Visit

Within two hours of landing, I was at her bedside. She stretched out her arm, and extended her fingers, now long and bony. She has much changed, her cheeks sunken and dark from the chemo, and her head visibly bald with a few meager strands of gray hair.

I held onto her hand, and smiled. She saw me, and smiled back. What a surprise it is, she said, and thanked me for coming all this way to see her. Her voice weak and coarse. “I want to,” I said simply. If my presence, however brief, however futile in the grand scheme of things, can make her feel a little more warmth and cared about, then the long trip was more than worth it.

She was there, but also not fully there. Whenever she closes her eyes, she seems to drift off. She looked peaceful in her sleep, though now and then I could feel her twitch. Nightmares? Flashbacks? Memories? Did she feel the slight trembling of my hands?

And when she opens her kind eyes again, she was right there before me again, if only temporarily. Unable to eat and bed-stricken for a few days now, she still asked about my mum, and said that she thinks of my mum often. “A far away relative,” she said, meaning that she and my mum both share feelings and emotions that only they can comprehend.

I sat in silence as she slept, listening to her light, raspy breathing. I sat next to her, at times holding her hand in mine, sometimes stroking her thin, veiny fingers, and I meditated.

”Peace be with you… may you be free from suffering… may you be free from pain… may you let go…”

"A woman goes to the doctor"

Again I cannot avoid watching sad or sensitive movies on long flights.

So out of the dozens of movies and series I could have watched, I chose this Dutch movie about a husband and wife whose lives and marriage are radically affected by cancer. “Komt een vrouw bij de dokter” (“A woman goes to the doctor”) portrays (at times graphically) how a life-threatening illness can change people, can change lives. First the chemo, then the radiation, the hair loss, the puking, the tears, the fears… the pain, suffering, prayers and desperation rolled into a roller coaster ride of up and down emotions.

Of everything, this one line put it best: “Cancer humiliates us all”.

En route to AMS

Brother called as I was busy packing the last few items into my suitcase. At first I could not hear him properly, then I could hear his muffled voice, mixed with tears and emotions. The last time I heard him cry was just after dad passed away.

“I just saw Carmen,” he began, “And it’s not good.” He was clearly distraught, and I was lost looking for words of comfort to offer, but could not find any. He said what he was feeling must be like when I experienced my friend become weaker and weaker until life slipped away. I was silent as he continued. This really could be it, and he asked if it were possible to extend my stay in the Netherlands, just in case it is necessary. I was unsure, but I will see. Later through a text message he said that he was so sad because he cannot imagine if it were our mum lying there… he cannot imagine what he would do, how he would cope. Silently I understood and felt his pain. A numbing pain, one that is perhaps so intense you do not feel anything anymore.

I closed the door, and saw my cat watching me through the glass window. Moments earlier she sat in my suitcase, as if she knew that I was again about to leave her. I stroked her again and again, unwilling to abandon her for so many days again so soon after I had returned.

With a heavy heart I made my way to the airport, the whole journey like a blur to me now that I think back. I tried to capture my mind, hold it down, but again it was racing rapidly through random thoughts and images. Now and then, I could see her face, her eyes, her body. I could hear her laughter, hear her voice, hear the echoes of the long talks she and I shared at cafes, in the park, by the beach… As I journeyed closer and closer to home, it seemed like the memories came back and pieces of the puzzle of the past joined together.

The sun was setting, and through the massive windows at the end of the terminal building I could see a red-orange sun slowly become swallowed by low-lying clouds. Cast on the bodies of planes and faces of passengers apart to depart was a bright, almost sacred reddish glow.

The day was dying, and each moment as precious as the previous.

Last call

Just spoke to mum, what will really be a last call for the next ten days. She sounded cheerful, and said she slept well. The lecture she went to was a mind-opener, as there were so many things she learned she cannot eat, or at least must eat in limited quantities. Sugar being one, as sugary substances will cause cancerous cells to multiply. The only thing that really brought her down was the fact that her hair has been falling again. A dozen on her pillow when she woke up. She is again afraid that she will loose all her hair, and said she might just have to go get a wig after all.

Mum sounded so cheerful and hopeful that I did not tell her about going back to the Netherlands tomorrow to see my friend, Carmen. I don't think it's lying, as mum does know that I'm going back, just not that it's suddenly become so soon. It's just not necessary to give her extra worry or anxieties to know that Carmen, also a friend of hers, is not doing well. Once mum invited her to visit Taiwan, and they were really planning it and getting excited about it. Now that trip seems so far away...

I just hope that mum will be able to do the meditation retreat and come out refreshed and with ease of mind. That will give her a real boost of confidence and give her the strength needed to wear the chemo sessions ahead. Metta....

One call

One call, and I'm on the move again. Not immediately, but very soon and very unexpected.

Brother called and said that things have taken a turn for the worst for my friend in the Netherlands. He said that it is best that I return as soon as possible. News is scarce, and the son of the friend has not given much details; only that my friend would like to see my brother (and me).

I put down the phone, burried my face in my hands and could not stop shaking.

Scenes, emotions, and the shock remniscent of that one moment some two years ago just before dad passed away.

Hurriedly I searched online for the quickest and cheapest connection. My original departure date was supposed to be next Tuesday, and to change my flight will cost me a ridiculous amount of money. Luckily, again, a friend came to the rescue and offered me miles to fly. I was reluctant at first, reluctant to accept help again and again. But it really was the cheapest option...

So this time tomorrow, I'll be on my way again.

Out of contact

Just spoke to mum, and she's on her way to the south to attend a lecture today. About cancer patients and diet, which a friend in her morning exercise group recommended. She said she'll stay in the city of Tainan for a day, and then head to the centre of the country to take part in a meditation course.

Ten days it will last, and all taking place in a monastery in Puli (where I often go to). It's been a long time since she last took part in such a long meditation retreat, but I think she needs it, and she has also been very eager to enroll herself, despite having just ended her latest chemo treatment. While I was with her, I encouraged her to go, for a retreat can really help to calm the mind, and allow a person to discover that inner world that is often so disturbed by the outside influences, noises and distractions. And a calm mind is what she needs if she is to respond well to the heavy treatment that she is undergoing, especially as meditation can help ease her anxieties and fears, and help her confront the inevitables of illness and death.

So mum will be out of reach for over a week... I deeply hope that she will go in and be able to find inner peace of mind and discover a clarity of thought that will give her the strength and will to go on... this I really wish...

Somewhere only I knew...

One week to the day since I arrived back in Montreal. Slowly, slowly I am getting back to the local time. The first few days I could hardly keep my eyes-- let alone mind-- awake by eight in the evening. Now I can bear it and drag out till 'normal' sleeping hours. But still, some 'biological' clock within wakes me up automatically at around six every morning. In a way it's good, because it means I have more of the day to spend.

One week to the day since I arrived back, and already I am counting down to the day I leave again. Which is six days from now. And this time back to Europe. This friend ( more like a sort of surrogate mother while my own was absent) in the Netherlands is not doing too well, and brother mailed me to say that she is not responding to the chemo therapy. So within a day or two of arriving back here I decided to make an unplanned trip to go see her. I do not wish to say it, let alone think it, but part of me is afraid that if I don't make this trip, it might be too late...
First my mum, and now a friend. One by one, cancer seems to be ruthlessly bringing down people close to me. And I am left running (more like flying) around the world in the hope that my presence, my touch however insignificant can make a little difference to their lives.

Going to Europe will be a short trip, only a week, give or take. And luckily, a friend offered me some airmiles to make this sudden trip possible. But after I come back from Europe at the end of this month, I have only four weeks till I fly back to Asia to be with mum...

Though I am glad that I am able to make this trip, that I have the time and money to spare to make all these journeys to see family and friends, I am truly very tired. Tired of travelling, tired of living from week to week, month to month unsure whether I can settle down in one place and when I can get back to my routines.

With all this flying around, someone jokingly commented that at least in April I will break the "record" of staying put for a whole month. I cannot explain why it hurt to hear that... why those words so abruptly made me feel like crying... why all the travelling and living out a suitcase simply is not what I wish in my life. I said little back, but deep down I felt so misunderstood.

If I had a choice, do I not wish for stability and predictability, at least for a period of time, instead of the uncertainty of flying and moving around from place to place, from people to people? Do I not long to get back to my studies and long for the feeling that I am working toward something tangible? I can fly off and offer comfort and consolation to those dear in my life, yet who will offer me the same?

Sure, it might seem glorious and luxurious to shuttle between world continents to all these exciting countries and cities... but how I long for comfort, for certainty.

For being in a place of familiarity and love without needing to every so often hurriedly come and hurriedly bid farewells.