Dearest Dad...

Dearest Dad, 

I know it's strange to be writing to you on a blog entry. But it seems nowadays you are the closest to me, even though you are no longer with me. I see you every day, I see you smile and look at me every day...

Look at me writing to you, crying, pleading for help! I promised myself I would not do so when you passed away. I promised myself to be strong, to make you proud, and now I feel like I am disappointing you so...Dad, you heard what mum just said about the portrait she wants for her funeral... Dad, you heard about how mum just wants it all to be  "simple"... Dad, you heard the discussions and rows we have been having over the past few days. I know, perhaps I should not be rude to mum, perhaps I should give her some space and just let her be... But how can I not feel anxious and worried when I see my own dear mother withdraw more and more and become so helpless it seems?

Dad, do you not see the tears that are falling so heavily now after more than two months of holding them in? Whatever I do, whatever I say, somehow it ends with mum reacting angrily back. Is it her illness talking? Is it her physical discomfort and mental pain that is making her so bitter and so angry? I am forcing her to do thing she does not want, she says, making her even more ill than she already is. Is it really my tone of voice? Is it really my impatience and simmering frustrations that are making me be or sound so very unkind to her? Is it my own inability to finally be confronted with symptoms of her gradual physical decline and imminent demise that I am getting angry and angrier? Why do I become so speechless and so deeply, deeply hurt when mum shouts back at me...? Am I really getting on her nerves, confining her personal space and freedom? All I want to do is help her, make sure she is comfortable and cared for, not cause her more pain or frustrations. But these days, it seems all I cause her is anger and  pain...

I know deep down, mum is hurting too and that she is hurting even much, much more. I cannot fully appreciate what it feels like to gradually lose the ability to write or hold chopsticks. I cannot fully comprehend the pain and perhaps even embarrassment of needing help for the simplest of chores that were so taken for granted before. I cannot possibly know what it feels like to live with this vile, disgusting disease growing inside that you cannot get rid of, and that keeps on growing and spreading. No, I cannot know how mum is feeling or hurting...

But does it not also pain you to see her sit there, almost all day, every day, and stare into blank space? Does it pain you not to see someone you love and care about more than dear life descend into depression and fringe on self-loathing? I really have tried, dad, tried and try even more to make her feel better, to provide her with nutritious foods and to make her go out more. I would like her to reach out to welfare workers, get a new (second) opinion on her condition, and contemplate the possibilities there are beyond just treatment, treatment, treatment. But I seem more and more unable to move her, and more and more I feel this growing gap descend between us...A gap filled with occasional outbursts or mum just waving her hand and dismissing what I would like to say.

Tell me if I really am being unfair and unkind to mother... let me know if I  really am failing in my duty as a son who just wishes his own mother could get better soon, and if not get better then at least feel better. Give me a sign, tell me what I am doing wrong, how perhaps I am failing her, failing you. For I really am so tired and so lost, so tested and so pushed to the limits I am unsure where to turn to, except to you, dad, who has long gone, and who looks down at us with that perpetual smile of yours... 

I must be going so insane to resort writing to you, dad... But desperate times calls for...

your son forever, 

with love, and tears,

....