Life and death park

I came here last time with a friend who was visiting her ill grandmother. She knew that her dear grandmother did not have much more time left...

We sat on a bench in the corner of the "Life and Death Park", where there are various sculptures and art pieces dealing with life, farewell, bereavement and continuing life again. We sat here for a while until the mosquitoes chased us away.

She and I share similar experiences, for her mum also had colon cancer. She quit her studies for a year or so to be with her mum. I was grateful she shared her story with me, for I know how painful it must be to recount the final moments together with and the tragic loss of the dearest person in this world. I cannot begin to imagine how or whether I will be able to recount my story once the chapter of my life with mum in it has come to an end...

It was oppressive sitting in the waiting hall and watching the big display board flash mum's name every few minutes. She went in at 8.00, and so far, she's still in surgery. I felt my hands tremble, I felt my mind go wild with thoughts, I felt my eyes threatening to burst into tears. The waiting is torturous. The waiting is so hard, perhaps harder, to bear alone... But i was/ am not alone in that waiting area, for I am surrounded by dozens of relatives and family of other patients, who I can imagine are just as if not more anxious and scared as I am. As the saying goes here, the waiting and the uncertainty feels like you are "carrying your heart and your spleen is being hung" (提心吊膽)...

I accompanied mum down to the preparation room at 7.26. An orderly helped her onto a smaller bed, and mum was covered with a large quilt of that familiar green colour the medical staff wear in the operating room. Throughout the journey down to the third floor, the operating area, mum closed her eyes. I snuck my hand under the quilt and held onto her hand. Held onto her hand like I've never done before, like I've only done with my ex... Held onto her hand tightly and forcefully and yet gently to let her know that no matter what, I am right here, right here by her side. She went through two operations before, once in 2006 and once at the end of last year. I was not there either times. But I am here now, holding her hand.

Mum did not say much. At one point, while waiting in the area before being sent to the "secure" (contamination free) area, she opened her eyes and said: "Don't worry, the heavens will protect us. You let go of your heart (放心), a saying meaning do not worry.
I looked at her held her hand even tighter.

Mum was the last to be admitted into the operating area, where there are a total of 25 operating rooms. She was assigned room 23. They somehow managed to lose the signed copy of the consent form for anaesthesia (not a promising start...) and I had to sign another there and then. When we entered the area at almost a quarter to eight, it was so hectic, with nurses and doctors running around and shouting abbreviations and commands like it was the stock exchange. At the end, it was just mum and I, and a few assistants left.

They transferred her onto a ramp, for I imagine the hospital beds could not go into the contamination-free zone. The ramp was like a conveyor belt that separated the two zones, and on the other side, separated by a glass window that automatically slides up and down, a number of nurses and assistants clad completely in green received mum. Just before they took her, I held onto her hand tightly again, and kissed her on the forehead.

"Good luck! I'll be right here..." Mum replied with a nod and a faint smile.

"Relax, relax, stretch out your legs..." one of the assistants said to mum and straightened her legs, which where mangled together in a twist. I think she must have been afraid, even though earlier when I asked her whether she was afraid, she said there was nothing to be afraid of, and we have to deal with everything with equanimity.

"Sir, I'll have to ask you to leave and wait in the waiting area outside..." 

"Just another minute. I want to see..." I said as I pointed to mum, who was being slowly transported into the "secure" area on the thin trolley. Were it not for her head showing, it somehow reminded me of a body being taken to the morgue. I wanted to tap on the window to get mum's attention. I willed that she would turn her head a bit and look back, but she did not. I watched took one last look before mum her two chaperones clad in green turned a corner and vanished from sight.

I left, and was the last relative to leave the room.