It's all coming back to me now

I browsed a few photo albums containing pictures I dared not look at for a while. Did I not dare or did it just not occur to me to do so? Pictures I took at those precious moments, moments that were etched in my mind forever, but which I know will trigger a flood of emotions when I am reminded of them again...

Mum... Mum at the hospital, mum at home, me holding mum's hand, mum looking at me, mum smiling, mum dying, mum covered under the blanket which I took and have kept since that day she passed away... Tears started to form. Last time I cried was perhaps a month or so ago...

Again I am reminded of her kindness, reminded of the warmth only she could give me. Again, I am reminded, my goodness, how much I/ we have gone through these few months... How painful, how difficult, how testing and unsettling... And also how beautiful it all was....


Again I am reminded of the reason why I am going on this trip to a foreign land, to a foreign place in search of peace and closure.

The Monk's visit

"Your mum looks calm and peaceful," the monk said, "She is well taken care of and loved. You can see that..." We walked slowly out of the hospital. An hour earlier, I picked up the monk and his attendant from the train station and we headed to the hospital. Mum was so surprised to see us, especially to see the monk. I think she feels embarrassed, as they had journeyed far and long to be in the same room as her. The monk said not to think anything of it, "It should be," (應該的) as they say in Mandarin. But I know he does not leave the monastery grounds much, if at all. I know this journey and seeing mum in her current state would bring back memories of his own loss. Even so, he came, and brought mum great joy. I am sure of it.

We sat around for half an hour or so. Sometimes I had to "translated", as mum spoke so quietly the monk could barely understand her. "I have two very filial children..." she said. The monk nodded in agreement.

"This body, there is no more treatment. I am fortunate that [my brother] found this place for me and that they would take me..." mum said, panting. She has been complaining more and more of shortness of breath and a racing heartbeat. I knelt by her side the whole time, stroked her arm softly, and touched her head and hair. It's what I do when I'm by her side.

The monk commented on the pictures on the wall and the slideshow of photographs on the flatscreen. "It's so personal and touching to see..." I smiled, unsure still why I smile so much these days. It's not a smile because I'm happy. It's not a smile because I'm feeling awkward of saddened. It's a smile because I know: "I'm trying to the best I can". There is nothing more I can do. Nothing less I can do. And I am so glad I am here, making the last stage of mum's journey as comfortable and easy as possible.

I knelt by her side. There were moments when we just sat around. Even silence and the presence of loved ones and people who care about you can be healing, soothing. The silence was broken by mum's laboured attempts to speak. "I have read about this in the [Buddhist] books. This is something we all need to go through. Like Goenka said it's," she gestured her hand, showing the back and front side of her hand, meaning to say life and death is but the flip side of the other.

The monk took out a book they published, the earliest book of Ajahn Chah's teachings they translated. "Our real home" is the title, a collection of dhamma talks about how wherever you go, wherever you may be, finding peace and calm in the heart is the real place of refuge and peace. "The first piece is a good read.." the monk said. I flipped to the first section, and skimmed through it. I read it before. It's a talk given to a layperson on the brink of death. "Read it to your mum when you can," the monk told me. "I will..." I said. I had intended to bring some Buddhist books to the hospital to read, but he brought the first one. Every time you read this kind books, there's a different feeling.

"The gift if dhamma," I said, "It's the most precious gift!" I recounted how fate brought us all together already five, six years ago. How one thing led to another and we got to know the monk. For so many years, the monastery in the mountains has been a place of refuge and place where mum and I can find a temporary place of refuge and solitude. It has given mum many moments of joy and reprieve from the pains of treatment and hospital visits. When I think of all those moments mum sat in the moments and chatted the morning (or afternoon) away with the monk and aunties, I could cry happy tears and tears of gratitude.

"Thank you for visiting..." mum said weakly as the monk was about to leave.

"Good luck, and goodbye..." the monk said. In Taiwanese culture, it is a most wonderful blessing to be visited by a monk at the end of one's life. And mum is so fortunate, so very fortunate to know the monk in the mountains, and to have him go through all this trouble and travel all this way to see her. "It is the merit she made throughout her life," the monk said as we left the hospital.

After a long lunch, and a few hours sitting down and catching up, I took the monk and his attendant back to the train station. At the ticket barrier, I gestured to kneel down on the floor and bow out of reverence and respect. The monk wanted to lift me up, but I insisted.

I am so grateful, so very grateful that he agreed to my request and came to see mum. As he prepared to go down the escalator, he turned to wave goodbye. I stood and waved, and tried to contain my tears. Happy tears, and tears of gratitude...

Watching DVDs

"Why are you wasting money buying..." brother said in a irritated tone. I stared at him and gave him an angry look before he could finish his sentence. He meant to say I was wasting money buying travel DVDs for mum to watch at the hospice...

"How can you be like this...?" I asked him back. Deep down, I wanted to say: "How can you even think of money? Do you know how long mum has?!" I didn't say it, because mum was there. But I was upset how he could even talk about money, about "wasting" money, when I just want to let mum look at places she has been and review sights she has seen before.

I put a DVD I bought the other day in, and got out the dishes I bought at the restaurant. Mum again had a request, one from last night, but I could not fulfil her request before because I could not find a place where they sold what she wanted. But today it occurred to me where I could buy typical Taiwanese dishes, dishes that remind her of the "olden days" and her childhood-- dishes that take the taste buds and memories back to the era of my grandma...

The taste of poached egg with garlic and pickled turnip, the taste of crispy fried pork rib, the pungent taste of oyster in black bean sauce, and the decadent smell of fish roe fried rice. The scent of these dishes filled the room as the large flatscreen tv began playing scenes of Hokkaido in winter time.

"didn't you and mum go there before during winter? Was it like this too?" I asked brother. Mum asked for her glasses, and brother looked up at the screen, captured by scenes of snow covered mountains and valleys.

"Yes, it was like that..."

Again, beautiful memories relieved, stories were shared, and mum smiled as she ate little bites of what she so wanted to eat.

Could any joy be more simple, more beautiful?

Visit

I didn't know how to ask, because in all honesty it's more like a request. And I was afraid it would be declined. But I have been thinking of asking the monk who lives in the mountains to come see mum. And I finally did it just now.

Mum didn't ask for him. But I think she would be very touched if she could see him again. The monk said yes. I kept on thanking him, and was moved to tears...

He will need to see how to arrange to visit, because it's not convenient for him to travel, and he needs an attendant. I am also aware that coming to see mum would be an emotional experience, for his closest disciple passed away only three year ago and also due to cancer, so seeing mum in her current state of health would perhaps evoke painful memories. In fact, when I mentioned mum was sleeping a lot, the monk said that was the same with his disciple in those final days...

It still has to be seen when and whether he can make it. But I know his visit and his presence would bring mum great comfort. And I am moved to tears just thinking about it...

Bath time

Mum looks forward to bath time like an excited girl. Almost every day she asks if there is a slot open for her. There is only one special bathroom which caters to patients who are unable to bathe themselves. And to take a bath, you need the assistance of at least a nurse and two volunteers, so it's a big effort, and so the availability is limited, and mum can only get to use it one every two, three days or so.

The nurse came in in the morning and told her that she is third in line.  "Do I have to wait long? Last time I waited till the afternoon..." mum said. Moments later, the nurse came back and said she did some rearranging, and mum could go first. A smile lit up on mum's face immediately.

A volunteer auntie came in. "You should go inside and bathe your mum! Go, don't be shy! Just remember your mum used to bathe you when you were little, and now you can help her bathe. It is a very special experience, something to remember."

Personally, I actually am not shy about it. But I am afraid mum would be. Last time (I wasn't at the hospital at that particular moment...) when mum bathed, brother was told to go outside and wait. I went to help get fresh linen to change the bed while mum is in the bath, and when I came back into her room, the same auntie came up to me excitedly: "You have been chosen! Your mum wants you to go in with her!" I looked at mum, and though she said nothing, there was a look of agreement on her face. Brother was in the room too, together with his wife and baby. "You should come too," I urged him, and in the end, our whole family went into the bathroom together.

The tub was already filled with warm water, and at mum's request it was "especially warm". "I want to enjoy it more," she told the nurse before she was wheeled into the bathroom. The nurse, carer and volunteer auntie covered mum's 'parts' up with cloth, and slowly lowered her down into the tub. "Don't worry, the special bits will all be covered up by the bubbles!" the nurse joked.

 Mum seemed to sigh. The expression on her face was one of bliss and enjoyment. She told me before that when she is bathing, even if it lasts only fifteen minutes or so, she feels like she is drifting. Drifting and feeling very light. It is a wonderful feeling, she said. And for those few moments when she is drifting in the water, the sores, the pains, the physical discomforts seem to melt away into the warmth of the tub. Tub with massaging jets and temperature control!

My brother and sister-in-law and I stood by the side and watched, a little unsure what we could do to help. "Come! Come help wash her hair!" the volunteer auntie beckoned. I was excited, but mum looked a bit unsure. She has before complained that I cannot wash my own hair properly, so she must be thinking how I would manage to wash her hair. "Don't worry, your son can do it. He can give your scalp a nice massage!"

Squeezing some shampoo onto the palm of my hand, I began to moisten mum's hair. Slowly at first, as I was unsure whether mum would feel any pain, I massaged her scalp. First it was with one hand, then it was with two. I jokingly imitated what they ask at the hairdressers when they wash your hair: "Is there anywhere you need extra attention with?"  At that moment, mum had her eyes closed, I later learned from a picture that was taken of me washing her hair. At that moment, with her eyes closed, mum looked like she was lost in a blissful, blissful dream...

I massaged her head for a short while, and turned to my brother: "You go!" I urged him, tried to persuade him with gestures of my foamy hands and smile. He smiled nervously, and looked very awkward. I rinsed my hands clean, and walked up closer to him. "Go on, it's a very special experience..." Deep down, I was thinking to myself "What are you afraid of? She is our mother. This might be the first and only time you will get to do this for her..." He still looked very embarrassed, but in the end he went to stand behind mum and did what I just did. I stood by the side and smiled. Inside I was tearing, as I am tearing now. Tearing because it was so beautiful. So very beautiful...

While brother massaged mum's head, I reached into the tub and helped scrub mum's body. My fingers felt every bone of her ribs, felt the contours of her spine through the thin layer of aged skin on mum's back. Mum's legs have become so thin she can no longer stand and carry her own weight. Her hips protrude sharply and her thin arms lay by her side. Mum looked so helpless, so much like a small child who needed the constant protection and care of others. Cancer did this to her, cancer made her so frail, so ill, so thin... Cancer is weakening her body bit by bit, bit by bit...

But I smiled at mum, smiled at the experience of being able to help bathe her, clean her and make her feel comfortable and loved. Cancer can ravage her body, cancer will take her away from me soon, but it cannot ravage or take away this beautiful moment and memory created with mum and my entire family, a moment when we bonded at a whole new different level...

Back in her bed, mum smelled good, and her skin felt smooth and clean to the touch. I leaned in close and grabbed one of her arms and placed it on my cheek. Her body felt warm. "You comfortable and clean now?" Mum nodded slightly, and on her face was still the smile that could hardly contain the sensation of bliss, contentment and being at ease...

"Rest well, mum," I said softly as I rubbed her arm against my face and kissed her hand gently, "Rest well..." Mum closed her eyes, and on her face was that smile still.

More DVDs!

In the pouring rain (a new typhoon is headed this way!) I ran to the department store. I knew what I wanted, but the question is whether they are available.

Following the successful showing of the travel DVDs on Canada, I thought it would be great if mum could watch more DVDs on other countries she been to. The Netherlands, France, Switzerland, Japan... So many places she enjoys visiting, and I am sure she would love to see again.

I went to the store and looked around.I find only a few DVDs with scenery and classical music, but only for switzerland and Hokkaido (Japan). I found two more DVDs on deep sea marine life and the universe, also set to music, and I thought mum might enjoy those too.

During dinner, we watch the DVD on switzerland. Beautiful colours and sceneries of mountains and lakes, castles and little medieval towns. I saw mum's face brighten up, and that made me smile. She is reliving memories and I hope also reminding herself that she has seen and done so much in her life...

Order

"She wants drunken chicken..." brother said over the phone.

"Drunken chicken?" I asked. I know the dish well. It's chicken soaked in aged wine to give it a cool and refreshing taste. "That's what she would like?"

"Yes, drunken chicken and some stir fried vegetables."

I did not ask further. It is not a time to ask questions. As the doctor said repeatedly, give her what she likes to eat, give her what she thinks of eating. Let her eat as little or as much as she would like.

I had a place in mind where I could get these two dishes. It's restaurant we have frequented since we were children. I ordered the dishes mum wanted, and two more dishes. A spicy dish of Sichuan origin, containing aping onions, pigs blood and intestines (definitely not kosher or for the faint of heart...). Mum, my brother and I love that dish. And I also ordered some steamed "spiral buns"-- a sweet pastry that is light and easily to chew and digest. And I just spend two hours ( or actually, the rice cooker...) brewing a pungent chicken soup filled with five different kinds of mushroom.

It'll be a feast tonight in Room 20!

Pictures

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I was unsure how mum would react to seeing pictures from the past. I was showing her professional pictures from my graduation, and one thing led to another, I began showing her photos from her trips...

Mum looked at them while chewing on a slice of whole grain bread and sipping her favourite hot almond tea drink. She smiled, and I smiled too seeing her smile. She asked now and then where the places were, and I filled her in.

The nurses came in, and later so did the doctor. I was sitting on mum's bed, and had one arm around her head. With one hand I stroked her hand. She smiled, and seemed to be enjoying the pictures.

"Where are all these places?" the nurse asked.

"Places she's been to! She's been to so many places!" I answered.

Appearing and disappearing on and off the screen were pictures of places far away, pictures from times long past. Ad yet, for those few seconds when we see the pictures, we are transported to a time and place that is beautiful and memorable, happy and associated with so many different sights and sounds that resurface again triggered by the captured moment in time.

I hope mum feels comforted and at ease when she reviews all these places, and reminds herself again and again that her life has been fully lived, and that her life is really beautiful.

Pictures on the wall

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Almost as soon as I returned, I began decorating mum's hospice room. To personalise the place, to make it more like home and less like a hospice. I did similar things before when mum was staying at the normal ward on the lower floors of this very building.
In my mind, if you're going to be spending some time here, why not make it comfortable and familiar?

This time I went a bit further than before. I put up more pictures, first of all because there is more place to place them, as there is a noticeboard with lots of pins you can use. But most importantly, this stay may be the last stay, and I want mum to be surrounded by lovely scenes from places she's been to if that moment does come in this very room...

There are two pictures of her, one sitting next to a window on a train and smiling so beautifully and happily. Another one is of mum placing her hand on a tall tree with tree tumour in a show of solidarity and encouragement. I remember that moment well, for she said to me even a tree with tumour can grow tall and strong. That was a profound realisation and sign that she had come to terms with her illness. There is a picture of Lake Louise, with the reflection of the sky and the mountains on the tranquil lake surface. There is a picture of a fjord in Norway, a picture of the Matterhorn as seen from Zermatt-- a place we've visited three times together! There is a picture of the sunset in Evian, where we were "forced" to spend the night because I misread the date of our flight, and another one. And there is a picture of a sunrise, taken by me at the monastery I've been to for two ten day retreats. Plus, there are pictures of beautiful autumn foliage and tulips, as well as a picture of a golden Buddha, and one of my nephew sleeping and resting his little head on his hand...

From mum's bed, the wall with all these picture can be easily seen. The nurses and doctors who come in regularly sometimes stop to take a good look. Whereas on the first day there were only three or four pictures, by the time I went home again two days later, the will had become full! "It's so touching to see all those pictures!" one nurse remarked.

Another nurse commented on the large bear I had brought with me from home the one my ex gave me once and I in turn gave to mum around a year ago to watch over her while I am not around. In his arms is a giant red heart, one I got from the mattress store when I bought mum that new memory foam mattress days before Mother's Day. My little spacemonkey whom I carry around with me on "important missions" is also in the room, and around his next is a wooden plaque I/he acquired at the little temple on top of Tokyo Tower just days earlier. On the back of plaque I wrote in black ink: Eternal Happiness, which is what I wish mum, and also the name of the spacemonkey's current mission-- which is perhaps the most difficult mission of all...

These are just some of the cute, silly objects that I hoped would bring a smile to mum's face, and warm her heart. Mum sighs and says that the pictures and stuffed animals are a bit excessive. But I know that she is touched, especially when the nurses come and stop in front of the little personalised corner of the room and admire all these things I've put up. When mum has her eyes closed and sleeps, it is comforting to know that whenever she opens her eyes, the animals and pictures are there to greet her. As am I.

Mattress

Mum got upset, and I know I shouldn't make her upset. But I tried and tried to push what I wanted to do, and to get her approval so she would be ok with it, lest I just go ahead and 'defy' her wishes. Eventually she relented and agreed, or at least stopped protesting.

Mum said she has been having trouble sleeping, and that her back is sore, even though the hospice staff changed her mattress to a very comfortable foam one. But it still is not enough.

I verified. "Is the mattress I bought you comfortable? Do you sleep better in it? Do you feel less aches and sores even after a day or two? She just nodded. To me that was the deciding factor. Ae said that it would be a shame to vein that mattress to the hospital to be used, for fear of bacteria and disease. But as I reasoned with her, it even more of a shame if a mattress of that price tag were to lie there unused.

So I rushed home, reassure her many times that it would be no trouble at all. I quickly got the mattress with brother's help and stuffed it inside a suitcase and brought it back to te hospice ward. Within ten minutes of returning, the carer and managed to make the bed. Mum lay down, and she had a content look on her face.

"See, no trouble at all! As long as you're comfortable!"

Mum's eyes were a little red and moist.

It's really the least I could do for her...

DVDs

I saw it at the museum gift shop, and I had this urge to buy it. A collection of DVDs about Canada... Victoria, Vancouver, Nova Scotia, the Rockies, Toronto, Niagara Falls, Quebec City... All places that mum has been, mostly with me, some trips on her own when mum travelled with a friend of hers on tour.

Why did I want to buy this? I saw in my mind mum watching the DVDs, enjoying and reliving the memories of her trips around this amazing and beautiful nation on her bed.

Yes, it's a gruesome thought, but I mean it well... Lying there on the brink of life and death, is there anything more soothing, more comfortable than seeing the nature and wonders of Canada and seeing the places she has been before?

I hope soon I will be able to watch the clips with mum, and that we can smile...

Mum's birthday

Mum sat quietly on her comfy chair as she made a wish.

"Don't say it out loud, otherwise it won't come true!!!" brother reminded her. I suspected the wish had something to do with us, the children ad grandchild. I can imagine mum wishing perhaps to live a bit longer so she can see us all settle down and be on the right track, especially me. Mum blew out the candle, and smell of a blown out fire filled out noses before the pungent sweet scent of the decadently appetising-looking cake cover with soft dark Belgium chocolate filled our senses.

I hugged mum's body as she was about to slice the cake. I know it's unusual, but I too made a wish, wishing her wish would come true so she can be happy and be at ease. I wished also that she can be comfortable free from much pain, that she can eat and recover.

We sat around mum, all us children and grandchild. The carer was a bit embarrassed to join us, but we insisted that also have a bit of cake.

Earlier in the day, as mum rested and sunbathed for the first time in weeks, clandestinely flowers were delivered. A massive basket of beautiful pink flowers, with a note attached, from no one other than my sweet little nephew.

" A-ma,

Very happy to spend A-ma's 60th birthday together. These are flowers i asked mum to order for me, Hope you will like them.

Loving you,
Xxxxxxx"

Mum kept on saying we shouldn't have, especially shouldn't have spent so much money. But I know, deep down she appreciates all the gestures, and that she is touched.

Night before last night

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Should I be sad? Should I be mourning? Should I face the facts and allow my mood to sink?

Am I lying to myself by being hopeful? Am I fooling the world by not thinking too much about the doctor's words the day mum checked out of hospital?

"It is in the final stages (末期)..." was the only thing the doctor said. He did not know what to say when brother asked for a time. I personally find it somewhat distasteful. As if one could predict when or how or where death, or anything in life, will happen! And what does it matter really? So people could be nicer and do better if someone does not have much longer left? So you could start living more and doing more with your life if you know time is limited?

The doctor was kind to sit down with us for almost half an hour. He drew a picture diagram of mum's inside, and better than before I now can visualise what they did in terms of the surgery and what is causing the jaundice.

I know much of this already, so perhaps that's the reason why I just sat there and let the words wash over me. I felt like I was not in the room, like I was just a bystander, as brother asked the questions and the doctor answered and drew his diagram...

There is a large lump on the duodenum. It is causing food to be trapped in the stomach. They connected a lining of the small intestines to the stomach wall, so that at least some food can leave somewhat naturally down the intestines and be absorbed. The lump is growing larger. It has compressed against the wall of the bile duct, suppressing the flow of bile which normally enters the duodenum. Jaundice is caused when bile, a poisonous substance if not excreted, collects in the body, and it causes the body to turn yellow and causes the liver to slowly lose its functions. Hence mum's continuing tiredness and still yellowish skin tone.

"I discussed with other doctors, and the duodenum is no longer operable." This was contrary to what I was told before, when I was given that glimmer of hope. Hope mixed with anxiety, for back then I was already told it would be a major operation, and I dreaded mum having to face another long stint at the hospital and having to walk on the long road to recovery again... Now, the lump has grown too large, and an operation to remove the duodenum and reconnect the "tubing" in that region ( which involves cutting out a piece of the pancreas, rewiring the biliary tree and readjusting the stomach and intestines even more) is simply too much work and too risky. It's not worth the risk.

"We've done the best we could so your mother can eat. She may still throw up a bit, as some food will still collect in the stomach and not go down the reroute, but at the very least she can eat and drink like before."

As for the bile duct, they installed a tube that is longer and thicker to direct the flow of bile down to the unblocked part of the intestines. For now, it seems to work well, as mum's jaundice level has come down (but still is very high...), but at least the bile is channeled as intended and leaving the body. There is still an open wound and a tube coming out of it, and mum has to have the tube in her for a month or two. The wound has to be cleansed and addressed of every day. Any sign of her skin yellowing more or any sign of fever, she must immediately check into the hospital, for it may be an infection of the wound.

"She can go home and rest and eat. It's important that she eats well and gain back her strength," the doctor reminded us.

Brother is scared, he told me. He's scared of what may happen, and scares of mum's condition worsening. I reassured him in the best way I could. Though, admittedly, I am of course also scared.

"It doesn't matter what will happen in the future, don't think too much about things. They said three years ago mum doesn't have long. Even if something happens tomorrow, or next week, you're doing your best, and you will not be alone. You've got your wife, your kid, and I'll be back too." (momentarily, I must admit, there was a rise in jealousy and sense of longing, for I have none of the important, valuable sources of comfort and support I just mentioned.)

Whatever happens, I am here. I will be here to support you, to support and comfort mum till the very end, I heard myself saying in my head. "You just spend more time with mum, touch her, talk to her, make her feel comfortable and assured. There's nothing more important. There's nothing else we can do but those things."

Brother was silent, but I know he heard me, because I've said the same thing to him several times. And I strongly believe deep down, he also wants to play a role, but he just does not know how or where to start. And I've been also telling mum to give him (and his wife) a chance, not to judge too soon, not to have any preconceptions based on events and unhappiness in the past, but to let them demonstrate what they can do, to let them have their chance at being filial children.

I believe strongly that this is all part of "Operation Eternal Happiness", an effort from all sides to get together and make beautiful memories together to keep, and to keep for life, and to keep even after death. The ways I've seen my brother and sister-in-law bond an interact with mum over the past two days have been very promising. And my nephew's cute little face and multitude of expressions and sweet little bouts of giggles is a wonderful bonus to add to lightening mum's discomforts and adding to her impression that life has been wonderful, and that life continues to be worth all the hardship and pain...

Checking out

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We fought in front of mum, which I know is not pleasant for her to see. In the chaos of checking out the hospital, with so many things to pack, and documents to sign, bills to pay for, and follow up appointments to be made, it did not help that brother made a fuss about what happens after mum returns home.

"I can't take care of her! I don't know what to do!" he kept on saying.

I got upset. "What about me? Did I know what to do? You just learn as you go along!" I retorted, "I can't believe that you two cannot manage to take care of mum when I managed by myself all these months!" I know, it doesn't help to deescalate the situation, but it's been bothering me. He's not even tried to do much since he got back home (admittedly, he was struck down by the cold, but still, he has so far done sorrily little for mum or spent much time with her.

As brother and I exchanged words, mum lay languishing in bed, in great discomfort. I didn't expect him to miraculously know what to do, nor did I expect him to give mum (frankly...) the same level of attentiveness and care I give her. But I did just want him to take some initiative. Take some Initiative, not just be away with his family in another part of the country while mum needs support and as I am about to leave.

Brother got upset when I shouted back at him, something I rarely do. And he started to just throw things around as he packed them. Very mature. "Is this how you want to be?" I asked him, "How can you make mum so insecure and feel some uncomfortable about going home, when she's been so looking forward to returning to the comfort of her own home after being in hospital for so many weeks?"

The main problem is that we've gotten used to having a 24hr carer over the past two weeks. She has even exceptionally good at making mum feel assured, and making sure mum eats and gets up to exercise and walk about at regular intervals. And importantly, the carer could help mum go to the washroom and shower, which can be an awkward experience if I or brother both boys, were to do it. At first we thought that perhaps she could come back home with us, at least for a few days for us to find another live-in carer, but her agent refused to let her go home with us, and arranged for another shift at the hospital as soon as they heard mum could be discharged. That was the reason for brother's panic. he even proposed that mum stay in hospital a few more days so we can take advantage of the carer in the hospital, which was ridiculous, as mum, if she could and had the energy to, would sooner jump out of her hospital bed and rush home. She has been so looking forward to going home!

But panic, and a bit of angry goading from me, is good. Brother got on the phone and started calling and making arrangements, trying to get ahold of human resources agencies who could dispatch a carer within short notice.

I sat with mum and tried to reassure her it would be alright, told her not to be afraid. Deep down, I was planning to change my departure if need be, to stay around to help out more so brother does not become overwhelmed and lost.

We wheeled mum out the hospital, the first time she breathed fresh air, the first time she left the hospital building since she checked in on 20 March. She was very frail, still very weak. I held her hand throughout the ride home. "Almost home," I told her, "it's been far too long..."

When she got off the taxi, there was a step, and she could barely make that step. Her legs had really very little strength, her body had very controllability. It was then that I saw she really needed help, and that it would be a long, tricky road ahead for her to recover and be well enough to walk around on her own. If ever.

We put mum in her own bed. I had rushed home straight from my trip south and before I headed to the hospital to tidy her room a little and make it presentable. Most important of all, I put the mattress top I bought her clandestinely over her bed and under fresh, clean sheets. I hoped she would not notice, but how could she not when there's an obvious difference in "elevation" between where there is a memory foam padding and where there is none?

"What did you buy?" mum asked as she lay on it, "How much was it? How much?"

I didn't answer her question, or at least I answered her with a question. "Is it comfortable? It's supposed to support your whole body so you feel less sores and pains." And that is all that matters, however many times she asked me the price, and even saying she would go back to that store to check the price on her customer records.

"It doesn't matter how much. You're home now and I hope comfortable..."

Mother's day gift

I really just wanted to get mum a soft padding to put under her whenever she lies down. But I walked away with a mattress...

Mum looked terribly ill today. For the two and a half hours I was there with her, she said very little. She had her eyes closed most of the time, except when I was showing her fascinating pictures of nature and of her grandchild on her eeepad. Otherwise, she sat lay there, and sat up for a little while, and just closed her eyes. From her facial expression you could see she was in a lot of discomfort...

Her red blood cell count is low again, and the doctor decided to give her yet another transfusion. As the two pouches of dark red blood dripped nip her veins, she became colder and colder. "It's so cold..." I covered her with another blanket, and held onto her hand to keep her warm. But still she was shivering. It is a common side effect of transfusions to feel wither cold or burn up in a fever, as the body has to adjust to foreign bodies.

Mum ate very little today, and for dinner just had a cup of warm drink, which is worryingly little. She said she had no appetite, and feels pain in the region where the bile tube is placed. Earlier in the day, her tube was changed to a thicker one so that there would be a better flow of bile out of her. It was yet another painful procedure and they administered a local anaesthesia. While they changed the bile induction tube, they also took images to see whether it is feasible to place a more permanent tube inside of her body so that mum does not have to carry a bile pouch with her all the time. The doctor came back and the initial assessment is that it is not suitable. No explanation was given as yet. I suspect it has to do with the spread in the duodenum, which may have worsened to an extent that the bile ducts are blocked and have no way out...

I sat quietly next to mum, leaned my head against hers and stroked her hands. Silently, I prayed and wished that she would feel better. I've done this a million times, but I still do it again and again in moments of despair. Why? Because what else can you do? What else other than hold her, touch her body and wish that hopefully whatever positive vibes and wishes will pass through the contact of our skin and quell her cancerous cells...

I left mum who had her eyes closed and who looked so very, very tired... I had to brave a smile as I left the room and wished her goodnight...

I didn't go home immediately. After a quick dinner (again, fast food...) I went to the department store she used to frequent a lot. I've been asking myself what I could do about her sore back, sore bum and sore shoulder blades. Much of the sores is due to the fact she does not have much 'meat', meaning if she lies for a long time, the pressure on her bones gets unbearable. She already has a padding, which she shifts from her shoulder to her back or to wherever the sore is most felt. But sometimes, she complains she is sore all over...

So I walked into the store, initially wanting to just buy another memory foam padding, so she has two and would have a greater surface coverage of her back side. Each costs NT$3600 (approx. US$120...) I was not surprised at the price, for the brand is her favourite, and she has a collection of pillows, a head-rest and even a comfy chair, the padding of all of which are made by  Tempur-- a company made famous when it invented a padding to relieve astronauts of the stresses of large G forces in outer space.

The storelady showed me the padding, the exact same one mum has, and she asked me what the pad is for. without going into details of what condition she has,  I explained to her mum's sores, how she feels sores and pains almost throughout her back side. The lady  told me I'm better off buying a mattress (overlay). "Simply place it over her existing mattress, and she would not need any other accessories."

I tried the mattress out, and it felt really comfortable, except for one thing. It was close to a thousand dollars, far, far more than I thought I would be spending. But the idea attracted me. If it can really reduce mum's sores, especially if she is going to be lying in bed for a long period of time, then what price tag can you put on that? I told the lady frankly that I did not have the necessary amount of money, at least not in case. "Is there anything more you could do about the price..?" I asked, "It's really hard seeing mum have so much sores, and not be able to do anything about it..." She understood, and for a moment there was a connection. She saw my heart, my intentions are genuine, and that I am truly buying it out of concern, out of love for my mother's comfort and wellbeing. The lady was moved, and said it is rare to see a child wanting to buy something for his mother.

She gave me a twenty percent discount, and then took off another hundred dollars or so under their "old for new" policy (whereby you give your old mattress for recycling). "I'm moved," she said, "As it's almost Mother's Day, I will give you a heart-shaped cushion for free too. But I'll have to clear it with my boss first." The heart-shaped pillow, also made of the same memory foam material as the mattress and pillows, costs over US$200 alone.

She rang her boss, and they spoke for a good five minutes. I could hear the lady say that there is a child who wants to buy something for his mother, but he doesn't have much. The boss was adamant that the pillow cannot be given away for free. Later, the lady came back to me and said it doesn't matter what the boss said. "I'll give you the pillow regardless!"

I was very touched, and had traces of tears shimmering in my eyes. I thanked the lady again and again, again and again. "Money you can always make..." I said. She finished my sentence: "But you only have one mother! Are you a single child?"

"I have a brother," I answered.

"Well, ask him to pay half of it!"

"He just got a child..." I explained. More to myself I guess, to justify to myself why my brother would not be contributing to this purchase. Just the other day, he was telling me how thrift he and his family must be as he's not working and is back here.

I walked away from the store with a large package and heart-shaped pillow, and hauled it all the way home. Along the way, I imagined mum's surprise when she sees it. I told the lady mum would get mad if she were to see that I bought her something else. "Just say it's discounted. Or better yet, just hide it under the mattress cover, so she won't see it!"

I smiled as I walked, and imagined the day mum sleeps on the mattress for the first time. Perhaps I will not be there to see that moment, but I smiled at the thought that even if I am away, my presence and the way I can touch her heart  can still be felt...

48 hours

I left the hospital, close to 48 hours since I last entered it. My head and body were itchy, as I've not showered in the same amount of time. But I was surprisingly not too tired. Perhaps because I "napped" till almost noon today, after going to sleep at close to two. Or perhaps the fatigue is yet to come when I collapse onto bed...

Seems I've entered a sort of routine of studying late at night after I've put mum to sleep. I don't really get much studying done, for before long it's already past one or two in the morning, which means I'll be woken up in a few hours by the doctors around seven when they conduct routine room checks. And every hour or so, the night nurse would come in and see me sit at the dressing table studying. In the few hours I do sit done to read, I can concentrate pretty well. Though there is so much material to cover, and it is extremely daunting to have to cover everything from scratch and through self-study in the next three weeks, at times I turn back and see mum lie there, I am reminded of the reasons why I am studying, why I must work hard:

yes, it's for myself in the end, but a large reason why I eagerly would like to sit this upcoming exam is for mum! To make her proud! To demonstrate to her that despite distractions and adverse circumstances, I (hopefully...) still can succeed what I set my mind to do. And hopefully, when she sees me do what I have to do, and go after my plans and dreams, she can feel at ease, and feel a semblance of comfort and happiness... It is my hope that that little bit of comfort and happiness can rub away a bit of the pain and discomforts she feels on a daily basis...

Massage

The corner of mum's eyes were moist. She looked at me from her bed, her skin a little yellow from jaundice (yellowing of the skin, due to prolonged use of IV nutrients she has been administered...)

She said something. It was so weak and almost inaudible, so I asked her to repeat herself. I think I heard "I will miss you...", but I could not be sure. Mum did not repeat herself. But what I heard made me almost tear, because she said it in a way as if she is about to leave soon...

"You have done too much, and more than a child ever should, and I am so grateful..." she said. Again, there was that unmissable moisture in the corners of mum's eyes.  I tried to say something to divert the conversation, because I was so embarrassed and lost as what I should say in response. But mum continued: "You have made it all worthwhile..." I struggled so hard to contain my tears... I have only done what I could, and sometimes I lose my temper and get angry and frustrated at her in the process... I have only done what I can, and sometimes I know I push her and force her to do things, even though she says she is too weak and too frail to do them...

I touched mum's arm and began to massage it. She looked at me and closed her eyes, and quietly smiled.

Later, when brother visited, I proposed to give mum a massage together. Brother took one leg, while I took another, and when we were done with the legs and the feet, we started on the hands and arms. It was then that brother saw and realised for the first time how thin, how bony mum had become.

 It was the first time that brother got so close to mum, the first time, I believe, that he touched mum so intimately and for so long. He looked at how I rubbed lavender lotion onto mum's legs and arms and gently massaged the  lotion in. And he followed my motion, rubbing and massaging, not just mum's limbs, but I am sure also mum's heart. I was so happy, for unlike before, he did not look at me and frown when I asked him to massage mum. I think seeing mum like this, all the mental barriers came down, all the embarrassment and pride vanished. .Seeing your own mother so weakened and so frail, you cannot but feel compassion and the need to want to do something, anything, to alleviate her discomforts and pain. And brother sees it too, brother is human too, and he knows, just as I wanted it, that there are things that he can do to try and make mum more comfortable and feel cared about.

It was such a touching moment, and I wished I could remember that moment, just the three of us, forever and ever. I suspect mum will remember that moment forever and ever. "What greater pleasure is there to have both your sons massage you?" I joked, "Just enjoy it!"

Letter

 With my brother and his family due to return tomorrow, I took some time to write to them.
It was a brief email, but the point was to remind them of how mum's condition has been, and to tell them that mum may be moody, mum may be sad, mum may even lose her temper and be very demanding... but she is still our mother, I wrote, and we have to be more compassionate and understanding, especially given the pain, frustrations and discomforts she has been going through (and still is going through...) for so long now due to her illness. Without trying to be or wanting to be condescending, I wrote reminding my brother, sister-in-law (and nephew!) the reasons why we are together for the coming period, and what we can do for mum:

To spend precious time with mum, to talk to her so that she will have no regrets or no anger,  to let her see and play with her grandchild...
We can let her feel that life is meaningful, we can make her remember that she can still enjoy life, go travel, and do whatever she would like to do...
We can remind her of the many places she has been to, remind her of all the wonderful things she has done in the past. We can encourage and support her so that she can find purpose in living again and make the most of her days.
We may not be able to cure her illness of take away all her discomfort and pains, but we can distract her and make her feel happy, maker her smile.
These are perhaps the best gifts we can offer her as children. 

I just hope they will be understanding and that the coming period will be a meaningful and memorable one, for mum, and for all of us.

Memories

There are few people mum sees nowadays. Besides her siblings, there is her cousin and a friend of hers who visit mum once or twice a month.

With her cousin and this friend, mum has traveled to Europe on no less than three separate occasions. Together, they have common memories of riding the Glacier Express in Switzerland, of visiting the village where van Gogh painted in Southern France (2004), of exploring the fjords of Norway, of taking the Flying Scotsman to the Scottish Highlands (2003), of exploring the French Riviera, of playing slot machines in Monte Carlo, of watching the sun rise over the Mediterranean, of shopping on the Champs Elysees and at various outlets, of many sumptuous feasts at fancy bistros... There are so many more memories that only they can recall, that only they can reminisce and smile back at.

They came by today, unannounced, and called only when they were at the hospital. Mum received them, and they sat down for a few hours. I took the chance to quickly go eat and to rush downtown to Boa-an Temple, where the deity in charge of health and recover is the main patron saint.

I returned later, and as I approached mum's room, I heard the "auntie" (mum's friend) talk excitedly about travels in southern France. I went into the room quietly, and one of the first thing mum asked was: "What is that name of that village where Cezanne lived?"

"Aix-en-Provence..."


Excitedly, mum's friend continued recalling their trip there, and I listened quietly.

"Get well soon so we can go traveling! Courage, and next year we can go to 'A-mei's homestay'!" the friend said, referring to a beautiful house in Aigle, Switzerland, where a Taiwanese lady mum's age runs a B&B together with her husband.

"You know," mum recalled, "In their garden there is a cherry tree. And in the Summer when there are cherries, birds would come and eat them..." She closed her eyes, reminiscing, and smiled gently. What came to my mind was that I climbed a ladder one day and went up the tree to pick cherries and shared them with mum. So fresh, so juicy, and completely organic, mum's favourite! There were kiwis, peaces and apples too, and we saw them all grow in the garden of the B&B. My mind thought back to the Summer of 2010, when I "surprised" mum in Europe and went to search for her all the way in Switzerland. The crazy thing was that two days earlier, I just returned to Canada from Taiwan. I took a flight to Europe the next day I landed, and a day after that, I flew to Switzerland to find her at the B&B. Why? I guess it was all part of what I nowadays call "Operation Eternal Happiness"-- attempts to do things with mum, for mum, to make her happy, to make her smile, so that one day she can look back and realise time and again what a wonderful, fun and colourful life she has led. One day, like today.


There was a tear in the corner of mum's eye. I wanted to give her a tissue to wipe it away, but I did not. The tear glistened there. Perhaps my mum's friend also saw it.

"Get well soon! We will go travel again next year!"

I smiled at mum, and still saw that teardrop. Some things are best not said, but that does not prevent a thought from arising, even a dark thought...

Hope

Even in hopelessness there is hope.
It may not be hope of recovery, it may not be hope of prolonging life and taking away inevitable pain and suffering. But there can be hope of a beautiful, comfortable, dignified process to rounding up the wonderful journey of life.

I've been wanting to take mum to the Hope Cancer Foundation since I last went there over a month ago, just after my birthday. I wanted to share with mum my new found source of hope and inspiration, wanted to show her that there are many out there like her, and that she need not fear and need not be alone. But but incessant vomiting and fatigue prevented us from going there together.

I went back again today. Mum thought I was going home to rest, but I needed another opinion, especially in light of the setback of the NJ tube insertion, and the startling option of final resort with the major bypass surgery.

I saw a volunteer, a colon cancer survivor who was rescued from the brink if death, a lovely lady around mum's age with two children studying in the UK. We spoke for almost an hour and a half, talking about mum's condition, and about me.

She was more interested in me, how I am coping with all this, how I am releasing my feelings, if at all. I say I write, I write down everything in the first person, write down all my fears, joys, feelings, dreams, thoughts and emotions and experiences as I am doing now. It is my way of letting pent up emotions vent, my way of communicating with the world and "asking" for help. Because I know I cannot cope without an outlet, I know I cannot cope by bottling everything deep inside, for one day, in one way or another, a lot of it will erupt and I will be so torn and traumatised-- perhaps in the way my childhood experiences suddenly came to haunt me a decade or so later.

Mum will pass, it is a matter of time, a matter of manner. I would like her to leave this world feeling like she's really lived, like she's been touched and loved, like she has had a blessed life, despite certain hardships growing up and in this final stage of her life. Nobody can know how much longer she has, but we can try and try to much that last, or at least feel like it is lasting. I want to make her comfortable, make her close her eyes and be able to drift away in bliss and feel like "My duty is done here..."

I have to be aware, not everything will be according to plan. Who would have known a year ago she would have a spinal surgery? Who would have known a month ago she would deafened to this poor state of health on the brink of death? I can try to plan things, but I must also allow the possibility for life to take its natural course.

"Don't feel it's your responsibility for her to get better. Some people completely collapse after losing a loved one, others hate themselves or even get angry at the loved one for dying. Be aware of that..."

I have thought of that possibility, hence I am already seeking help, I am already making plans for the "hereafter". I need to live, I need to love, I need to still love life after death. For I have seen and heard about people around me descend into a depth of depression and terrible, inconsolable sadness, and I must be ever so wary. I must be vigilant.

I must be able to find life again, find a way to keep motivated, keep interested, keep me busy, so that that day when a fundamental aspect of my life, my rock and my core, disappears, I have a net to break my fall.

Hence various "projects" I've been thinking and planning in my head, all part of "Operation New Beginning". I want to bike around the island to prove that I can fulfil a lifetime dream, that I can challenge myself and live up to a personal promise. I want to go to India and/or Tibet (if allowed...) and follow do a Buddhist pilgrimage. I want to return to Lake Louise, where mum and I spent a wonderful hour paddling on the lake. I want to attend my graduation, alone if I must, for I want mum to see me at a proud moment and know that I can do what I set out to achieve. I want to qualify for the bar, work in a field of law I am passionate about (it's crossed my mind, all my accumulated experiences dealing with health care and hospital, why not loom into the field of Medical law?). I want to be with someone who loves me dearly, unconditionally, and whom I love and trust fully. I want to be there for my cat, I want to one day have children of my own! I have dreams, even though mum may not be able to see me realise all my dreams.

I may be calm now, I may be so cool and may still be able to make myself smile when I look at myself smile in the mirror. But that may all disappear, that smile may quickly, unexpected turn to a sad, howling face laden with tears and regret.

I may still be able to calmly narrate the story to people, and even comfort people, but who will comfort me? I must let someone into my life, someone I trust, someone I have for a long time confided in, even if I don't want to.

I must already prepare to accept, to let go, and eventually to heal. It is never too early to prepare for death, for the next moment may already be too late.