At the chemo ward

"Hang on there, auntie," the nurse said, "Be strong." Her words fully of empathy, her smile full of understanding. I, in the already so fragile state of mind, could have broken down and cried right there at the  chemo ward.

I looked around the room, at all these brave, brave souls with needles in their arms undergoing chemotherapy. My pain is nothing compared to theirs, my fears are miniscule compared to theirs of death and of being physically eroded by whatever cancer ails them. How could I even think of crying?

As the nurse injected the needle into her shoulder, I touched mum's arm lightly. Naively, I imagined that my touch would send her strength, and reassure her that I am here, right next to her if she needed me... There is little, so very little I can do to take away her physical pains, there is so little I can do to rub away the cancerous cells multiplying inside her body, metastasising to her bones. But my touch, my prayers, however meagre, however quiet, can hopefully give her that extra ounce of strength to fight... fight, and fight until she can fight no more.

"Hang on there, auntie," the nurse said. I recognised her. I have seen her many times at the chemotherapy ward. She is always so kind, so patient, so friendly in the face of all these patients who come in day in and day out. How does one maintain patience and calm in the face of watching another person in pain, may that be physical or mental pain? Perhaps with a sense of detachment, you can be patient and calm and treat all these patients because it is what you have to do, and it is something you have to do well, because all these patients rely on your professionalism and expertise. Because, frankly, often life and death is in your hands...

The nurse chatted with mum and asked mum how she has been.

"The hoarseness of your voice... How long have you had it?" the nurse asked.

Since the surgery. For several weeks now, mum's voice has been coarse and very weak. I sometimes have to really strain and lean in close to her to hear what she is saying or asking me to do. Perhaps with time, I have grown accustomed to what she is saying or wants to say.  In a way I have become a translator from "hoarseness" to normal speech, for sometimes even my brother doesn't know what she is trying hard to say. And mum gets frustrated, and  moody very easily because she has difficulty in expressing herself. A lot of the time, she just does not say anything. So there is a lot of silence, which can be difficult to deal with.

"The voice will come back, but it will take time..." the nurse advised. During the surgery, tubes were inserted into her throat for hours and hours, and that may have caused some damage. Whether it is permanent remains to be seen. One doctor, her main physician, seems to think so. Imagine the shock on her face when she heard that for the rest of her natural life, she may have to talk like this... talk in this raspy, harsh and strained voice that reminds me a lot of a very old witch with fragile health...

"And the neck brace. I tried it on for a day out of curiosity," the nurse said, "But it was so uncomfortable. Just eating and swallowing water was very painful, very difficult." Then I realised why mum likes to take off at least the back half of the neck brace. Because it really is constraining. But without it, she can easily injure her spine, because the bones there are still very fragile, and it will take months, perhaps up to six, or more, till she can hold her neck up by herself.

"Take good care, auntie," the nurse said, "Hang on there! Just a little longer..."

I bowed as I left the cancer ward... in deep reverence and with deep, deep gratitude for the nurse's kindness and expressions of care and compassion. It touched me so deeply, so very, very profoundly. Her voice, her kind words reached down to my heart, to my soul...

Deep down, I thanked her for caring about my mum, for sharing the heavy, heavy burden I am shouldering.

I wiped a tear away as I left the noise and smell of the chemotherapy ward.