Final treatment

 I held my breath as  the green and red lights went on. An incessant beeping sounded from behind a counter where the radiation specialists and the nurse sat. Each cycle lasts around thirty to forty seconds, and each treatment consists of two or three cycles, interrupted by a break of around twenty to thirty seconds. Whenever the radiation cycle begins, it is as if I could hear sirens echo from behind the thick metallic door.

Sirens warning radiation is in progress. In my mind, I picture red laser lights penetrating mum's clothes, skin and bones, reaching deep into the body to the target area in intense bursts, intense enough to 'burn' away the tumourous cells. At least that's how I imagine it works, because even before the radiation specialists exit the radiation chamber, I am always ushered away by the nurse.
Somehow, today's treatment seemed to last longer, or perhaps it was all in my mind. I could not wait for it to end, and I imagine mum could not either. Just before she went in, I patted her on the back and told her, "It's the last one, it's the last one. Hang on there..."

As we waited for her turn, I counted back, and realised I have been to the hospital with her eleven times already in the last two weeks. Eleven times, back and forth, back and forth. Eleven times through the gates of the hospital, past the freshly planted shrubs and floral arrangements, into the cold, spacious lobby that always seems to bask in that very recognisable scent of chlorine and medicine, down the stairs into the basement, down the corridor into the oncology ward, past dozens of patients and into the waiting area. Eleven times, and this is just for the radiotherapy, and does not include appointments with her physicians.

I always stand just a few steps away from that thick metallic door while I wait, and deep inside my heart counts down the seconds till the door opens. My mind drifts to mum lying in there, in that cold air-conditioned room all by herself with a huge machine looming large over her entire body. My thoughts are with her, as are my prayers and wellwishes. "May she be not afraid... may she be at ease... may she be calm in her mind... may she have no fear..." I try to imagine myself lying there, on that elevated platform as the a massive scanner rotates around my head and entire body. I imagine my head being constrained by a white mask which only has two holes around the nose for breathing. I imagine having to lie very still, even when my arm is aching, even if my throat were so painful as if someone were cutting it with a knife. I wonder whether I would be afraid, whether I am brave enough to face all this alone. Mum does, and what does it take to go through with this all?

"Family members, the patient is ready..." The nurse's words brought me back to reality, and I opened my eyes to see the thick metallic doors inch open little by little. The radiation specialists went in first, but I could not wait and hurried in after them. The whirring and wheezing of the platform on which mum was lying on signaled that she was being lowered gradually. The darkened room became suddenly very bright again as the machine that had been radiating mum retreated slowly, bit by bit. I saw mum lie there, on that platform very, under a thick heated blanket. She lay there, immobile and did not stir. One day, she will lie before me, and will no longer stir. But today is not that day.

As soon as the nurse removed her mask, her upper body rushed to climb up, even though the platofrm was still a great height from the floor. I could see her smile, I could see her joy. "It is all over," I said, smiling too. I turned to the radiation specialists and to the nurse and thanked them. "Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your hard work..." At that point I could feel my eyes fill with tears.

I took mum by the arm, and slowly we walked out of that chamber. The old couple whom I see every day at around the same time were still hanging around, waiting for the man to recover from his treatment a few minutes earlier. I nodded to the wife and smiled, and for the first time, just as I was leaving I said: "Goodbye. Take care." To all the patients and relatives I met in the corridor, I silently told them to "take care", to be well.

It feels like liberation, mum said as we walked home. I grabbed mum's arm, which felt dry, flabby and soft, another symptom of exposure to radiation. I looked at her face, noticed more wrinkles around her eyes, noticed also that little sprinklings of new hairlets are growing on her scalp. The experience has aged her, tired her, but she has come out of this all, relieved that her condition is stable.

Finally, after all the agonising treatments, waiting and prayers, it is over. For good? For now? Who knows, who can tell. But it is over. And time to recover...