The nurse stood next to the patient's daughter as she explained carefully how to feed her dad, who was sitting down on a chair. He looked so frail, his skin was dark, and his collar bones were showing. A long, thick tube led to his nose, entered his nostril, and was taped around that region like a white mask. He barely spoke, and when he did, his voice was so coarse I could barely hear, let alone, understand him.
"For an adult, you need at least six cans a day," the nurse explained. Six cans of Ensure, that disgusting tasting protein drink which is supposed to contain all the essential nutrients a patient needs if he cannot ingest food. Six cans of something mum had tried before, but would not even go anywhere near, even though the nutritionist recommended it as the best way to ensure a balanced and healthy diet. "You need to feed it through the tube," the nurse continued while the daughter listened attentively. The dad looked haplessly down at the ground next to his feet.
I nudged mum, sitting next to me, and still reeling from her latest radiotherapy. "You see, you could be so much worse off," I said, "Two more treatments to go..." I patted her on the back, and gave her a look. In my eyes was the look of encouragement, of hope, of well-wishes. I cannot and can never fully know how painful it is to have the throat so completely inflamed from the radiotherapy that it hurts to swallow. I cannot understand how impossibly sore it can be that you just lose your appetite. It is worse than the pain that she feels and sores she feels on her arm, she said, and the suffering and frustration is so immense she cannot begin to describe it.
A lady walked slowly by with her husband, the couple I have seen half a dozen times already, even though we never spoke. She saw me and gave me a nod and a smile, greeting me as if she understood, as if she shared my concerns and worries, as if we both wore a badge and belonged to the club of relatives who have a loved one undergoing treatment for cancer. I nodded back and, like everyday when I see her, like every time I see a sad, sorry face in the hospital, whether that belonging to a patient or a relative or a friend of a patient, I smiled. Often, in that fantasy world a world away from the realities of illness, sick and death, I imagine that a smile can radiate sympathy and can make another person forget his pains and sorrows, if only for a split second. It is my attempt to reach out and show someone that I care, even though I may not know them, may never know them personally. However feeble, however small, a smile says and means a lot.
The nurse called us into the doctor's room, and we sat down. "Wow, you didn't loose weight, but actually gained weight this week!" said the doctor, surprised. 58.3kg, still on the thin side, but given that I'm taller, and don't weigh much more than her, I was satisfied and assured. Mum looked and pointed at me, proud, "All thanks to him..." At that moment, I was overwhelmed, and began to tear. All those painful meals sitting at the table, all that time and effort preparing things to make sure she eats enough. The moment of truth, the moment the digital display on the scales showed the latest figure of her weight is a joyful one.
The doctor browsed through her medical records and checked on his computer monitor. The latest CT scan results are back. No metastasis to the lung... no metastasis to the bone structure or marrow... no metastasis to the spleen, liver, or gallbladder. The original tumour in the colon, discovered some four years ago, has not grown, and may have even decreased in size. The latest imaging of the tumour in the spine has decreased in size. I sighed inside as I read the report myself. Sighed and cried inside. This may not be the end, but at least for now, her treatment seems to be combating any growth or spread and keeping her condition under control. "Congratulations," the doctor said, "Two more treatments to go, and you are free!" He was a kind, gentle and patient man. I thanked him profusely and bowed as I left his office.
I saw mum smile, such a beautiful, moving smile. "So this means I can go abroad?" she asked.
"No problem," the doctor said, "I'll still prescribe you some medicine, but it seems to be alright for now." He turned to look at me. "You are lucky to have a son like this". Again, I fought hard to contain my tears.
But mum fought much harder, suffered much more to come to this point, and I can see she has been much weakened, both her body and spirits. Weakened, but not undeterred.
I do not know how much of a role I have to play in the stabilisation of her condition... sometimes I wonder whether I push her too hard, and ask too much of her or whether I can fully understand what she is going through when I am telling her to eat and drink this or that. Sometimes I feel so terrible for being frustrated with her, and being frustrated with the entire situation, and for being grumpy and moody, when I should be calm and supportive.
But two more treatments, and a ten day period of recovery, and we should be on our way...
To Canada.
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