Emptying nest

"Take care of yourself," I said over the phone, as brother was heading to the airport, "If there is anything you need help with, just let me know." I was not there to see him off this morning. I had done that two days earlier, at the monastery, as he, mum and the new relatives were leaving to go home. I patted him on the shoulder, and we were both unsure when we would see one another again. Under pleasant circumstances, I hoped, and maybe he thought the same.

Perhaps in his mind, there too was a momentary thought, or fear, that the next time we see one another might suddenly and unexpectedly be in Taiwan... at a hospital... because of mum... What a dark, brooding, and useless thought. I shook my head to shake off the thought.

I arrived home this afternoon, because mum had said that she was feeling nauseous, and had been vomiting and having diarrhea the whole day yesterday. She told me to stay at the monastery, but I decided to go home earlier, partly because I was a bit worried what she may have caught, and partly I wanted to spend more time with her before I leave in six days' time.

I came home, and the house looked emptier. Brother and sister-in-law's suitcases have gone. The bridal suite is now just a spare room, one I had not entered for around a month. It feels quieter too, with just mum and I. Mum looked relieved as she cleaned the house up a bit. It's not that she's rejoicing their departure. But really, a month or so with four people in a small apartment can be a little too much.

I cleaned up a bit too, and started packing my bags a little. The house looks emptier now, feels quieter too. Imagine what it would like when I leave...

Relief

The moon is bright and round tonight, the first full moon after the lunar new year. It is a festival in Taiwan, a night on which children carry lanterns, and families gather around and eat glutinous rice balls filled with creamy sesame or peanut paste.

It was a glorious day, with beautiful weather and the feel of early summer. Butterflies fluttered around playfully, while some flowers were already in bloom, filling the air with a fresh, natural scent. Together with my family, I headed into the mountains to pay a visit to the monastery. We sat around to have lunch, and mum looked at ease to be in the beautiful surroundings, and to be in the presence of the monk we all revere.

At one point, we were left alone, and there was just the monk, my mum and I sitting at the table. We had just had a philosophical conversation about worries and about letting go when that day of leaving (ie death) eventually comes. “So what’s the main worry on your mum,” I prodded, knowing very well what that main worry was, “My marriage?” Like all Asian parents, the marriage of a child is perhaps the most important thing in the world… marriage (after receiving a proper (and preferably PhD level) education, then having children, and having a respectable career).

My mum turned to the monk, and said very frankly that this was indeed the last thing on her mind. “But I know there are things I cannot change, and I will not force anything. As long as he is happy, that’s what matters.”

The monk simply nodded, and I looked at my mum. She had a quiet expression on her face, neither sad, nor happy. In the most open and candid way I have ever heard her speak, even though we have touched on the topic so many times before in the past, mum added:  “I guess orientation is a natural thing, and it cannot be changed.”

“He’s already grown up, and has his own life to lead. He knows what’s best for him, so why worry?” the monk said, rhetorically. Many things in life we worry and fret about, even though we are so utterly powerless to change circumstances and the way people are.

“His friend was here, and he seems to be a good person,” mum said, to my surprise. So all this time, she knew what was going on between my friend and me. I guess while he was visiting and staying over at our family home, we never really made a scene of things, but we did not go purposely out of our way to hide evidence of our affection either. And all these stuffed toys mum has seen lying around the house, she knows they are from my friend, and she knows I hug a big teddy bear to sleep every night. Just a few days ago, she was right next to me when I opened a Valentine’s Day package from my friend, and as I opened it, heart-shaped cut-outs fell out. “I feel I cannot stand in the way of his happiness, if he says he is happy.”

I put a hand on mum’s knee and petted it as we looked at one another briefly in the eyes.  There was a feeling of relief riveting through me, and a feeling of joy, and I could not wait to recount to my boyfriend the conversation that had just taken place today. I felt as if this was the seal of approval I have been waiting for for a long time. It was like a blessing, if not, then at least recognition of who I am as a person, and that I no longer have to hide ‘myself’ from her. Of course it does not change anything in the strong mother-son relationship we have, and does not change how we feel toward one another, I think the conversation this afternoon, especially in the presence of the monk whom we both respect the opinion and wise counsel of, reassured both my mum and I, and lifted a heavy burden off of our shoulders.

For such a long, long time, I tried to avoid the topic directly, and would only bring it up tacitly, out of fear of provoking mum, disappointing her, and adding to her worries, and thus aggravating her illness. I felt so fortunate to have such an accepting and strong mother. As the monk later said, all this time, she was probably just waiting for me to bring up the topic and to start the conversation.

But now I know. My mum loves me, she cares about me deeply, and she just wants me to be happy, for she is my mother.

New family

With brother's impending departure, mum, brother and I made our way to the city of Taichung in central Taiwan to bid farewell to our new family members(-in-law). I had met all of them at the wedding a few weeks ago, but this was the first time that my whole family was getting together after the wedding.

The first impression I got of the new family was that they are a really genuine and down-to-earth bunch of people. When I met them last, which was just after the lunar new year, I was touched by the fact that they already accepted me as part of the family. To my surprise, I was given red envelops by my new aunties and uncles (in-law)-- a tradition reserved for only the closest of kins and relatives. "Come to Taichung anytime you want. This is also your home now," I was told when I left last time.

And indeed, we were all greeted with the same heart-warming welcome today as soon as we arrived, and taken to fancy restaurants to 'celebrate' our arrival. We sat and ate, and bonded over plentiful food and drinks, over lunch and dinner, merely a couple of hours later, when lunch was only  half digested.

The afternoon I sat with mum and the new relatives, mostly listening to them exchange stories of the children growing up, and life experiences. Really, they are such simple folk, unpretentious, kind-hearted, straightforward people who speak their mind, and whose ideas and trains of thought are very compatible with that of mum's. That's one reason why they all get along so well. Another reason is the fact that we are all connected by the Buddhist monk who we all adore and worship, and somewhere along the line our paths may have crossed before. Speaking of six degrees of separation, I only found out today that I had in fact met a number of the relatives on a number of occasions, when I first started going to the monastery in the mountains around five years ago. Sometimes fate and the way people are connected or united works in mysterious ways...

"Come visit and stay over anytime you want," brother's mother-in-law told my mum. We spoke somewhat about mum's condition, and in many ways the new relatives were very empathic and caring. She coincidentally works in the health department, and may be able to arrange for a special treatment for my mum.

It is a joy to see mum bond so well with the new relatives, and wonderful to see that my brother has married into a family that is so intimate and so caring for one another. In fact, over the past year, my mum has been in touch with the mother-in-law, and they have also seen one another a couple of times, and both are fond of one another. Earlier this evening, as we all wandered through the park to walk off dinner, I saw my brother hand in hand with my sister-in-law, while brother's mother-in-law walked before them holding mum's arm.

"Don't worry about your mum," I was told, as the day drew to an end, "You just go and finish what you have to do. We will try to take care of  your mum..."

With that I felt a weight lifted, a worry in my heart subside, and felt like I was one step closer to letting go.

Drowning and letting go

There once was a master who wanted to train his disciple. "Go out to sea," the master told the disciple.
When the water reached the disciple's hips, he turned, only to see the master wave him on to go further. When the water reached the disciple's chest, he turned again, only to see the master standing on the store, waving him to go even further. The disciple was getting scared, for with every step, the water was reaching to his neck, then gradually to his lips.

"I'm going to drown!" the disciple shouted, and flapped around the sea, drinking in the salty water.

"Let go," the master shouted, "Just let go, and relax..."

The disciple did as he was told, and he let go. Let go of his fears, let go of his fear of drowning, let go of his anxiety of being surrounded by vast open sea, let go of his mind, and stopped flapping his arms around. Soon he discovered that if he just stayed very still, and just floated, the sea would carry his weight.

Letting go... it is the most difficult thing to do in life, and I am facing it every single day. When I see mum in pain, I cringe and feel pain inside. It is because I cannot let go. It is because I feel too attached to mum, and care too much that I get frustrated, upset, even angry, that I cannot do anything to alleviate her pain or suffering. When I just think of leaving her in a week or so's time, my heart wrenches, and my eyes are almost moved to tears... because I cannot let go. I still cannot just tell myself to let things be, let whatever will be just be-- even though I know I cannot change anything, cannot change life or illness or death, and must just accept things as they happen.

I must slowly learn to let go... Let go does not mean not caring. It means caring, but not allowing the caring to get ahead of you, to seize control of your emotions, and to let the caring overwhelm you so much that you desire to change the unchangeable.

Letting go is admitting to yourself that you have done the best you can under the circumstances, and leaving things to fate-- even if fate does not turn out as you plan or as you desire.

Letting go is just... letting go. Or otherwise, I will surely drown in a sea of sorrow, and wallow in a pool of misery of my own creation...

Appointment

I walked with mum in the light rain along the creek, taking our time to go to the hospital. As if taking the long route there will delay the appointment, delay the inevitable meeting with the doctor. Some plum blossoms were already in bloom, coating the tops trees with bright red against a sky of gray.

Like every so often in the weeks I have been here, we talked about life, and death. It is a solemn topic of conversation, yet somehow it often enters into our minds and escapes our mouths, however much I want to avoid it. Death is always around the corner, but most people forget that, until they face it straight in the face. At one point, the question to ask is not when, but how... how to die, and perhaps more importantly, how to die peacefully and without regrets, without remorse.

There is a movie sometime ago about two men who meet by chance in the oncology ward. They are living their last breaths of life, yet they decide to make a list of things they want to do and fulfil before they finally 'hit the bucket'. They decide the escape the dreariness of the hospital, the daily treatments, pills and medication. And they decide to travel, to make amends with estranged loved ones, to fulfill lifelong dreams they probably were never close to fulfilling if it were not for the terminal illness.

Sometimes, when faced with a choice, one must decide. Do I want to live and die under medication and the watch of doctors and nurses... or do I want to live fully and die happily accomplishing what I never thought I could accomplish, yet am blessed to still have the energy and ability to accomplish...?

Those are questions mum and I talked about. It is no light conversation, and at times I asked myself whether I am 'pushing' her too hard to face the facts, when it is already hard enough to be constantly faced with your own mortality, your own fragility... However pure my intentions are, I often do wonder if I am helping her, or hurting her, by talking about death and her illness so frankly with her. My fear is that she bottles it all inside, bottles it all deep down and seals it all up, so that all these fears and frustrations fester and rot, making her mind even more restless and agitated than ever...

For a change, I did not go into the appointment with mum, but instead waited outside. "You go in and have a talk with the doctor," I said. In a way, to respect her privacy, and to let her decide her own treatment and her own life, without me (or my brother, or my sister-in-law) hanging around and looking over her shoulder. In another way, it is my own way of 'letting go', for one day very soon, I'll have to walk away from this all, and I must start to 'let go' bit by bit...

Brother, my sister-in-law and I waited and waited outside the doctor's room. A lady in an armchair, looking lost and delirious kept on talking into the air, repeatedly saying, "I'm having dreams... I'm having dreams in my sleep." On her contorted face were the marks of worry, remorse and indescribable feeling of being lost and confused.

Mum came out of the doctor's room, and on her face was a change compared to before. She looked more hopeful, more reassured, a little less troubled. The neurosurgeon spoke for a long time with her, and took the time to listen to her, to assess her situation.

There are two types of doctors... there are ones who hark on treatment, who emphasise and strongly believe in science and the wonders of modern medicine... and there are doctors who empathise with the patient's needs and wishes, who believe that every individual has a right to life, and right to a dignified bidding farewell to life. The neurosurgeon mum recently had the fortune of meeting was the latter kind, and repeatedly she told me how  privileged she felt to receive his wise counsel and second opinion.

He does not promise a miracle solution. Again, he emphasised that whatever treatment mum is to undergo to halt, or at least control, the spreading of the tumour in the spinal column, must be assessed against the quality and expectancy of life. Surgery is an option, one with great risks, yet also long-term benefits if it is successful. But it is an option worth pursuing only if the expected length of life is longer than six months. Why undergo the pain and suffering of surgery if the cancer is going to spread rapidly around the body and eat away everything within within a few months anyway? I saw the neurosurgeon come out of the office-- a middle aged man with a slightly crooked back, a forehead of frowns, beady eyes, yet somehow on his face was to be found compassion and understanding.

In the coming week or so mum will have to go back to the hospital for more tests, more scans, more appointments, in order for the doctor to make a full assessment of the state of her health, and life expectancy. I will be here to accompany her till the very end... and for now, I am still scheduled to conclude my stay with her in around ten days time. That is the plan for now, and it is a plan that at present best accommodates her wish to see me go off to do my own things, and accommodate my desire to finally bring an end to my studies and perhaps make a start to my career.

All this may very well be very heavy to digest, and perhaps I do not really realise the implications of the latest appointment, or the importance of being with mum when the results come out early March. But with the heaviness comes a strange, strange calm.

I have done what I could in the last two months... in the last two years... However much longer I stay here, whatever else I do here, I can only offer so much, I can only do so much. I cannot take the cancer away. I cannot calm mum's mind or soothe her pain if my own mind is frightened, agitated and in pain.

Yes, with all this heaviness there flows a strange, strange calm.

For how else are you going to face all this but with calm, however strange that calm may feel like?

Valentine's Day

After a whole morning at the hospital, I came home to a big package.

As I opened it, little hearts of all shapes and colours fell out. As I dug deeper into the box, I found heart-shaped chocolates, biscuits, a Valentine's teddy bear, soap and a scented candle. I was immediately touched.

Most touching of all, I found pictures of my (Canadian) cat, and numerous cards for me written by friends back in Montreal. I have not opened or read the cards yet, as they are birthday cards, and that's not until next week.

The box means so much to me, especially because of the difficult times I'm going through. I'm just imagining the amount of time and preparation, and people involved in sending such a special gift all the way across the world.

Most of all, I'm imagining the thought, care, and my boyfriend put into preparing the package, in keeping it a secret.... all in the hope of giving me a beautiful surprise, and to let me  know how much I mean to him.


Thank you, my Valentine... I cannot express how much this means to me.

Sick

I finished making lunch, and after three or four bites, mum rushed to the washroom. The sound of vomiting came from the washroom, followed by coughing, gagging. I put down my chopsticks and my bowl, and lost my appetite.

I feel my limits of my patience and tolerance being tested, again and again... I feel angry, but I cannot be angry at mum, for she has done no wrong. She is just sick, and she did not choose to be. Nobody chooses to be sick. I feel frustrated inside, but there is no source of frustration, just frustration itself disturbing my mind.

 I close my eyes and feel like the minutes seem to pass by so slowly. Every waking moment seem to flow by so painfully.