Radioactive

"Are you going to glow in the dark...?" I joked. Even in circumstances when things appear bleak, one should never loose the ability to joke, to make fun of things, to see the lighter side of life. It makes things easier, even if joking and laughing is sometimes difficult.

The nurse injected a syringe-amount of Gallium 67 into mum's veins, as she explained the medical procedure. The dosage is not so much that it is lethal, in fact, it is even lower than the amount that is used in other countries. You need to wait around 48hours till the chemical spread around the body, and then you can take a scan, which will reveal parts of the body infected with cancerous cells. Though not lethal, it is best to keep away from pregnant women and young children, the nurse reminded us. I pointed to my belly, "Well, at least I'm not in danger!"

One appointment after another today. The day began already at eight, when we went in for a bone scan. That scan also requires the patient to inject some trace chemicals into the body. You must wait three hours till the medicine comes into effect and before you can take the scan. The scan itself takes only twenty minutes or so, and all the time, the patient is strapped to an MRI-like machinery while photographic images of the bones are taken. Mum actually fell asleep during the entire procedure.

Immediately after that, mum had an appointment with her main physician, and we had to wait till two before it was her turn. We bought some lunch, and sat in the park next to the hospital, watching the fishies swim around in the pond, and listening to the birds call. I looked around, at the people, relatives, doctors and patients rushing to and fro, and was reminded of events a few years ago...

"Remember before when you were staying here for treatment, I would bring you breakfast, lunch and dinner every day?" I said. That was already three years ago. Life too seemed difficult and desperate then. The circumstances we faced were at the time excrutiatingly painful, and it felt at times like it was all so hopeless...

But look at how far we have come? Of course, today's circumstances are difficult too, if not more difficult and more dire than before. But, as with everything in life, one day when you look back at events, moments and places in the past, it appears so insignificant, like a long, distant memory. Mum smiled at the memory....

As he analysed mum's file on the computer, the main physician had some good news. I'm not sure whether he was saying it to comfort her, but perhaps for the first time since the discovery of the spreading in the spinal column he told mum frankly that things are not as bad as it seems. There is always a danger of spinal collapse and eventual paralysis if there is no surgery, but immediate surgery is not necessary, especially if introvenous chemo therapy is available. And after two months of waiting, the National Health Insurance (NIH) finally approved mum to receive a better chemo treatment, which is supposed to be more effective and only target cancerous cells in the body, thus have less side effects. If  she had to pay for it herself, it would be over NT$70,000 (approx. US$2,000, which is around twice  the average monthly salary here...) per session, and each complete treatment consists of at least eight sessions.

For a while, mum fretted over the costs of the expensive treatment. Yet with the coverage of the NIH, all she paid today was NT$100 (approx. US$3.5) for the consultation fee, and the rest of the medical expenses is footed by the national insurance. Say what you will about this country, about the government, but once again, situations like this once again make me feel so grateful and so proud to be from a country that cares about the wellbeing of its people, and has the financial and medical means and knowhow to provide advanced health care to all who need it.

We made our way out of the hospital with a light spirit, and it was beautiful to see mum smile and even whistle a little later in the day. But before we left the hospital building, I turned to say I wanted to go somewhere. Mum was puzzled, and she followed me down to the basement. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"You'll see..." I replied, as I made my way into the oncology ward. I may not be here the next time when she does the chemo therapy, but the nurses who serve so many patients day in, day out will be, and they always seem to maintain the ability to smile, to be cheerful, despite what they have to see and experience every day. Importantly, they have the ability to cheer mum up, make her feel at ease and taken care of.

I entered the ward quietly, and immediately saw one of the nurses mum knows well. "Thank you..." I said, "Thank you so much for taking care of mum..." There are moments in life when your own gratitude can move you to tears, and this was one of them for me. Such heart-felt and deep, deep gratitude that words alone cannot express or capture.

The nurse and her colleagues just laughed and smiled.