body when the body is weak.

Mum opened her eyes again, and smiled at me. She looked energetic and hopeful as I smiled back. Mum was visibly touched by the attentiveness and care with which the nurse helped ease her into her seat. The nurse replied that in this ward, everyone is a "treasured customer". I looked at the nurses quietly at work, walking to attend the needs of the dozens of people in the ward. Despite the heaviness and constant confrontation with illness and death, they still somehow manage to maintain their warmth, their human-ness, their compassion and understanding for the thousands and thousands of patients who come in day in, day out, day after day after day. I thanked the nurses, and silently wished them the strength and courage to continue to care for, smile at and touch the bodies and hearts of so many who need them.

Dream

Into a blue, blue pair of eyes I stared, lost and confused. He looked back, a warm smile flashed on his smooth, soft cheeks. Leaning in closer...

Traditional medicine

My uncle picked us up early in the morning, and drove us to Ilan on the east coast of the island. Within half an hour, we had left the crowds of skyscrapers and arrived at a broad plain surrounded by green cascading mountain ranges. Out at sea, a turtle-shaped island, its back arched in the clouds, rose out of the ocean.

Our destination was a traditional herbal doctor. As soon as my uncle heard I had gone to the hospital for a health check-up, he suggested that I also consult traditional/alternative medicine. So for a while, he has been encouraging me to go to this doctor who lives in the countryside. In his, and many people's minds, Western medical science often only looks at the symptoms of pains and ailments afflicting the body, but does not necessarily target the root causes. Whereas western medical science is quick to prescribe antibiotics and inject the body with man-made chemicals, traditional herbal medicine focuses more on restoring "balance" to the body through the consumption of natural plants and herbs that have been powdered or made into liquid form through long processes of cooking and brewing. Like all things in the universe, there is the "yin" (femine energy/negative energy) and the "yang" (masculine energy/positive energy). And for the body to be whole and healthy, these energies must be balanced and in equilibrium.

We arrived, and were greeted by a warm and friendly middle aged man who bid us to all sit down and have some tea. My aunt, who was with us and knew the man, small-talked for a short while, and at some point he turned to look at me. I felt somewhat uncomfortable at first, as he was staring at my face. Then he spoke.

"There is nothing seriously wrong with you. You are a healthy and sturdy young man". I was relieved, but curious how he could tell just by looking at me. Then he proceeded to examine me more closely, first by looking at the whites of my eyes, and then at my tongue. "I can tell a lot from both these parts of the body", he said. "You must have a lot of things on your mind. Study is not going well, work is not going well. Love is not going well. Life is a troubled mess and you don't know what to do. A lot of worries."

I was surprised. I had not said a word about myself, let alone revealed any of my troubles, but just by looking at me, it was as if he knew me. "You must dream a lot." Then he turned to my mother and said "He's a kind person, with a good heart. But he head never rests. When you see him sleeping, his head is not sleeping. His head is always working, no rest." I was dumbstruck.

Then he continued. "Oh, you must be involved in some kind of love affair. You must either be in love, or there must be someone in love with you." I was embarrased, but gave it some thought and couldn't really think who I could be in love with. "It's about time," he said, "There is something developing." So this herbal doctor is not only a doctor, a healer, but also fortune teller...

At that point, he put his fingers on my wrist and read me. "You must often feel oppressed in the chest, like you can't breathe." I nodded. According to traditional herbal medicine, the wrist can tell more than just blood pressure and heart beat. Different pressure points in the wrist are connected to organs of the body, and "wrist reading" is often used to diagnose the patient, even without the use of stethoscopes or x-rays. "Ah yes, your throat and lung are weak. You must have injured it somehow, and that's why you cannot breathe very deeply. Maybe you injured it through a fever that burnt your insides and you never took the time to heal properly. You must feel as if your tongue is dry a lot, even if you drink a lot." I agreed. "And you must also feel like you have indigestion after eating, right?"

I quickly agreed, and told him about my recent visit to the hospital and endoscopy. "There's nothing wrong with your digestive system! You're looking at the wrong place! Of course the endocscopy result is all good. It's your lungs, your breathing that is out of sync, and it is affecting your other organs. Especially the liver is affected, because it is a little shrivelled because of the lack of enough air getting through. This shrivelling is pushing the stomach, and that's why when you eat you feel bloated." I nodded in acknowledgement and amazement what he knew and how he knew it all. He explained it by drawing analogy with a car engine. Without enough oxygen to carry energy around the body, many mechanical parts will have difficulty functioning. You have to grease it, to "tune" the body parts affected in order to get the body back to running order.

He went to the back of his "consultation room" (which was nothing more than an ordinary living room), and half an hour later came back with a plastic bottle containing some kind of brown powdery concoction. "Here, I have mixed this specially for your condition. It will "tune" your breathing and blood flow, and slowly boost your liver and lungs. In two weeks you'll feel the difference". Of course, this kind of medicine does not fall under the national health insurance, and we had to pay. In cash. And we did. Willingly.

I left the clinic, just a normal house in a row of houses in the countryside. Nothing fancy, no billboards, no medical diplomas or great big advertising on the walls. Just a statue of the Buddhasatva, pictures of other deities, and some simple offerings of fruits and sweets before them. I didn't know the doctor, neither did he know me. He didn't aske me my name, or where I come from or where I live. All he did was feel my wrist, look into my eyeballs and ask me to poke my tongue out. And from that he could diagnose accurately all the things that are bothering me.