Gifts

I got emotional when she mentioned what she had done. "There are two boxes... one for your colleagues at work, one for your friends. Please thank them again for taking care of you..." Doing so much, doing too much. For me...

Mum spent a whole afternoon going around town to buy pineapple cakes, a delicacy from Taiwan, and she just mailed them over. She went out of her way to go to a shop which sells the 'best' (award winning) pineapple cakes, and bought dozens of them. She was very happy with her purchase, and in the same box slipped in other things she wanted to give to me... tea, seaweed, and other tastes of home. I was extremely touched, and had to lie down. At one point maybe because of the tears, she asked me what was wrong. The love and care of a mother toward her child is immensely powerful. I felt it, just by her recounting what she had done and went through. Imagine when I receive the gift box...

I called her as promised... after that initial talk, there was something else on my mind. It is always awkward to ask and begin the conversation... "How was it today?"

She went in and spoke to her neurosurgeon. Whereas before, he recommended surgery as soon as possible, today he said perhaps it's best to wait until we cannot wait any longer. He is worried if he operates now, the tumour growing near the spine will, instead of being under removed and control, spread dramatically. At least for now, the situation is more or less stable. And it's best to keep it that way.

Mum says she has pains in her left arm. How much it affects her, how painful it is, I do not know. I cannot see her face when she groans in pain. I can no longer see the beads of sweat forming on her forehead when the pain comes and seizes her senses. She said she was drowsy and going to sleep soon. The doctor prescribed more painkillers, and she is taking them at regular intervals.

At one point during her appointment, the doctor asked whether she has anyone to take care of her at home. I know the answer to that, she knows the answer to that. If need be, she will hire someone to take care of her. "Please," mum said, "don't come rushing back again. I'll be fine."

I say that often sometimes, even when I'm not. It's not a lie, not really, especially expressed in the future tense, because one day, I will be fine. But of course it does not mean that "I am fine" at this very moment. But when all's said and done, this moment will disappear into the next, and whatever I am feeling, whatever is bothering me, will most likely also disappear.

"Don't base your treatments on me. If you need surgery, if it is urgent, do it. Don't stop your treatments because you are afraid I might come back again", I said.

I don't like to talk about her illness every time we talk, because I can only imagine how sensitive it is for her, and how after a long afternoon waiting at the hospital, she just wants to unwind and forget. But I want to know, I need to know. Because I care, I really do care. More than most other things...