Further decline

Mum is snoring, a sign she is asleep. She has been sleeping most of the day, more and more like a baby or child who needs, or perhaps not need but just naturally sleeps more sleep than the average. Just before going to bed, I read to her part of an article in the book that the monk in the mountains brought her when he visited two days ago:

As soon as we're born, we're dead. Our birth and death are just one thing. It's like a tree: when there's a root there must be twigs. When there are twigs there must be a root. You can't have one without the other. It's a little funny to see how at a death people are so grief-stricken and distracted, tearful and sad, and at a birth how happy and delighted. It's delusion, nobody has ever looked at this clearly. I think if you really want to cry, then it would be better to do so when someone's born. For actually birth is death, death is birth, the root is the twig, the twig is the root. If you've got to cry, cry at the root, cry at the birth. Look closely: if there was no birth there would be no death. Can you understand this?

She thanked me for reading to her after I finished. She does not say much these days, perhaps because as she says, she is just feeling very tired all the time. She barely can muster the energy to move her body sideways to shift her weight so that she's not lying on one side all the time. But the piece I read her these last three days is very pertinent to her at this very moment.

Mum knows she is dying (well, if you look at life in the broader sense, we are all dying...) We do not say it, the nurses and doctor do not say it, but we all know. Why else would she be in the hospice ward? Why else would she still be here, even though the normal 'two week' period of stay has already passed? It is because her condition is not stable, and is not stabilising. With each passing day, her energy levels are draining away, her resources are being used up. With each passing day is a day closer to that moment...

The doctor came in yesterday, as she does every day, and asked her how she is doing. More and more, mum is gagging. She does not necessarily vomit, for there is very little that can come out  of an almost empty stomach. But more and more she feels nausea and gagging reflexes, sometimes triggered by the slightest of certain smells or discomfort. And less and less, she is eating. Today, she drank only a bit of Ensure, and a few mouthfuls of udon noodles and soup. That was it for the day. That was it.

When the doctor left, she patted mum's arm, and said: "As long as you are comfortable..." "As long as she is comfortable..." I repeated after the doctor.  Brother looked at me, seemingly puzzled by what those words meant. Isn't it obvious what those words mean?

I sit at mum's side a lot these days. Just sit there and watch her sleep, watch her body heave as she gasps for air from the oxygen tube leading to her nostrils anchored around her ears. The shadows around her eyes are getting darker, her right arm and legs are getting more bloated from not moving (strangely her left arm seems fine... even though fine means just skin and bone...). And she gets thirsty a lot, so every now and then I ask her whether she wants water or tea. In the back of my mind, I remember what she said to me before: in the end, she will get very thirsty and dry. And every now and then, I apply lip balm on her dry lips.

There are signs, more and more signs, and more and more my sleep is being disturbed and taken over by images and dreams. Nothing I can remember, but I do wake up feeling more tired than going to sleep... Sometimes, when I watch mum lie there and sleep, I catch myself thinking, asking myself "How much longer...?" I know that is a disturbing thought. But I know mum is in a lot of discomfort, and I can feel she is hurting to be dependent on others to bring her water or to flip her body...

"Where are you off to today?" the nurse asked as she came in to do the early evening check up.

"We haven't decided yet. We just went to Germany this morning. We'll have to see how mum's energy levels are!" I answered. In the end, when mum struggled to take in those meagre mouthfuls of noodles, we journeyed to mum's favourite country, place she has visited at least ten times: Switzerland...

Yes, mum may be dying, her body may be giving up, but that does not and should not keep us from continuing to live, continuing to smile and joke and "travel"-- even if it is on a TV screen. The body may be slowing down, mum's mind may be showing signs of confusion and disoriented with the time, but that does not prevent us trying to make her comfortable, as comfortable as comfortable. We may not be able to beat death, we may not be able to beat the pain and discomforts mum feels, but the strokes of her arm, her head, and the many moments when I am holding her hand mum can feel too.

And when  I hold her hand and when I feel her weakly tighten her grip, I know she feels cared for and loved. I know she is not afraid...