Mum kept on insisting that we go out for a big meal to celebrate, but I didn't want to. The last time we went for a meal, we had to pack everything up half-way through the meal because mum was gagging and about to vomit. While fixing dinner, mum said I should eat long noodles, like I did last year, for the longer the noodles, the longer your life is said will be.
"I don't want a long life," I said, "Just a happy one". What's the point of a long life if you're miserable and suffering, whether physical pain or emotional torment? All I could hope for is a happy life, filled with love and care and kindness. Of course that all depends how I live my life, and how I choose to perceive life. Maybe a nice warm home, and a devoted, loving, caring person to go back home to every day. But that is perhaps asking too much. Just a happy life is enough.
I went to the bookstore after dinner to pick up new books to read. Reading is perhaps the one thing I can really concentrate on doing here, the one thing I can do relatively well amid the turbulent and upsetting circumstances surrounding mum's health condition nowadays. While browsing, I spotted a book that might prove useful for a personal challenge that I'm planning in the coming period-- if mum's condition permits me to go ahead.
When I got home, mum was getting ready for bed. On the nurse's recommendation, I warmed up some heat packs and placed them on her bed, for they are supposed to aid sleep. I lay down next to her, and she stroked my head a bit. Mum's hair has greyed plenty since the surgery. Her hands have somehow become very wrinkled and dry, her fingers trembling slightly. The coarseness of mum's voice still reminds me much of an old witch...
She began telling me about a conversation she had with my brother earlier. "It's good to see him happily married, and to have a new family to care for him." I had an idea where this was going. And I was right.
"I only wish you had someone too," she said quietly, straining a little as her voice is still very coarse and fragile, "When I am gone, I hope you will have a new mum and dad to care for you..." I closed my eyes, and imagined what they would look like... "They would be lucky to have a son like you..." I closed my eyes also to stop the tears from escaping.
Mum continued. "I am so fortunate. The surgery saved me in time, or otherwise I would have become paralysed for life. That is perhaps worse than death..." She recounted how waking up for the first time after the anesthetic wore off on 28 December she was so relieved she could feel and move her legs and arms. "It was like I was born again..." I was not there to witness that, to see the expression on her face when she came to and realised that she can move her body at will. I only managed to arrive a couple of hours later.
I lay next to mum and buried my head face down on a pillow. I said nothing as she continued. "If I think about it, I have no regrets..." It was not the first time mum said this, but it was the first time after her major surgery. The first time after many references to wanting to end her life because the soreness and pains after the surgery is tormenting her body and mind, and keeping her awake at night. "Dad was so thrift and hard on himself, and he left me with money for treatment," she said, sniffing, "And I am so lucky to have a son who cares so much." I closed my eyes even tighter. "Which boy would rush home and take care of his mother like you do?"
"I just want you to be well," I managed to say, "As the doctor said, it's the quality of life that matters..." Yes, why would you want to live on and on and live a life full of regrets, full of waking fears and dormant feelings of guilt and "what ifs", full of physical pain and discomfort? And like that couple in the movie we watched earlier together, when there is limited time and space to live, live and do pursuing a dream, living a dream. All the rest matters so very little. So very, very little.
I do not know how long mum will be around... I cannot guarantee that I can have success in my career or have the wonderful partner and caring in-laws that she would like me to have when she is no longer around. But here and now, I can try, and try, and try again to do everything I can to make her feel comfortable, to make her feel loved. There is nothing else I would do less, there is nothing more I could do less than be by her side as long as I can as she takes this slow, slow journey to recover her strength and 'old' self. Perhaps she may never recover, never be her old self, the strong, brave woman, mother and wife I now she once was. But in my mind, she will always be my dear, brave mother.
My dear, brave mother who gave birth to me twenty eight years ago.
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