Appointment

I rushed to the Hematology and Oncology clinic before mum did, to make sure the doctor had not left. It was a last minute appointment with her main physician, and as she is number 77, it must have been at the very end of the consultation hours. Lucky I was there, for almost as soon as I arrived, it was her turn, but she was not at the hospital yet. She was on her way, she took her time, as she was in a lot of physical discomfort from walking... but the doctor was on his way out, almost finished for the day...

I was relieved she got into the hospital on time, and the doctor stayed to see her. They have not met for three weeks  or so, last time they met it was just before her surgery. She was scheduled for a routine consultation and chemotherapy treatment on 26 December, this much I knew at the time. But immediately after seeing him, mum checked herself into the Emergency Room, complaining of debilitating pains, and weakness in her legs that she could barely walk. They took her in, and a day or so later, on 28 December, she was operated on to have her tumour removed.

Mum's main physician didn't say much, and he looked at his computer screen a while till he turned to us , looking glum. It's good the tumour in the spine has been removed, at least for the large part. "There are other places all over. We need to do more tests and scans..."

Brother, who also arrived with mum, was glum looking. He has rarely seen mum's doctor, unlike me, and he has rarely had the opportunity to hear things from the doctor's mouth. It was actually my brother who wanted to arrange the consultation, because he wanted to know. I was shocked to hear what the doctor said, but it did not surprise me. I knew things, though not details. I knew the cancer spread to one of the lymph glands. And that is never, never any good, for a lymph gland is like a filter that white blood cells and the blood circulation system must pass through before being sent to other parts of the body. If one cancerous cell gets into the circulation system, you can imagine........

"Can we treat it?" brother asked, anxiously. I stayed quiet. Year after year, for four years now, mum has been in and out of the hospital... first the colon, then another part of the colon, then metastasis, to the lymph, and last year to the bone, on her spinal column...You treat one bit, and the cancer pops up in another area. I've come to the imagery of that her condition is like one of those "Whac-a-mole" machines... you strike one area, it retreats, only to come up in another area. Sometimes, two or three or more come up at the same time... where do you strike? Where must you strike hard? I played that game, loved that game, as a child... Inadvertently, you start to get antsy and strike very hard, pounding the machine almost, because though cute looking, the moles become devious enemies that you must try to eradicate. It's a competitive game, an addictive game that gets your adrenaline going. And it's a race against time.

But you always, always lose...

Yes, mum's condition has become like that. A race against time. And one that she, we, will definitely lose. And this is not a game anymore. Maybe it should be one, to distract from the heaviness of it all, to benefit from the adrenaline rush and excitement of all it? "Insert coin here" for another round. And another.

And another.

It's addictive, so very dangerously addictive. And it is hard to pull yourself away.

"The next treatment," the doctor said, referring to the planned cyberknife radiotherapy, "It's just for that part of her body. There are other parts we need to look at more carefully, and see how we deal with them." There was a silence in the room. I looked at brother, looked at mum. I said nothing. But I could see brother was hurting, his eyes were shimmering. I placed a hand on mum's arm.

"And your voice," the doctor said to my mum, almost as a side note, "It won't get better." Mum was shocked, I could hear it from her face after hearing the latest diagnosis. Is she really going to talk like this for the rest of her life? Will she always strain to talk and sound so coarse and raspy...? Another doctor, her neurosurgeon, said it would get better in a few weeks. So did a nurse. And it's already been a few weeks since the surgery...

We left the consultation room, heavy in thought despite the unusually clear weather-- something that I have only seen once or twice in almost four weeks. We walked home slowly, I savoured every moment of that walk, of those moments when the three of us were together, walking side by side.

It may be a race against time, but for those moments, our time together was slow to pass, but so very precious to savour...