Holding mum's hand

The night before it all was perhaps the most restless I have ever seen mum. She could not sleep. She would close her eyes, and moments later open them again. In her pupils was this strange emotion, a mixture of discomfort, agitation, perhaps even fear. The look of those eyes worried me greatly, and hurt me deeply. I sat by her bedside for several hours, held her hand, stroked her hair, leaned in close to let her feel my presence. I tried what I thought would comfort her, but nothing calmed mum down. I asked her many times what was wrong and whether there was something I could do for her. But she did not answer me. She could not answer me. At the end, the body, and I imagine, the mind is so weak every ounce of strength left is focused on surviving, focused on fending off the inevitable onslaught of death. At the end, the body is dying, dying…

Looking back, a lot is a blur, and what happened seemed like a jumble of images and events and emotions that I cannot one hundred percent recall the chronology of. I realise only now that the memo the doctor gave us earlier the day before had described this stage of life at the end of life.  The last forty-eight to twenty-four hours of life is perhaps the most agonising of all. It is when the body is quickly losing its functions. The person can feel it. The person can feel death approaching. But I did not realise it, for according to the doctor only earlier that day, mum still had “two, three days”. >>> DETAILS MEMO

But we never know for sure when death will come and how. It's in the breath. All in the breath. The breath can tell you whether a person is still alive, still breath-ing. The breath is the first to come at birth, and the last to go.

After a long and restless night, I only managed to go to sleep at around three in the morning. Mum struggled and was agitated in bed for hours before falling asleep around midnight that night, after the nurse gave her an extra dosage of morphine and some sedative to calm her mind. She fell asleep, breathed laboriously, but at least she was asleep.

Come morning, I was woken up by the noise of nurses coming in to exchange shifts and check up on mum. It must have been around seven or so, but I was so tired, so drained from having watched mum fall asleep and sitting in my little side room writing about the day’s events, that I closed my eyes and went back to bed. The carer closed the door to my room, and shut out what was happening for a few hours. When the door was shut, I could no longer hear the harsh raspy sound of mum breathing.
How I was hurt when the carer told me later, when I woke up, that mum was awake at around four. She was again agitated and writhing in bed in great discomfort and pain. The carer asked if I should be waken up, but mum said no. That was the last chance to speak to mum, last chance when mum was coherent, but I was sleeping... Even in her most agonising moment, even when she was in great discomfort and pain, she wanted to let her sleeping child sleep…

Two days before it happened, mum began to breathe more and more laboriously. The breathing was at times loud, and at times more a gasp. The breathing was at times a wheezing sound, at times a soft sigh of breath. I would watch as mum breathed, towards the end, almost entirely through the mouth. As she had trouble breathing and her oxygen levels were constantly falling and at times dangerously low, we placed a tube close to her mouth. Every now and then, whenever mum moved, I would adjust the tube so that it is close to the mouth. Every now and then, whenever I noticed mum’s chapped lips were getting dry, I would apply some lip balm and spray a bit of tea (as the nurse recommended) to moisten her parched mouth. Towards the end, the body no longer needs to drink, and the doctor said it is not necessary to give her any water any more.

That morning, when I finally got up at around nine, I went to sit by mum’s bed immediately, as I have been doing every single morning. And like every single morning, I asked her whether she had eaten, and what she would like to eat. She looked at me, I remember, just looked at me, and then closed her eyes. The carer said mum did not eat, and that she did not feel like eating. I sat by her side and held her hand. I had a feeling. I knew. Though she breathed, and her breathing became noticeably louder, mum never opened her eyes again.

My brother and his family came to visit later in the morning, as did a number of mum’s closest friends. They all had planned to visit that day. Perhaps they too had a feeling, or perhaps as they say here, those with whom you are closest knit to have the fortune bidding a final farewell. “It’s been hard on you,” a friend of mum said, “Your sons are both very talented and well raised, you can go in peace now and follow the Bodhisattva…” Many eyes were moist that morning, and dried only by the sight of my nephew cute little moves and his baby cries and babble. The doctor and an entourage of nurses came in close to mid-day. “Let her rest,” the doctor said, “She is resting, let her rest.” Even at that point, outside the room the doctor had said “two, three days”.

I did not want to leave the hospital to rest a little at home as my brother told me to, for I just had this feeling. And even at home, I did not manage to fall asleep, for brother called to let me know that mum’s condition was worsening. When I returned to the hospital at around six, the evening nurse happened to be there and was checking on mum’s vitals. It took a while, for none of the machines could detect her breathing or heartbeat. Even the nurse, with her fingers, had difficulty measuring mum’s pulse. It was then that she advised my brother to stay the night, something she never did before.

We sat around mum and got out dinner. As part of what had become a ritual, I tuned in to my favourite cartoon, Doraemon, and we watched it together over dinner. Mum’s breathing slowed down. “Do you notice?” brother asked, “Notice how it’s close to ten seconds per breath?” I did. I did but did not say it. Earlier in the afternoon, it was still five seconds between each gasp for air. By this time, each breath took almost twice as long.

I knew. I knew. I don’t know how I knew. Perhaps because of the series of strange dreams I have been having—terrifying dreams that would leave me so drained of energy and with such a headache in the morning. Perhaps because of the images of death and that final moments I “saw” whenever I closed my eyes to rest. Perhaps, if you believe in it, I knew because mum’s heart and mine somehow had this intimate connection to prepare me for what was to come later… But I knew.

I leaned in close, so close our cheeks touched, so close I could feel her breath, her ever laborious breath, each of which could at that moment have been the last. “Mama, please do not be afraid. I am here with here, and I am holding your hand. There is nothing to be afraid of. This body is dying, but it does not matter. Let go of this body, let go of this world…” My voice was calm, a calm that flowed from this strange tranquility which seemed to find its source deep within. There was no fear, there were no tears. There was just this calm, this meditative calm I have rarely felt, and I have only ever felt when I knelt next to dad’s hospital bed four years ago, when very similar words flowed from my lips. On the TV screen were scenes from Switzerland, perhaps mum’s favourite country in the world, a country she has visited perhaps ten times before.

“Mama, thank you for everything you have given me… Thank you for all the care and love you have given me… Thank you for this opportunity to be my mother in this lifetime. Do not worry, I will be alright. I will be fine in the future. I am loved and taken care of…” Twenty-eight years of my life, she has been there, even from afar. Twenty-eight years, day or night, she was within reach and never relinquished her role as mother and mentor. She held me, hugged me, comforted me, consoled me when I was sad and crying. She smiled for me, praised me, congratulated me and told me she was proud of me in my moments of joy and achievements. Mum showed me the meaning of compassion, reminded me to be grateful for everything we have and are fortunate to hold dear to our hearts. Mum showed me what it means to be resilient, to forebear under pain and pressure, to smile in the face of adversity, to boldly struggle on even when you know you will one day be defeated. I held her hand tightly, and felt her hand was getting colder and paler. Her breath was slowing down, slowing down, slowing down… I held her hand even tighter, even tighter, even tighter…

I called my brother to come back into mum’s hospice room, for he went to the corridor to make a call. I knew it was time. The time we for so long all feared and dreaded we could not be together, but we were. I sat on one side, and my brother on the other. I held one hand, my brother held the other. He began to sob, lowered his head close to mum’s arm and sobbed. I reached over mum’s body, felt the heavy, slow heaving of her chest, and held his hand. For a few moments, the three of us, what is left of our family, were connected together. In my touch, I wished to convey to my brother, and also to my mother, I will be and am here no matter what. We are family, and not even mum’s departure will change that. We are family, and we will be stronger and closer together than ever before… Whatever disagreements, arguments, unhappiness and painful memories in the past melted away. Death means that someone is leaving, but it strangely also brings people together.

Mum’s breathing slowed even more. Fifteen seconds between each breath, twenty seconds between each breath. From her gaping mouth and with each drawn out breath emanated this smell, this strong, unpleasant smell. I cannot describe the smell, for it is so very particular and very peculiar. In my mind this was what death smelled like. But the smell did not scare me, and I felt this urge to get even closer to mum.

With my lips, I kissed her cheeks. With my lips, I kissed her forehead. “Thank you, mama… Thank you for everything…” I rested my head on her shoulders and hugged her. In those moments when I was resting in her embrace, I felt this gentle calm and gratitude. “Be happy, mum, be happy and free… Let go, let go of this body, let go…” My eyes were closed, and my lips upturned in a gentle smile. The cancer is soon no more… The pain and suffering is no more…

Following those final few breaths were gargling sounds from the back of the throat. The sound of death which I have heard about, read about. It escaped mum’s half open mouth. It was a painful and traumatic sound. The nurse stood by the side, while the carer cried at the end of the bed.

Each of those final few breaths seemed to be the last. I held my breath and waited several times to see if there would be another one. I turned to the clock, and it was four past eight. I held mum’s hand with both of mine. “Let go, let go… Be happy, be happy…” Those words echoed in my head, echoed in my heart, and I hoped mum heard them. I felt myself smiling gently again. It was not a smile because I was happy, but a smile because it was all so beautiful. Soft meditation music played in the background, on the TV screen colourful photographs bearing memories of the exciting life mum has led appeared and faded away. Brother was there, I was there, and my sister-in-law and mum’s source of joy, true joy and smiles over the past few months—my nephew—were on their way. There could be no more beautiful end to a life full of hard work and sacrifice, a life adorned with travels to far away places and fine cuisine, a life of which touched and moved many people’s hearts. “Let go, mama, just let everything go…”

In life, even at the very end, everything is in the breath. In, out, in, out, in, out… The interval between each in and out breath gets longer and longer toward the end. Until at the very end, it is just in. Out. In.

And out.