Sand in the wind

Heard a beautiful old song the other day called＂哭砂＂(Crying sand)

Sand blown in with the wind
Falls on the sadness of the eyes,
Everyone can see I am waiting for you.

Sand blown in with the wind
Accumulates inside the heart,
A trace no one can wipe away. 

Sand blown in with the wind
Passes through all memories,
Everyone knows I am thinking of you.

Sand blown in with the wind
Cries in the darkness,
Could it be that separation was already predicted?

And I could not get the song and the lyrics out of  my mind...
Nostalgia.
Memories.
Hardship.
Longings.
Tears.
Family.
Lover.

All these things I hold dear, dear to my little heart, all the things I love and care about most of all in life, are described so beautifully in the song...

Decision

When you want to have everything, you end up with nothing.
When you give up everything, you gain everything.

I have heard it said before, I have read about it, about how people who make great sacrifices in their lives and in the end they live in great happiness and enjoy such peace.

Can I too do the same? Can I give up everything I have built up, I have ever wished for, for a greater cause, for a good that is beyond me? Am I ready to make a sacrifice... is it even a sacrifice at all? What will I really lose in the end, what do I have to give up?

Only time will tell.

Visiting dad

Little Jacob reached put his arm to touch dad. His feet kicked and his arm waved about. Something made him smile and giggle. Moments before he was crying still.

"Say 'grandpa'! Say "Grandpa, I'm here to see you!" " brother said, as he held my nephew in his arms and leaned in close to the box where dad's bones are kept. "Knock, Jacob! Anyone home?" That made me smile, though my eyes clung onto the tears that were building up from the touching moments earlier.

I led my sister-in-law, brother and nephew to the location of dad's remains. Two hands placed before my chest, I humbly bowed.

"Dad, we've returned to see you again, I hope you have been well these days..."

I stood to the side and let them "speak" to dad. I watched In silence as my eyes became moist.
Dad, son, grandson... United for the first time. Three generations together at one moment in time, though dad has already gone and left us. In a way he is still with us, I know that, i believe that. His smile adorns a portrait on the living room wall. His things can still be found in the drawers and cupboards.



He will never be able to hold his grandchild in his arms, he will never have the blessed gift of feeling his grandxhild's warm cheeks... But I know dad will watch over this baby boy, my ancestors will protect this little baby boy from harm. For he is our future, and for now, the one person who is giving this family so much hope and so much to smile and laugh about. Much needed hopes and smiles.

"Dad, mum could not be here with us today, because she's just come out of the hospital... Please, please bless her, protect her health and wellbeing, as she is about to undergo yet another treatment..."

Images of the past three weeks came to mind. How I rushed home so quickly... How mum lay there groaning in pain or so many days and nights... How I trembled as i signed the very form to proceed with treatment on mum's behalf... How yesterday the doctor told us that the cancer has spread to other places, and each treatment we do now is just to keep things in check... Dad of course knows all this. I do not doubt he was ever absent from the dramatic events of the last three weeks. I thanked him, strange as it may be at that moment. For without him, without everything he left behind, mum probably could not receive the kind of treatment and enjoy the health supplements to keep her going, keep her going on and on...

Snapshots of my letter and the words I wrote to dad came to my mind. The agony, frustrations, the emotions that have yet to find a real outlet came out again in the form of tears. I turned away. My nephew giggled and laughed, my brother and sister-in-law played with him before dad's remains. What a scenery, what a beautiful, touching moment... I felt so cold before, but standing there I felt warm and reassured again.

We offered food to the ancestors and dad, something I have been doing at big festivals throughout the year. My sister-in-law prepared much of the food, and she was up pretty early to cook and pack. I was glad to see she is getting into this, and more naturally becoming part of the family by helping us worship the ancestors. My nephew looked at us with big curious eyes, and seemed to be attracted to the little wooden memorial plaque that bears our family name.

I took a moment to be alone with dad. I leaned in and with my forehead touched the door to the box that held his remains.
"May you be well, may you be happy... May you bless this family, take good care of the little boy..." I promised dad I will do everything I can to help my nephew grow up and get the best in life. For he is a continuation of us all, and dad would have wanted the very best for his grandchild too.

With closed eyes, eyes that barricaded the tears, I kissed dad's box. "Farewell, dad... I will come see you whenever I am back. Please give me strength and calm to face the days ahead... Take good care, dad..."

The car headed down the mountain, the mountain half hidden in a beautiful veil of fog. In the distance, offshore islands floated on the vast Pacific Ocean. This scenery, this view I have seen so many times before, but every time it captures me, reassures me, soothes my mind...

"Farewell, my dear dad..."

Heavy rain

Woke up to the sound of heavy rain splashing on the world and windows. My sister-in-law is busy preparing the feast to bring to the ancestors, my mum is unable to do much thus year because of her surgery. I'm just going to be on the sideline and play a minimal role. Sometimes, you have to just sit back and let other people do things instead of believing or carrying everythin on your shoulders. Another visit to dad about to begin...

Release

(English version of the song "Fairytale" 童話）

"I hope dad will always, always protect and safeguard this family and everyone's health and happiness..."

As I wrote, there were moments when I could hardly contain my tears. I tuned into the song I heard on the radio the other day, the same song that was played at dad's cremation four years ago.

For the first time since my return, as I wrote I felt desperation and weakness consume my deepest and most fragile core. And I felt myself crack and break, felt that brave, brave mask I have been putting on crumble and fall. Fall with tears and sorrow that I have yet to express to anyone. It seems the only person I can truly open up to now is one who is already long gone...



It truly has been a long and difficult year. Long-awaited dreams were realised, beautiful dreams, beautiful memories of travels and laughters with mum... But those have been countered and subsumed by the turbulent circumstances surrounding mum's ailing health, which continues to weigh heavily on my mind and soul.

All that has happened over the past three weeks, and even before that, all those visits to the hospital, all that waiting for results, only to  be told that more scans are necessary, more treatment is necessary... Dad must have seen it all, must have seen how tired mum has grown, how worn out mum has become. And dad must know what heavy toll it has taken on my life, what I have had to forgo time and again to rush back and forth between here and my attempts to settle down...

This is my life. This is the way things are, and I can only accept things are they are. But oh how I wish there were a source of strength I could turn to, how I wish I could have a trusted  companion who could hold me, and stroke my head softly to reassure me. Is that being too needy? Does not every human being need some kind of external strength and outlet?

For the first time, I asked dad for guidance and support, asked for his blessing, even though I know that he would not want to see me so deflated and so desperately crying out for help. But more and more, I find myself so very lonely and lost that when I sleep I find myself hugging myself so tightly as if I am afraid of getting hurt... Dad, I do hope you can hear your dear son's prayers... Dad, I do hope if you are watching, watching everything unfold and deteriorate, you can come and soothe mum's pain, soothe my frustrations, and support this family as you used to...

Why do I do it? Why do I put myself through the pain and memories of writing to someone who has been dead and out of my life for almost four years?

Because he is my dad...
Because

"Dad, I miss you... I miss you so very, very much..."

( The music video is very difficult to watch...)

Appointment

I rushed to the Hematology and Oncology clinic before mum did, to make sure the doctor had not left. It was a last minute appointment with her main physician, and as she is number 77, it must have been at the very end of the consultation hours. Lucky I was there, for almost as soon as I arrived, it was her turn, but she was not at the hospital yet. She was on her way, she took her time, as she was in a lot of physical discomfort from walking... but the doctor was on his way out, almost finished for the day...

I was relieved she got into the hospital on time, and the doctor stayed to see her. They have not met for three weeks  or so, last time they met it was just before her surgery. She was scheduled for a routine consultation and chemotherapy treatment on 26 December, this much I knew at the time. But immediately after seeing him, mum checked herself into the Emergency Room, complaining of debilitating pains, and weakness in her legs that she could barely walk. They took her in, and a day or so later, on 28 December, she was operated on to have her tumour removed.

Mum's main physician didn't say much, and he looked at his computer screen a while till he turned to us , looking glum. It's good the tumour in the spine has been removed, at least for the large part. "There are other places all over. We need to do more tests and scans..."

Brother, who also arrived with mum, was glum looking. He has rarely seen mum's doctor, unlike me, and he has rarely had the opportunity to hear things from the doctor's mouth. It was actually my brother who wanted to arrange the consultation, because he wanted to know. I was shocked to hear what the doctor said, but it did not surprise me. I knew things, though not details. I knew the cancer spread to one of the lymph glands. And that is never, never any good, for a lymph gland is like a filter that white blood cells and the blood circulation system must pass through before being sent to other parts of the body. If one cancerous cell gets into the circulation system, you can imagine........

"Can we treat it?" brother asked, anxiously. I stayed quiet. Year after year, for four years now, mum has been in and out of the hospital... first the colon, then another part of the colon, then metastasis, to the lymph, and last year to the bone, on her spinal column...You treat one bit, and the cancer pops up in another area. I've come to the imagery of that her condition is like one of those "Whac-a-mole" machines... you strike one area, it retreats, only to come up in another area. Sometimes, two or three or more come up at the same time... where do you strike? Where must you strike hard? I played that game, loved that game, as a child... Inadvertently, you start to get antsy and strike very hard, pounding the machine almost, because though cute looking, the moles become devious enemies that you must try to eradicate. It's a competitive game, an addictive game that gets your adrenaline going. And it's a race against time.

But you always, always lose...

Yes, mum's condition has become like that. A race against time. And one that she, we, will definitely lose. And this is not a game anymore. Maybe it should be one, to distract from the heaviness of it all, to benefit from the adrenaline rush and excitement of all it? "Insert coin here" for another round. And another.

And another.

It's addictive, so very dangerously addictive. And it is hard to pull yourself away.

"The next treatment," the doctor said, referring to the planned cyberknife radiotherapy, "It's just for that part of her body. There are other parts we need to look at more carefully, and see how we deal with them." There was a silence in the room. I looked at brother, looked at mum. I said nothing. But I could see brother was hurting, his eyes were shimmering. I placed a hand on mum's arm.

"And your voice," the doctor said to my mum, almost as a side note, "It won't get better." Mum was shocked, I could hear it from her face after hearing the latest diagnosis. Is she really going to talk like this for the rest of her life? Will she always strain to talk and sound so coarse and raspy...? Another doctor, her neurosurgeon, said it would get better in a few weeks. So did a nurse. And it's already been a few weeks since the surgery...

We left the consultation room, heavy in thought despite the unusually clear weather-- something that I have only seen once or twice in almost four weeks. We walked home slowly, I savoured every moment of that walk, of those moments when the three of us were together, walking side by side.

It may be a race against time, but for those moments, our time together was slow to pass, but so very precious to savour...

Purse

"Dad gave it to me when he was still alive..." mum explained when brother asked where she got the black, worn-out purse. I knew the story already. "I didn't use it at all when he was around. But after he passed away, I started to use it."

In fact, mum didn't care much for it when dad first gave the purse to her. It was a purse he somehow found somewhere, something he had a habit of doing, and an example of how thrifty he was. But he managed to find this authentic branded purse, which at the time, perhaps five, six years ago, was still in good condition. Now, it is worn and somewhat faded, for mum has been using it and wearing it whenever she goes short distances.

I looked at mum sitting there and writhing her body in great discomfort on the chair outside the doctor's office, waiting, waiting to be seen. She had her orange jacket on, and around her shoulder the black purse was strapped. The bag dangled in front of her a little. Yes, I know the story of the purse, and I know why mum uses it now so often. In fact, before returning to the hospital for her latest consultation with her physician, she asked me where the purse was and asked me to bring it to her, for ever since she was hospitalised, she has not used it. I would like to think the black purse gives her strength, is something that keeps her company when she goes to the hospital for appointments like this one, and is something that she can find comfort in...

"It's my way of remembering dad," she said sadly, "It's a souvenir..." And it's already four years since his passing. But the memories remain, and are still strong.

At the chemo ward

"Hang on there, auntie," the nurse said, "Be strong." Her words fully of empathy, her smile full of understanding. I, in the already so fragile state of mind, could have broken down and cried right there at the  chemo ward.

I looked around the room, at all these brave, brave souls with needles in their arms undergoing chemotherapy. My pain is nothing compared to theirs, my fears are miniscule compared to theirs of death and of being physically eroded by whatever cancer ails them. How could I even think of crying?

As the nurse injected the needle into her shoulder, I touched mum's arm lightly. Naively, I imagined that my touch would send her strength, and reassure her that I am here, right next to her if she needed me... There is little, so very little I can do to take away her physical pains, there is so little I can do to rub away the cancerous cells multiplying inside her body, metastasising to her bones. But my touch, my prayers, however meagre, however quiet, can hopefully give her that extra ounce of strength to fight... fight, and fight until she can fight no more.

"Hang on there, auntie," the nurse said. I recognised her. I have seen her many times at the chemotherapy ward. She is always so kind, so patient, so friendly in the face of all these patients who come in day in and day out. How does one maintain patience and calm in the face of watching another person in pain, may that be physical or mental pain? Perhaps with a sense of detachment, you can be patient and calm and treat all these patients because it is what you have to do, and it is something you have to do well, because all these patients rely on your professionalism and expertise. Because, frankly, often life and death is in your hands...

The nurse chatted with mum and asked mum how she has been.

"The hoarseness of your voice... How long have you had it?" the nurse asked.

Since the surgery. For several weeks now, mum's voice has been coarse and very weak. I sometimes have to really strain and lean in close to her to hear what she is saying or asking me to do. Perhaps with time, I have grown accustomed to what she is saying or wants to say.  In a way I have become a translator from "hoarseness" to normal speech, for sometimes even my brother doesn't know what she is trying hard to say. And mum gets frustrated, and  moody very easily because she has difficulty in expressing herself. A lot of the time, she just does not say anything. So there is a lot of silence, which can be difficult to deal with.

"The voice will come back, but it will take time..." the nurse advised. During the surgery, tubes were inserted into her throat for hours and hours, and that may have caused some damage. Whether it is permanent remains to be seen. One doctor, her main physician, seems to think so. Imagine the shock on her face when she heard that for the rest of her natural life, she may have to talk like this... talk in this raspy, harsh and strained voice that reminds me a lot of a very old witch with fragile health...

"And the neck brace. I tried it on for a day out of curiosity," the nurse said, "But it was so uncomfortable. Just eating and swallowing water was very painful, very difficult." Then I realised why mum likes to take off at least the back half of the neck brace. Because it really is constraining. But without it, she can easily injure her spine, because the bones there are still very fragile, and it will take months, perhaps up to six, or more, till she can hold her neck up by herself.

"Take good care, auntie," the nurse said, "Hang on there! Just a little longer..."

I bowed as I left the cancer ward... in deep reverence and with deep, deep gratitude for the nurse's kindness and expressions of care and compassion. It touched me so deeply, so very, very profoundly. Her voice, her kind words reached down to my heart, to my soul...

Deep down, I thanked her for caring about my mum, for sharing the heavy, heavy burden I am shouldering.

I wiped a tear away as I left the noise and smell of the chemotherapy ward.

Letter to dad

Two more days (according to the lunar calendar), and it is the anniversary of dad's passing. I started my tradition of writing to him tonight, this one the fourth letter I will be writing.

I started late this year, because of all that has been going on over the past three weeks. And only late at night do I have the time and peace and quiet to sit down and write. Here I am, typing away at one in the morning, with dad's smiling portrait on the wall next to me, the sound of brother snoring a few steps away, and the sound of my nephew occasionally stirring and crying suddenly in his sleep.

What do I write? Where do I begin?

There is so much to say, so much to recount... The completion of my thesis, and my degree, which I began just months after dad left this world... My progress in establishing myself in Canada... Mum's condition, which has steadily deteriorated, and is still very much very fragile and worrying, and the new treatment now just days away... My first real relationship, how happy and blessed I felt just a year ago, and how shortlived that all was, and how deeply hurt I still am from the long drawn-out breakup... What else is there to write about? My hopes, my dreams, my longings, my fears... My creeping sense  of loneliness, my feelings of helplessness, the feelings of being abandoned and alone to fend against mounting difficulties, my desires, my fantasies, and my frustrations...

Dad, hear my prayers... You see and know what I have done and gone through this past year...

Dad, I do hope you still are, and will be, proud of me.

Thesis report

I opened my email box, the first time in a few days. Among the mails I quickly deleted was one from my supervisor. A congratulatory email, with an attachment marked "report" from my external examiner.

I passed.

Finally. The long-awaited result I have been waiting for. With the situation of my mum, I have not really had time to think of the results much... and to be honest, I did not (have time to even?) dread it. I read it, smiled a little, and was happy that this is all over. Did I expect the results? Did I know deep down that the review would be good, or that my thesis would be described as a "creative contribution to developing international law"? I showed my mum the results, and that made her smile.

Funny thing, over a month ago I sent her a copy of my thesis, and today was the first time she opened it, because she had been hospitalised the entire time since the end of December. When she read what I wrote on the dedications page ("For my dear, brave mother"), she teared and thanked me. Even as  she wiped away her tears with her fingers, I tried hard to contain mine.

She thanked me, but I thanked her. For as I wrote inside:

[...]
Most of all, I would like to express my most heartfelt gratitude to my dear, brave mother, to whom this thesis is dedicated. Despite the difficult and testing hardships she endures, she never stopped offering me her motherly love and encouragements from afar. Her wisdom, forbearance, smiles and kindness inspire me to keep going, push me to be strong no matter what. The completion of this thesis, and this degree, is a life wish of hers, and I am grateful that I am able to fulfill that wish.

Those words are as true when I wrote them as they are today, more than a month later, even after all that has happened, and even after all that she has (we have) gone through. And these words will be true forever, and ever, for my dear, brave mother truly is a source of love, encouragements and support, even from afar, and I am sure, even when she is no longer with me.

The news of my thesis is a welcome respite from the unpleasantness of hospital wards, appointments, scans and the imepending treatment. Again, the thesis is a reminder to my mum of one reason why she wants to push herself, why she is putting herself through yet another treatment, which may or may not work, but will certainly cause her (and us) much discomfort and side-effects. For mum would like to be well, she is pushing herself to get better. For attending my graduation ceremony is an event she says is one reason why she is training hard to get better, to walk again, and to get more treatment. Going to Canada again is one of her "life" wishes (as I call it), and I can only say I am glad I can help, in any small way, to make her realise that wish...

message from a friend

"I know you will be a very happy and successful person because you are able to make the best of whatever circumstances you have got. Just be patient and things will get simpler. I promise."

 Yes, one day, I will be happy.

Prognosis

Oh god, why now? Everything at once...
What's wrong now...? Unbearable, worrisome.
What can I do? Nothing. Just Let the entire world come crashing down and try to pick up the pieces...

Day 21

21 days
Already 21 days since I returned to Taiwan, 21 days since I began shuttling between home and the hospital on a daily basis (some days, especially in the beginning, I wouldn't  even go home...). And this morning I went to sign forms for mum to be discharged and pay the rest of the remaining bill. Again, with her national ID card and health insurance card, it felt so bizarre, so strange, that I seem to have somehow become the administrator of her affairs. And she is still alive...

For mum, it has been about 23 days in total that she has spent at the hospital. A gruellingly long time, she said. At times, she felt so depressed and down that she is bed-bound, plus the added pain and discomfort from the surgery, that she expressed to me she wanted to take her own life...  Difficult, difficult times, times when I had to close my eyes and breathe deeply because I did not have an outlet to vent my frustrations, because there was no one I could turn to to express the pain, the sense of helplessness I felt...

At times, I felt like just dropping it all and turning away, because it was, and it got, too much...   But at least those days of running back and forth between the hospital and home are over, for now. Yes, it has been a very tiring and very testing three weeks, and now she can finally return home, and be in the comfort of her home. At least for the lunar new year period.

As I packed her bags, and filled up the suitcase (the same one I used to fly half way across the world with, three weeks ago...) she sat there and thanked me emotionally. "If it weren't for you..." I cut her off before she could finish and smiled, "Brother and your grandchild were here too." I did a lot, yes, but I did only what I could, only because I could, nothing more, nothing less.

I walked to the nurses' station by myself and took out one of the few gifts I had with me this time, a box of assorted Swiss chocolates.  "What's this for?" the head nurse asked, surprised.

"For you all... A little thank. You have all been so kind and caring."  I know it's their job to care about patients, to be patient with patients, but many of them go the extra mile to joke, to encourage, to give my mum a pat on her arm. In ways, they take away a part of the burden off of my shoulder and make sure that mum does not stray from the slow path to recovery.

"Thank you all again for everything..." My eyes became moist.

longings

Longings

On my way out to the hospital today, I walked passed their bedroom quickly, but it was slow enough to see a beautiful moment. Brother was leaning against my sister-in-law's body, and they hugged one another cozily. I don't think they noticed me admiring that one split moment, for I quickly went as quickly as I came. The baby slept next to them quietly.

That moment, that beautiful moment stayed in my mind for a long time. I am happy for my brother, and I told him repeatedly too, that he has found a lovely wife, and that they are raising a beautiful baby together. What could be more touching ad magical in life to have all that? To have the love, stability and togetherness of family, to have around you the people you care about and love more than anything else in the world?

Deep down, I was reminded again of what I lost... A chance at something as beautiful as that. How much I long for a warm touch, for a kind word, for a deep, loving, intimate hug right now... How I need that, need intimacy and an outlet to clear my mind and to reassure me that I am strong and that I can face the days ahead. How my heart would just melt, and I imagine, how my eyes would just start to water if I had a boy in my life right now to share my pains, to share my laughs and joys.

Not that I am hoping and wishing for something in return for all that I do for my mum... But there are moments when I am alone that I comfort myself with the thought that one day, one day, I will find that special someone who will care for me so very deeply, who will love me so very deeply and unequivocally... One day, I tell myself, when all this that I am experiencing is over, someone will unexpectedly enter my life, sweep me off my feet, and hold me by the hand and tell me "It's all going to be alright..."

One day, in attempts to calm my mind, to daydream and distract myself from the reality of hospital sights and sounds, I imagine someone special will be there for me no matter what, and he will not turn away and change his heart so suddenly as the wind changes direction.

Because that's what I give, and I do believe you get back what you give the world.

And how beautiful, how wonderful, that day will be...

Glutamine

How much does health cost? What would you pay so that someone would hurt less, experience less discomfort and grow stronger quicker? There is no price... And I know, I know I am so fortunate, so very fortunate, not to have to worry about money (too much) so I can buy things for my mum in the hope she gets better, or get as good as she can become.

The nurse pulled me aside one day and said though mum's condition is improving, she's still very frail, still physically very weak. I too see it. A short walk can leave her gasping and frowning in pain, even though now she does not need my aid and me having to hold her arm or hands like before.

The nurse told me about a substance called L-Glutamine, a complicated form of protein which is vital for protecting against mouth and throat sores commonly associated with radio- or chemotherapy. It also provides the body with an additional source of energy necessary to produce white blood cells and boost the immune system, which both of which are always eroded after treatment. It is important that mum takes doses of L-Glutamine right after her surgery and just before her next treatment. otherwise, healing and recovery will be a long, and painful process.

The nurse mentioned me a number of over the counter products I could buy, but warned me they are all very costly. When I got to the pharmacy today, I was indeed surprised at the price.

"It can't be cheaper...?" I asked, "I'm buying it for my mum..." I know, I'm playing the "son" card, but medical supplements are known to be a great source of windfall profit for pharmaceutical companies. In the end, I did get a better deal, but still, I cringed as I signed the credit card bill...

I swallowed. But what price would you pay to take pain away from someone you care about? What price is recovery and relative good health? mum doesn't have to know how much, and I'll clandestinely add portions of the power into her drinks.

There is no price.

intense

Where am I? What is reality?
I could see the bedroom, mum's bedroom, and I was watching myself, lying on her bed... The light was on, and i could see myself curled up and all alone. It was a sorry sight, a view filled with such loneliness and sorrow. I don't know how I felt the loneliness, but it was there, ever pressing, ever growing and engulfing me as I lay there on the bed...

I opened my eyes, and it was pitch dark... Horribly, horribly dark.

I was dreaming again...

Letter from the past

Amidst the uncertainty of mum's condition, I got an email from my ex today. He says he misses me, and how he would like to talk to me, to listen to me and know how things are here.

Earlier I wrote to him, briefly, saying how much I appreciate him thinking of me still. But I told him I no longer wish to impose on his life, no longer wish to divide his heart and time. Why should he have to listen to my sad feelings, my heavy heart, listen to my complaints about how I feel like cracking up, giving up and turning away from all this here? Why should I have to put him through all that, when he is beginning a new life, and as he told me, happy? I don't want to ruin that happiness for him... I seem to have done much of that already over the past year, or perhaps even years since the moment we first met.

An hour or two before I left Montreal two weeks or so ago, he was in my bedroom, crying... I was already distraught (though not showing it...) from the latest news of mum having a surgery imminently, and yet I still had to be strond, hold myself together, and comfort him. He cried, because I refused to let him come with me, refused that he give up his last few days in Montreal before he starts a new job, new life, just to be with me. He cried because I refused to let him help me or comfort me. He cried because, I think,  he knows this will be the last time I will see him for a long, long time to come.


He cried because he says his care (an love?) for me extends beyond our short-lived relationship. We could have had it all, he said again, but things was always so complicated between us. And now... he me how happy he was with his new (boy?)friend. Implied was that i cause him tears and sadness. And I know it too, over the past two months or so, our relationship, our friendship has deteriorated dramatically, much because I've been pushing him too much, pushing him closer to the boy he is now with.

He told me to go and move on, to stop waiting around, I remember. I smiled, and said I will. That is all I needed to hear, after our breakup last May, there were so many hints we would get back together. He even told me to wait, to be patient, but perhaps that was all a way to make I easier for him to hold on to me while he sees if there is a chance to rekindle the romance with his friend.

So I waited, got impatient, but waited, contrary to what various (mutual) friends have told me... "Forget him, move on."..."It's not worth it..." But the love struck and deeply committed fool I am hung around.

And now he still wants to hear from me, still wants to know what is going on in my life... Little does he realise how much it pains me, how much hurt and pain it adds to my already weighted heart and soul, to be cared by him, when he has already managed to move on so quickly. I cannot be selfish again and ruin his chance at happiness...

 He told me he is happy, so why do I have to ruin that by talking to him and wasting his time with sad stories, heavy conversations  and ugly memories of what we were, and how I am struggling to cope with life and death here?

I will insulate him from my life, from my being, for I seem to only have the effect of depressing him and making him cry now. And he does not need that, for he told me he is happy, he has found his happiness.

So let me cut away the unhappiness from his life, and let him just be without me.

Warrant

Why did it feel like i was signing away a warrant...? A death warrant was what came to my mind when I put down the pen. Perhaps it's a "life" warrant, for it's supposed to remove remaining traces of mum's cancer on the spine. But it felt so heavy, so very burdensome, as if the responsibility, the outcome is all resting on my shoulders. Just one little push, and I could have burst out in tears at the doctor's office.

The entire morning I rang back and forth between home and hospitals. I needed to deliver the latest whole-body bone scan results to the new doctor at the hospital we were referred to. Out of curiosity, I went home first to take a look at the images. And lucky I did that, because the lady who copied the images gave me those from last year, so I had to go back to the hospital where mum is still staying and get the correct images. Plus, I had to make sure mum has some thing substantial and nutritious to eat, for she has been complaining of terrible fatigue and lack of energy. The surgery had really taken away much of her "energy", or chi, as we say here. And a person lacking. "chi" is like a deflated tire... Tired, drained, utterly listless and mentally and physically eroded...

I rushed to meet the doctor's assistant at the hospital mum is about to be transferred to. A long journey across the entire city of Taipei on the bus and metro... Outside, the sky was so gratuitous, so heavy with rain ad fog, and I found myself having to lift myself up and tell myself that the sun is just behind the clouds...

The doctor's assistant was extremely friendly and patiently explained to me the entire procedure. She said it could all be arranged by tomorrow, and treatment could all be completed by the Lunar New Year, which is coming Sunday (With all the rushing around and time at the hospital, the festivities have escaped me, and I am only reminded of it by the changing of shop windows and signs and red lanterns...). But at mum's request, I rescheduled the procedure to be after the New Year, for she is already so weak and energyless.

So on the 30th of January a more precise scan will be made of the two (or more?) tumours on the spine. The next two days are planned for treatment, and on the 4th of February, a post-procedure consultation with the neurosurgeon is planned. I was again taken aback by the efficiency and speed of the entire process.

The doctor's assistant kindly explained to me the procedure, side-effects, and costs. Over two hundred thousand New Taiwan Dollars (approx. CAD 7000), as this form of radiotherapy is very advanced, and still undergoing clinical testing, so is not covered by the national health insurance.
I gasped quietly when the costs were revealed, for earlier an estimate (by her current physician) was half that amount... And I was specifically told also that as the cancer has metastasised, the next treatment can only contain, not fully eradicate mum's cancer. As precise and effective the treatment is, it can only detect and destroy tumour cells over 1.25mm. Anything smaller will go unnoticed, thus there remains the possibility of not a completely "clean" treatment.

I listened the to list of side-effects... Nausea, vomiting, swelling of the oesophagus, lung fibrosis, possible bronchitis, diahrea, localised damage to the intestines... As new and advanced as the treatment is, it is still a form, albeit much improved form that is much less destructive of surrounding organs and cells, of radiotherapy. The list of side-effects may be daunting, but the doctor's assistant said there was a duty to tell me all that so we are aware of the risks.

But what price tag can you put on health? What risks can possibly outweigh the possibility of living for another day with less pain, with more hope? Mum may never get better, may never completely be free from cancer, but for now, the new treatment is the best that is on offer and best way to deal with the spreading on her spine.

We cannot give up now. Not after we have come so far...

I signed the documents, and found myself trembling as I did.

My name was on the form...

I am my mum's representative. In a way, I somehow found myself determining mum's health and illness, life and death. Mum could not be there, for she is hospitalised. Brother could not be there, because he's gone home to spend time at the mother-in-law's.

And I am the only one who has to shoulder all this and decide right there, right then...

" I understand the cyberknife treatment, its necessity, its procedure, its risks and success rate.

I understand alternative treatments and their risks.

I understand the sideeffects and possible risks of the cyberknife treatment.

I have been able to ask questions and enquire dieter about the cyberknife treatment.

I understand the cyberknife treatment is currently the best option, but it cannot guarantee an improvement in the condition.

I agree to proceed with the cyberknife treatment.

Signed in agreement with the above,

XXXXXX , son of the patient,
Taipei,
2012/1/16 at 14.26.

In Toronto now...

Terrible night of sleep last night, with lots of images and dreams. I slept not on the bed, but right next to the window in the living room. I don't know I needed to do that... I guess I wanted to look at the night sky.

It began to pour, and the sound of the raindrops was soothing.

Then the images came to me... Flying in the air, images of Toronto, of sitting in an exam room... Of seeing my ex again.

I am supposed to be in toronto right now, at this very moment, nervously preparing to sit exams.

But I am here, ready to go on a hospital run.

Nap

A rare afternoon home, together with mum, who took "leave" from the hospital. We live so close to the hospital, and mum just wants to be home to rest and feel more... "at home", instead of just lie there in the hospital bed and do nothing...

I was exhausted. Over two weeks of accumulated fatigue and worry has really drained me physically and mentally. Even yesterday, when I accompanied mum to a massage, the masseur  said my back is terribly misshaped, and that there is something wrong with my liver-- all due to exhaustion. I must rest more, and rest better.

So nap I did... and  I had so much difficulty waking up.I  There were so many dreams... I was flying, flying on a mop, in my neighbourhood back in Canada. I could see the big-box shops and familiar shop names, and I kept jumping from roof to roof, trying to avoid trees and tall buildings. It was an extremely terrifying experience, yet also I felt so free. All the worry, all the sights and sounds of the hospital ward, where I have been spending so much time every day, were gone... I was just flying, flying, freely flying...

There was another dream, this time with mum in it, and we were together on a long distance train. She was with me in the berth at one moment, admiring the scenery outside the window, and the next she disappeared. I could not find her, and panicked. Under the seats were her shoes and a large blanket which belonged to her. I picked them up, and went from carriage to carriage looking for her. At one moment, I noticed the train was slowing down, and for some reason we were arriving in Brussels...

I woke up, curled up in a fetal position, feeling so very vulnerable, and held onto myself. I could just burst into tears from the deep, deep sense of loneliness that suddenly overcame me after waking up.

And it was then that the phone rang.

Unbearable...

...who can see my tears, my invisible, silent tears...?