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.