She went in a little after eleven. We left the hospital together just before five. A lot of waiting, sitting around, just waiting to be seen. I was with her most of the time, keeping her company, trying to be cheerful, even though hospitals are not very cheerful environments. I held back my tears when a child, not more than four or five, with great frailty and difficulty, slowly limped hand in hand with his mother into the oncology ward...
First was an appointment with the neurosurgeon, who last time recommended that she undergo surgery to remove the tumour in her spine. He pulled up a detailed MRI image of her body as seen from the side. I could see her esophagus, her neck, her brain, her organs... and I could see her spinal column. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven down, the doctor counted. Yes, there it is. That section appeared to be darker than the rest. He zoomed in, approached the region from different angles and used different contrasts of black and white to enhance the image.
Yes, there it is. The tumour, the 'enemy', the cause of so much suffering and pain on her part, and so much worry and tears on my part. Seeing it again I felt a heat of frustration rise within me. I wished I could tell it to please go away. I so wished it would somehow disappear and leave my mother well alone. I looked at it, and there it was. A lump, an odd-shaped ball probably no bigger than a tennis ball if it were flattened and compressed up against the spine.
Surgery is not urgent, at least not at this stage. Somehow, there is relief to be found in the doctor's words. Yet in that relief is the possibility that if the tumour grows and grows, or even spreads, if mum starts to lose control of her left arm and hand, she must immediately report to the hospital for surgery. When will that day be, if it does come? That is another great, great uncertainty of life. At least, the good news, if it can be considered such, the tumour is not inside the spinal column, as suspected before.
As we waited, we spoke about family and children. We spoke about brother and my sister-in-law, about their lightning meeting and marriage, about how they are soon to have a child. Around us were husbands and wives, couples, one person would typically be in a wheelchair as the other person pushed. I looked at them, at the tender care and love that was being provided, and wondered to myself whether if one day I should grow sick or old, I would have someone loving and caring by my side.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, and as if answering my thoughts, mum said "Whoever has you is lucky to have you..." Well, of course she would say that, she is my mother. But is there some truth in that that I also recognise? I thought about how I am taking care of my mother, how I have in the last few years tried to be there as much as possible in order to give her comfort and support. My love and affection moves even strangers to comment, and touches friends and relatives to tears. But I would do the same for anyone, and I would give myself fully to anyone who is in my life, without hesitation, without wanting anything in return. I imagined my future partner, whoever he may be, whatever he may look like, and imagined how I would be there for him, devote myself to him in so many ways. For this is me, this is who I am, and deep down I can see the beauty of this side of me.
Together we walked to the radiology ward for her next appointment. Some patients came alone, others were accompanied by their loved ones or a caregiver. I waited with mum until it was her turn, and I accompanied her into the radiation room. Before she climbed onto the platform made of cold metal, I patted her back gently, gently, gently again and again. I do not know what she is feeling inside... was she anxious? Was she afraid? Would she feel claustrophobic under that mesh-mask which has to go her entire head and her face to constrain her head from moving too much? I hoped my gentle pat would take away whatever fears she had. She lay down, the radiologist began preparing the gigantic machine, infra-red lights came on and scanned the length of mum's body as if it were a barcode at the supermarket. A number of number flashed across a screen, and the lights dimmed as I was ushered away and into the corridor...
The heavy door closed, and green and red lights came on, warning people that radiation was in progress. I counted the seconds.... ten... twenty... thirty.... thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three... each passing second felt so long, so very very long... thirty-four... thirty-five.... each passing moment seemed to last forever, and my mind imagined mum with her eyes tightly closed. Would she feel pain? Was she in great discomfort? Is her throat acting up? Is claustrophobia creeping in? .... thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight.....
....thirty-nine, and the warning lights dimmed. A few moments of rest, and the warning lights came back on again for another thirty to forty seconds burst of radiation. Targeted rays of radiation aimed at eliminating, killing, reducing the size of the tumour, at the 'enemy' I had just seen on the computer screen an hour or so earlier. It is an ongoing battle, taking place inside mum's body, against mum's body, and I am but a bystander, but someone who can only watch and who cannot control the outcome of anything at all...
The heavy door opened, and I rushed inside to see mum slowly get up from the platform. She blinked her eyes heavily, and looked tired, even though the entire procedure lasted around five minutes or so. For her, it must have seemed to last hours. She put on her shoes, nodded to the radiologist and nurse in thanks. I took by the arm and led her out of the ward, led her past dozens more patients waiting their turn, waiting and hoping that the treatment will somehow prolong life or at least make it more bearable.
Some patients were alone, others were accompanied by a loved one or a caregiver.
Mum and I walked slowly home.
No comments:
Post a Comment