Dinner

"You really use [your] heart," she said, meaning that I really took a lot of effort. She grimaced  as she painfully swallowed a small bite of soba noodles. "Thank you..."

It was nothing, really. Fresh chicken soup with tomatoes and onions (both high in antioxidants and flavourful in soup), stir-fried sweet potato leaves with garlic, and a grilled salted fish. I left the food to stand for a while before asking her to eat, so that it would be easier on her throat. Cut wax apples for dessert.  It really was nothing, and I was even afraid that it was not nutritious enough. Mum said she had no appetite, and I tried to fix something that was, at least in my mind, appetising. I knew she did not want to eat, and in some ways she was only eating because I made the food. I ate quickly, forgetting even to sample the food, just eating mindlessly because I need to eat too.

In the span of an afternoon, her voice has almost completely disappeared. For some reason, even though it has already been three days after her latest (and last) radiotherapy, she is still feeling the side-effects. Losing her voice, I was told by a friend, would be one of them. I thought if the treatment stopped, she would gradually recover. But no, she has even more difficulty swallowing and eating, it seems, and I fear for her weight, even though my own weight has not fared much better in the past month or so. The stress, the worries, the fears are simply too much sometimes...

We took a walk after dinner, just around the neighbourhood, and to a department store nearby. It was a quiet walk, for I did not want her to have to exert herself talking. A group of Falung-gong practitioners meditated in silence, reminding me again that today is the 22nd anniversary of the Tiananmen Massacre. How many people actually took notice, I wondered.

To the bookstore we went, more specifically to the travel section. Together we picked up a guide to Canada, and browsed excitedly through the pages, admiring the beautiful pictures of Canada's landscape and sights. Perhaps the excitement and anticipation of the upcoming trip 'healed' mum, at least for a moment, and her voice was less strained, less coarse. I bought the book for her, hoping that browsing through it will make her forget her condition, and make her more and more determined, physically and mentally to travel.

At the temple

I know it myself, it's just that perhaps I don't want to admit it. And even if I do admit it, what can I do to change anything, to change fate, to change life or death?

The medicine to soothe mum's throat inflammation finished yesterday, so I travelled across town to meet up with her friend, the one who used to be a nurse and has a supply of the medicine at home.

I met her at a Matsu temple in Songshan district, a place where I first lived until the age of five or so. The temple is dedicated to the Goddess of the Sea, who also happens to be my godmother, and I do have some vague memories of playing on the steps of the temple as a little boy.

Fast forward twenty something years, to today, and there I sat on the bench talking to mum's friend.

"You know it's near the end..." Under normal circumstances, it would have been too direct, perhaps even rude to say that to a child, but I know it myself. I have known it when I first saw the doctor's report that all they can do now is provide palliative care, and make sure mum does bot have too much pain. The tumour on the spine, even if it's under control now, even if it's become smaller as a result of the chemo and radiotherapy, it's only a matter of time... Till it spreads... to the lymph glands... to the brain... Who knows where to? The future is unimaginable, the pain and suffering nobody can fathom... I know, I know... Even if I sometimes pretend not to know.

"It's good that you came back to be with her through this latest treatment," she said, "I was very afraid that she would not go through with the treatment." I nodded, and said I've only done my best.

"You're doing a lot, it's a lot to take for anyone..." Yes it is, it really is, and sometimes I do wish I could just turn away and not care so much. Wouldn't that be so much easier- to not care, to not worry, to not feel pain when you see someone in pain?

I swallowed and thanked her again and again for being there for mum while my brother and I are away. All those phone calls, home calls, all those words of encouragement and support mum's fried has given in the last few years. The box of chocolates in my hand which I wanted to give her, even a thousand boxes of the same chocolates, could never repay what I feel I owe her... My eyes filled with tears, but they were contained around the rim of my eyes.

"I'm just doing what a friend do, it's nothing more than lifting my hands," she said, meaning it's something that doesn't take too much extra effort. Once again, I realise what simple joy and comfort friends can bring, and how they can help to ease the heavy heavy burden on your shoulders.

We parted ways, and she promised she will continue to call mum, to check up on her regularly when I'm not around. "Take her out, talk about happy things, make her enjoy life...!" she reminded me.

I'll try...

I'll try...

Just as I've always tried, I'll keep in trying...

Before my godmother I knelt on my knees with a bunch of incense sticks in my hands. I closed my eyes softly, and felt the scent of herbal incense waft into my nostrils. Around me were prayers and murmurs of other devout worshippers. She sat on a high stool at the back end of the temple, surrounded by gilded cloaks, ornamental decorations and dragons, and other lesser deities.

"Godmother," I whispered in my heart, "please take care of mum, please let her be healthy, please let her be happy, please don't let her have too much pain or suffering..." My head was bent low, and I wad there silent for a while. But what I felt deep deep down surfaces in the form of tears that swam and shimmered in my eyes.

There are millions and millions of prayers and wishes my godmother Matsu must listen to everyday and night, and mine is no more or less important. Everyone wants to be happy, everyone wants to live without pain and worry. Perhaps prayer to a higher being is self-consolation and seeking solutions for problems that are beyond us, beyond our comprehension and understanding....

But I will keep on trying, and I will keep on hoping.

nightmare

I woke up suddenly, screaming. A silent scream, a voiceless scream inside my head, so very unsettling, so very disturbing.

My head is spinning, turning an dizzy with things I'm longing to say, but I cannot say, not at this moment.

But deep down, I am tormented by the silence.

I must break free.

Go ahead

I had wanted to rush home from downtown to accompany  mum to her appointment with her main physician. But it would have meant leaving my sister-in-law alone with her heavy suitcase, and trying to cross town at lightning speed through Friday traffic. Mum told me not to worry, and that she will head to the hospital alone.

Later in the evening, she told me what happened earlier. The doctor took a look at her latest test results and scans. He nodded and told her that things look "not bad" (in Taiwanese, a somewhat pessimistic-sounding language, it means "good").

"Would you like to do another chemo?" he asked.

"Seriously!? I thought I just finished!"

He was just pulling her leg, trying to humour her. Sometimes, in the face of death and illness, you should be able to laugh. You should be able to do something that is not expected, so you can escape the dark lure and demeanour of death and illness. Additional chemotherapy is not necessary, but he has prescribed some medicine that can be taken orally and will have a similar effect of suppressing tumour growth. Two weeks daily, and then one week rest.

"So I am good to go...?" she asked.

"Sure, go travel, go wander around a bit!" the doctor said. Another go-ahead, this one from her main physician, a confirmation of what her radiologist said earlier on Monday, making her even more assured. She can travel for around two months, and it is recommended that she come back for a check-up. Mum looked happy as she told me this, and afterwards I made further plans to travel after we arrive in Canada.

I pulled out the scale, and asked her to weigh herself. In the last four days since she last measured herself, she gained weight by 0.2kg. Not a lot, but at least it is a gain, not a loss. Hopefully she can keep this up and recuperate well enough to fly in exactly a week's time.

Day out

"Pregnant woman," I said loudly, on purpose, as we boarded the metro, "Do you want to sit?"
My sister-in-law was embarrassed and said she felt too full to sit, and preferred standing instead. There were two teenager sitting in front of us, napping. They did not wake up. She remained standing for around ten minutes before a middle-aged woman encouraged her to sit. "It's better to sit," the woman said to my sister-in-law, and she finally did.

We were on our way downtown, and I helped carry her suitcase as she did some errands before she made her way home to the centre of the island. Though her stomach doesn't look that big yet, she is officially into her sixth month of pregnancy, and I wanted to make sure she was alright. She told me even that sometimes she forgets that she is pregnant, and the other day she actually ran and waved for a bus to stop. Luckily the bus did stop and wait for her, and as she got on board, the driver told her to take it easy.

We talked a lot, about all sorts of things, and  I realised that it was the first time that we were alone together, and it didn't feel awkward at all. She really is a kind and charming person, as I've always felt she is ever since I met her. And, importantly, she is really respectful to my mum, and her presence has really changed my brother in many ways for the better. She even volunteered to come up and  stay over for two days, because she wanted to pay respects to my dad before she leaves the country in a couple of weeks to join my brother in Europe. That shows a lot, especially how much she cares about and respects tradition, and both our families get along nicely too.

A lot of the conversation centred on life in her new home, and of course also on the baby. Though he is still growing inside, I somehow feel such affinity toward him, and I told my sister-in-law that. I said I will do everything I can do help them, and to give the baby a good, healthy childhood by providing him with lots of good quality playthings and toys. The other day, her mother actually joked that perhaps they should consider sending the baby to Canada for me to raise, given that I've got some experience already with my godson. Both my brother and sister-in-law have little or no experience at all dealing with nappies, feeding or even holding a baby. "It'll come naturally," I said, and wondered how I actually managed to deal with all that when my godson was born.
 
For some time have been browsing baby stores to get an idea of what there is to buy. Perhaps I know that, however much I would like to have and/or raise a child, it will be some time  before my life can settle down and before I can find a partner I can share my life with (if ever). That is a big reason why my nephew's birth feels so close to heart and excites me so. If I had a child in my life, I would take care of  (for lack of a more better, gender-neutral word) it, pamper it, shower it with love, affection and care.

And I cannot wait to welcome my nephew into this world, and to show him all the wonders and beautiful things there are in life...

Facing death

 There is an ad in the Taipei Metro recently featuring three people, all famous celebrities. One man has his hands cupped around his ears... a woman has her hands covering her mouth... another man has his hands covering his eyes. "Regarding death," the caption reads, as three voices read out, "What is your attitude?"

There are three different kinds of ads, with similar messages. The setting for each ad is set in an airport, with the main character sitting and symbolically waiting with a packed suitcase. "Facing death, [you] should listen, talk, read". Listen to the advice of the medical care specialists, listen to your friends and relatives... Talk about your health, talk about death, about leaving this world, express your love, your regrets, your dreams before it is too late... Read about how to prepare for death, about the experience of falling ill, about the difficulty of dying, about the difficulties of letting go...

I have seen the ad numerous times, and every time I stop to watch it. "What is my attitude to death?" I find myself asking. I am not sure yet, but I would like to think I am not afraid. If I were to go now, I have little or nothing to regret about. I have said and written everything there is about myself and about my life, here or elsewhere. I just hope to leave this world quietly, as quietly as I came. I do hope to be able to leave something behind to this world and to some of its people. Which is partly why I feel compelled to write and to take pictures, in attempts to capture precious little moments and share them, lest they are gone and forgotten forever.

I know that death will come. Come to take my friends, my family away... I have see and experienced it first hand. I held onto dad's hand, as death took him by the other. And at times, when mum is hurting, or even when mum is smiling and laughing, I tell myself that death is always lurking around, waiting. In no way is this a morbid way of thinking, I do not think. It tells me to be vigilant, and to treasure every waking moment with loved ones and friends. It tells me to (try and) be the best person I can be, to (try and) give the best I can in all I do, and to everyone I meet. Which is why, even if others mock me for it, whenever I say goodbye to someone, even strangers I come across on the street sometimes, I silently wish them well, and openly tell them to take good care. "Contemplate death... contemplate that all things will come and go..." as the Buddha taught. Know that all things, all beings, are mortal and subject to change, subject to disappear.

Of course, I am afraid of losing mum, and I cannot imagine how I will react when that moment comes, however much I try to picture it sometimes. Fortunately, we have been frank about death, talked about it in many ways and many times. Of course I will hurt, and that sense of longing and loss will linger on and on, if not for as long as I live. But those feelings will come and go, come and go, just as people and things around me will come and go...

There are many people who do not know, do not want to know about death. They do not want to hear about it, they do not want to talk about, they do not want to read about it. And they are shocked and hurt beyond consolation when it suddenly strikes them. It is only natural, especially in a world where so much emphasis is placed on health, youth and beauty.

But part of life, part of living, is death and dying. Open your eyes, open your ears, open your mouth, and open your mind...

Facing death

 There is an ad in the Taipei Metro recently featuring three people, all famous celebrities. One man has his hands cupped around his ears... a woman has her hands covering her mouth... another man has his hands covering his eyes. "Regarding death," the caption reads, as three voices read out, "What is your attitude?"

There are three different kinds of ads, with similar messages. The setting for each ad is set in an airport, with the main character sitting and symbolically waiting with a packed suitcase. "Facing death, [you] should listen, talk, read". Listen to the advice of the medical care specialists, listen to your friends and relatives... Talk about your health, talk about death, about leaving this world, express your love, your regrets, your dreams before it is too late... Read about how to prepare for death, about the experience of falling ill, about the difficulty of dying, about the difficulties of letting go...

I have seen the ad numerous times, and every time I stop to watch it carefully again and again. "Facing death, what is my attitude?" I would stop and ask myself. Death will come, one day or another. It will come to me, as it has numerous times before, to take my loved ones, to take my friends away.

And it will come to me, one day or another, and take me away. What is my attitude? I am not afraid, I have nothing to regret about if I were to leave this world today. I just hope my leaving one day will not leave behind too many broken hearts and people aching. I want to go quietly, as quietly as I came, and hopefully leave something to this world and some of its people. Which is part of the reason I feel compelled to write and take pictures, in attempts to capture moments when I am on this world still and to share them, lest those precious little moments go away and are forever forgotten.

What is my attitude toward death of a loved one? I have seen it before, I have experienced it first hand. I held onto dad's hand, while death took him by the other. And I see it now, lurking around mum, at moments when she is hurting, and even at moments when she is smiling and laughing.

"Contemplate death... remind yourself everything will come and go... remind yourself that everything you have will one day go away" as the Buddha taught. Am I afraid of losing people dear to my heart? Yes, I am. I am only human. I hurt, I cry, I feel. But in a way I have already lost them, because despite their physical presence, despite them lying next to me, one day they will no longer be there.

There are many people who don't want to see death, who don't want to hear about death, who don't want to read about death. There is such a deep seated fear and taboo surrounding the topic, and they are lost and unprepared when it suddenly comes. Of course, I won't know if it were to suddenly come again how I would react, especially with my mum. But at least we have been frank about it and talked it through many times before. Of course, the ache and the deep sense of loss will be there, I am sure, but in the end there is nothing to fear, nothing to cling onto.

Needle

Mum's tongue looks burnt. Black and burnt, partly from the combination of chemo and radiotherapy. I see it every night and day, because her friend gave her a solution which will help soothe her throat inflammation. So just after waking up, and just before bed, I must inject the reddish-brown liquid onto her tongue, on the walls of her mouth and into her throat.

How do I do that? With a syringe. It's the first time I've ever come so close to administering medicine with a syringe, and the sharp needle head always looks menacing. 0.5ml each time, not more not less. I must slowly, slowly press the syringe, and the solution will squirt into her mouth. There are areas I should target, places on the walls of her oral cavity where it looks bruised, and also deep into her throat where the flesh is redder and more inflamed. I feel like a nurse every time I squirt the medicine with the syringe, even though I am ever so careful not to stick the needle into her flesh... or into my own flesh!

Mum says her throat aches a  little less after the medicine is administered. A little less doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt any more, because it still does. And since the radiotherapy, she has been producing more phloem, and her saliva is more 'bubbly' in texture than before, and bitter tasting, she says.

Hopefully, with time, her inflammation with die down and disappear, and she will no longer feel any discomfort when eating or drinking...

Ice cream

For the last two weeks, the best moment of every meal for mum comes  at the end. "I want ice cream," she would say, and joke that she has become a big kid whining for cold ice cream. It's soothing for her throat, and because of the coldness, she somehow does not feel any much pain when swallowing.

So, after every meal, mum gets her treat. Almond milk, chocolate and vanilla, green tea, red bean, sesame, coconut. All kinds of different flavours, and even if she cannot finish everything on her plate, she always manages to finish her bowl or cone of ice cream. She doesn't care about calories any more, she said, as long as she can eat, anything that she enjoys or would suddenly have a craving for, she just eats it.

The past two days, my sister-in-law came to stay over, and every night we would go out for ice cream and sit around and chat. We get along fine together, and get very excited talking about life in Europe, and plans to meet up there later in the Summer. With the baby expected at the end of August, much of the talk hovers around what to be aware of before and after giving birth. On both their faces, I can see the wonderful joy and hopes. It soothes mum's pain and frustrations, as much as eating ice cream does.

Visit

    

The sky was heavy with rain, dripping incessantly and instantly soaking anything that was not sheltered. The sea disappeared, the mountains disappeared, hidden behind thick, thick fog that drifted in from the cold and rough North Sea. A waft of clouds, resembling the shape of an outstretched dragon, climbed up the face of the mountain and gathered at the gates of the temple.

Every time I go visit dad, it seems to rain. Sometimes heavy, sometimes light, and sometimes it would rain and then suddenly clear again. I wonder often whether the rain is a confirmation of receipt, for traditionally on visits like these, the living would burn lots of paper money and material goods to offer to the deceased. Perhaps the more that is offered, the more the heavens give back in return.

 Together with mum and my sister-in-law, we went to pay dad and our ancestor's a visit. A few days ahead of the official day of the Dragon Boat Festival, one of a number of  important days to remember the dead, in order to avoid the crowds and rush. Since yesterday, we have been busy preparing, not as elaborately as other days, but still, I bought tonnes of fresh fruits and some balls of glutinous rice wrapped in lotus leaves (zongzi), which is a traditional food that is offered and eaten around this time of the year. Among the bags of food and fruits, I placed maple syrup cookies I had brought all the way from Canada.

The food we placed on a table in front of the ancestral plaque. I lit incense sticks, and quietly we stood in front of the little piece of wood that bears our family name. I closed my eyes, and 'spoke' to my grandma, my grandpa, the two people from another generation I still have memory of. And I 'spoke' also to my dad, who left three years ago already...

I told them that I had returned, and that as promised, I have come to see them. I hoped they have been well, and thanked them for watching over the family. I asked them for a few simple things, perhaps after all these visits they already know what I was going to ask for... to take care of mum's health condition, to let her be happy and free from pain, to watch over brother, my sister-in-law, and the first grandson of our generation, to bless them and protect them from harm... I asked for nothing else.

Together we walked into a chamber containing individual 'lockers' for storing urns. Quickly I found dad's, and gave his name a soft stroke. We stood before it for a moment or two, and spoke to him. I stayed behind a little longer, and when mum and my sister-in-law had turned the corner, I pressed my forehead against dad's locker... "Please protect mum and let her not feel more pain... please, dad, please... Watch over her health and her body, and make sure she is well. I have long dreamed of taking her on this trip with me to Canada, and please protect us on this long, long journey."

At that point I could not contain my tears. As my lips met the cold steel face of dad's locker, I cringed and my eyes became moist. Memories of dad came back...

...his smile, his scent, his kindness, all those years of hardwork and toil to provide us with a better life, free from worry, free from material needs... And today, he is already gone. He cannot see for himself how I am doing in my new home. How I wish he could be there with me, with mum as we tour Canada, as I show them around my home and my friends...

"Rest well, dad, and please take good care of yourself..." My fingers brushed against his name again, and I closed my eyes to steady myself, to steady my emotions. There is so much I would like to say, so much frustration and uncertainty in my life I would like to share with dad. I would like to tell him how very afraid and lonely I feel at night... how lacking in confidence I feel at times, despite that brave face and smile I put on... how much I long for stability and companionship... But I held myself back, even though from where he is, dad probably knows...

On the way home, we were all quiet, unlike on the way up to the mountain, when we were all chatting away excitedly about my sister-in-law's beginning her new life with my brother in Europe. I stared into the distance, at the blue, blue rough ocean, and drifted away.

Sleep came over me, sleep and dreams that offered a temporary escape from all those thoughts, fears and that gnawing sense of loss and uncertainty...

"Rest well..." I heard myself say... "Rest well..."

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...

Mum's friend

Just before I left home back in February, I prepared a little gift and wrote a  nice card and left it behind. I asked mum to please give it to a friend of hers, someone who calls almost every single day to check up on how she is doing. I've only met this 'auntie' a couple of times, but in many ways, when I see them talking and laughing on the phone, my heart is filled with such gratitude.

This auntie came by today, as she would do once every two, three weeks or so. She used to be a nurse, so she is trained and knowledgeable in medicine and nutrition. Especially when mum is doing chemo, she would call to advise mum what to eat, and what to avoid, and generally, to act as a support and confidante.

I saw the auntie only briefly today, as I was rushing to go out. But I thanked her again and again, and wasn't sure what I could say or do to convey my gratitude. She came over this time to bring a throat medicine that will help to soothe mum's aches and swelling from the radiotherapy. "Your mum looks healthier and her face is a bit rounder since I last saw her," she said, implying that she gained a bit of weight. She congratulated me on a job well-done, but embarrassed I looked down at my feet. I only did what I could, nothing more, nothing less...

The auntie said she was worried, especially in the last few weeks that mum would quit the treatment, because she knows how trying it can get when the treatment accumulates. Those final few sessions are the toughest, because the patient is usually so mentally and so physically worn that there is often no more will to face the doctors, face all that medicine and all that radiation... "It's good that you came back," she said to me, "It really has helped her a lot..." She said mum is really strong, and that she is proud of mum fr pulling it through all the way to the end, for it has been a painful, long and arduous journey, a lot of it undertaken on her own. What little time I have spent with her is minimal to the length of time she has had to deal with her condition, deal with the treatments, and the emotional and physical aftermaths of her treatments, which to date has lasted almost half a year.

"Go take her out for a while, let her enjoy the cleaner environment and surroundings overseas," she said, "It'll do her a lot of good".

I intend to. I cannot describe how eager I would like to just board the next plane and take her away. One more treatment tomorrow, and in ten day's time, we will be on our way...

Remember when?

As a boy, every month at the beginning of the month, we would gather around one evening to see if we've won the lottery. To combat businesses not paying taxes, the government has for decades introduced a system of "uniform receipts", whereby consumers are encouraged to always get a receipt from the vendor, because each receipt carries a unique set of numbers which at the end of the month also act as lottery numbers. Prizes start from NT$200 and go up to a million, and more recently ten million ( though the chances of winning are slimmer nowadays). But it was always something that brought the family together.

When dad was still alive, he was a vehement receipt collector. He would walk around, and whenever he sees in on the floor he would pick it up and take it home, proudly saying "I've just won a million!" He was careful with money, and every time we do win something, he would give it to me or to my mum. A couple of times, with winnings in the thousands, we'd even go out for a luxurious meal together.

It's been a couple of years since I last sat down, next to a big pile of rectangular receipts and carefully compared lottery numbers. Last time, dad was still around, and I remember sitting on the living room floor in the old family home, while he sat on the sofa next to me and squinted through his old-man glasses to read the numbers. Touching, fun, and at times exciting moments, especially when you are off by a number or two and so close to wining something. "better luck next time", dad would say if it was a "bad" month. Afterwards, I would ruffle through all that paper, and toss it all around in the air, pretend as if it were money bills. My fingers would smell of ink for some time afterwards. The smell would go away when I washed my hands, yet the memories remain till this day.

Since dad passed away, mum has been collecting the receipts and sending them to charitable organisations, many of which rely on this as a major source of income. One that she donates to works to provide care for physically handicapped persons, another is an orphanage in a poor part to the east of the island.

For some reason, mum suddenly had the urge to compare lottery numbers, so that's what we did tonight. Before we began, we agreed that if we were to anything, the money would still go to charity. I joked if we were to win ten million, we should at least keep ten percent! As our fingers and eyes focused on the little pieces of receipts,  we  talked about "remember when...?"

We did not win anything in the end, but we did bring back some memories of dad, and how things used to be...

The deed is done

For a long time, I have wanted to take mum on this trip. To the Canadian Rockies, to those enchanted and mystical places deep in the mountains.... Jasper, Lake Louise, Banff... For a long time, they seemed to be far away places, so far, far away. I've been showing her pictures and video montages made by people online to whet her appetite, and to get her interested and excited. And today, we are a step closer to getting there.

After today's good news about mum's health condition, mum and I decided to take a leap of faith. Of course, in life, there may be many unexpected events and changes, and sometimes you just have to weather them. And that also means sometimes you have a to take a risk. After browsing for tour packages for some time, we decided to go for one that includes all the highlights of the Rockies, and most important of all, involves a two day train journey on a special train service. The tour does not come cheap, but sometimes in life, you have to tell yourself that you can only live once, and you can only experience certain experiences once in your one lifetime. So just do it.

Mum certainly deserves a break from all the hospital visits, and all that staying at home, now almost half a year into her retirement. This will be her first trip overseas, and I want to make it a special and memorable one. As I keep on telling her, some things you see and experience, and you will continue to be so amazed and inspired by it for a lifetime. However short or long that lifetime is, does not matter. At least after everything has been said, she has been there, done that.

So I filled in the booking form just now, and the credit card details, and faxed it over to the travel agent. It seems like such a little step, at just a little over midnight local time here, but it took such a  long time of weighing all the options, risks and possibilities. But sometimes you just have to do it, and hope that things will turn out as planned.

And if this does, it will be a trip to remember and to talk about for a long, long time....

Treatment number 14

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.

Being frank

Two days over the weekend without the radiotherapy, and mum's throat ache seems to be slowly, slowly subsiding. It still hurts a lot when she swallows, to the extent that sometimes I can see beads of sweat trickle down her forehead, but at least it is a sign that, perhaps, when the treatment stops completely in three days, she will gradually recover.

The weekend has been time for her to recover and rest, and as usual every meal I try to encourage her to eat as much as possible and eat as balanced a diet as possible. It has come to the point where, like a parent watching the small child eat and finish the meal, I clap and congratulate mum whenever she finishes what I put on the table. Truly, that sense of joy that she can finish something, even if with a lot of effort and pain, is immense.

Over lunch today, we talked a bit about my future life and plans. "It's been so unstable," I said, "The last three years or so..." It was not a complaint, more an observation, especially when I look back and realise how many times and how frequent I have been shuttling back and forth between here and Canada just to spend time with mum. I cannot blame her, or the circumstances that made my life this way. But I admitted that I am really tired, and frustrated that a lot of my plans have been put on hold, whereas I really feel like I want to accomplish something real soon. My thesis... my bar exams... finding a  job and having a stable income... settling down somewhere without having to look at a suitcase every two, three months.

Mum understood, and said she felt responsible. But by no means did I want her to feel that way. "With the treatment almost over" I said, "And with the planned trip about to take place, I really hope it will all do you good." Traveling has always done wonders for mum's health, for it is when she is traveling and seeing the world that she forgets completely about her illness and her condition. A change of heart, a change of scenery and a change of the way the mind thinks and sees can go a long way to keeping the illness at bay, or at least under control. And that is the hope... that for some time, her condition can be stable, and that I will be able to focus on what I would like to accomplish, focus on living my life. Mum understood what I wanted to say, and she agreed, for as she always has said, I should not be too preoccupied with her health.

I know it is premature to think about going back home and making something out of myself, because no one knows what the future really holds.  Perhaps it is even selfish to want to eagerly get back to my own life, while it is not known what will happen to mum in the coming period. Perhaps, taking care and being there for others is my duty in life. But I do often feel like I could do so much more, I feel I could use my talents and potentials to create something for myself and for the benefit of others, whereas the past couple of years have been a rough, stalling period that seem to pass by slowly, with many days spent worrying and agonising over her condition...

We shall see what the future brings... but deep inside I am anxious and eager to work and live.

Foolish me?

Am I a fool? Foolish enough to keep on waiting, keep on hoping, and keep on wondering about whether what he and I shared in the past will come back again? 

Am I blinded by emotions, letting my feelings get the better of me, letting emotions take over when my rational side tells me I'm going to get myself into trouble, going to dig myself deep in pain and hurt and longing. 

Why am I still hnging around, hovering around like a butterfly when in fact that flower of our relationship has blossomed and wilted? 

I am a fool to keep on imagining, keep on fantasizing  that that love was real, was true, was going to last when in fact his heart and eyes are wandering and seeking out other pleasures. I promised myself to be faithful, to be true to the other person, to be true and honest to myself. But I cannot expect everyone to do the same. I cannot prevent other people from enjoying fun and living on the spur of the moment, seeking sensual pleasures and indulging in temporary satisfaction. 

I must free myself from the negative influences of being played with, and being led to believe in something false and uncertain. I am no angel, an perhaps I have made the same mistake of letting him believe for a long time that there was hope between us. 

But now I must protect myself, free myself from all this complication, all this fear of loss, from the degrading uncertainty of being placed on hold while he keeps his options and mind open for what he wants....

I must free myself, an let go.