One last look...

190213

One last look at the view from the living room window of the house my mum last lived in. She moved there around four years ago. I've stayed at that house for months, weeks, many, many days. Most of those days were difficult, as it was through a period when life was toughest on mum, and death seemed always lurking around the corner. Some days were so beautiful, filled with memories of family gathered together, filled with laughter and smiles, filled with the sound of tv in the background, or the echo of mum chatting with my brother and skyping with my nephew on the computer.

I didn't realise the last time I saw that house would be the last time. Over the past few weeks, much of mum's possessions have been "dealt with". Most donated, some given away, and the rest--- I don't know what happened to most things. I only got a phone call two days ago to say the house has been emptied and that my belongings, or what I have previously said I wanted, have been packaged in boxes and shipped. They will be shipped to me here in Canada. What is inside them I will not know...

In the meantime, after two weeks of little contact, my brother told me the painter came to give the place a new coat of paint, so did an estate agent. Soon, it is the hope, the place will be rented out.

I don't know when it happened or how it happened. But my share in the house my mum last lived in was sold. All I know is an amount of money is now "mine".

I am sitting on an amount of money. Several figures, more than I have ever seen and perhaps will ever see. It feels so empty to have a sum on my bank account, so meaningless. And that sim is supposed to represent the value of the home I lost, the home which holds so many memories, mumories and so much more.

All sold, all packaged in boxes, all in the past now...

Call from brother

The last time brother and I spoke was two weeks ago, when I called him on new year's eve from some obscure location. It only struck me when I looked at the date that two weeks have  already gone by, and I realise again what a waste of time and my life to be so unproductive and so down...

The beginning of the conversation was about (family) business, which I just dread talking about, even though it must be dealt with. What to do with my mum's house, what to do with her belongings (chuck them or donate them...), and so on. He wants me to be available online in the coming period so he can skype with me and show me things to decide what to do with every single item in mum's house. It will be a very tough process, especially from afar...

It depresses me even more to think of all these things, especially knowing that for the first time in five years, I cannot be there for the lunar new year celebrations. When my brother mentioned what he plans to do to commemorate my parents on this special occasion (specifically for my dad, the anniversary of whose passing falls on lunar new year's eve...), I just cried. When he mentioned that he will not be spending new year's at home, but instead will go to stay with his mother in-law, I cried even more... Cried quietly of course. Thank goodness the office door was closed.

Just the image of my mum's home being empty for the first time ever is heart-wrenching. To think, only last year we were all together. Mum was still there, though sickly and weak, but we were together. We shared a meal, even though she ate very little. Mum, brother, his wife, my nephew, and I, all of us together. I could still hold her hand then, I could lie next to her and fall asleep imagining I'm a baby next to his mother. That's all in the past now... no more, no more... Momentarily, the past and all those beautiful memories saddened me.

"Are you alright? How are you doing nowadays?" he asked I think he could hear from the sound of my voice that I am really deflated and unmotivated (I imagine anyone can...). In a rare moment of bonding and care, I felt he was genuinely concerned, perhaps more so because when I visited three weeks ago I told him I have been terribly lonely and often sad these few months since mum left-- a feeling that intensified only after my return to Canada and as I began to pick up my life. I told him then about how lost I feel, so uncertain I am where to start and what to do with myself.

On the phone today, he encouraged me, told me to do things to distract myself and feel less lonely. "You just have to go on... what else can you do?"

Yes, go on, swallow the unpleasant feelings and debilitating emotions that leave your mind and soul so weak and tired, and you must try not let the loneliness and feelings of loss get to you and affect you. Or at least try not let it all affect you too much.

Coming from my brother, it was rare, and heart warming.

Calling brother

I had trouble keeping my eyes dry. Brother noticed I shared some inspirational articles on Facebook about griefing and dealing with loss. He asked what was wrong.

I can not really describe it. Just heaviness, just sadness, just longing for love I'm not really getting (or perhaps not getting from the way I want to...). I know it's all a mental state of mind, and that I am the one in control of my emotions and feelings. But still it's hard to move on when I go home and face the house alone. It's hard to keep the thoughts and creeping images at bay...

"Don't think too much. Do things to distract yourself..." Brother advised me. It was brief how he consoled me. He admitted to me he still feels loss and longing too.

Then he quickly moved onto his family, and for a good ten minutes told me about his plans to buy a bigger house in the future. He's been looking already. Six bedrooms, a large garden and close to my nephew's future school.

There is the difference perhaps. He goes home and has a wife and kid to return to (not to mention the cat...) At a moment as this, perhaps human intimacy and physical contact is what one needs most of all. I need it to affirm that I am not dead, that I still am alive and capable of giving warmth and affection. I need human contact and intimacy to feel safe and temporarily fulfill a deep void inside. This is something perhaps friends cannot understand. The longing for intimacy and love, for a meaningful and lasting relationship is stronger than ever before. This is not to say that I do not appreciate the encouragements and advice of friends who do care, but really having a closeness with one person in particular, with someone I do not feel conflicted in talking to, with someone who will make me feel like I really matter and not just a "case" to deal with, is so important.

Brother told me again to try not think too much, to focus attention and energies else where. I try. I will try harder. I smiled at him, glad to see he's doing alright. Glad to hear that my nephew has grown much bigger and taller, and that he got a new toy-- a multistory carpark. I smiled at seeing my old cat run across the living room where I spent many nights on my own, sometimes even sleeping on the floor because I just felt like it... I was sixteen, seventeen then. I am tenets eight now.

I will be strong and stronger one day. One day I will heal, and i will be beautiful. Beautiful again.

Calling home

07092012.1454

Feud

I exploded on my brother. The frustration and anger has been building up for some time, for weeks, and exacerbated over the past few days. Tensions originating from different temperaments and different approaches to things. Who is to say who is wrong or right? Nobody can say that. But what I dislike and what irritates me most of all is the way my brother commands and bosses people around the house. And I made that very clear to him.

We argued back and forth for ten minutes or so. The baby suddenly began crying, and did not stop for quite some time. He even got out of bed by himself and opened the bedroom door, crying, to see what was going on.  Later, when the mood calmed down, I joked that my nephew was upset by his dad and his uncle arguing.

I told my brother very frankly how I don't appreciate his attitude and his way of bossing people around from the very first thing in the morning. He accused me of not doing anything, of just sitting around and (figuratively) folding my arms and letting him deal with all these things that need to be taken care of. I really fail to see what still needs to be done that we have not yet done, yet my brother has the impression there are still so many unfinished business to be taken care of.

"Even mum never treated me like this when she was still alive..." I said. There, I finally said what I wanted to say. "Your behaving a lot like dad..." That made him become quiet. I hate to bring dad up, and I know it's disrespectful toward him, but really growing up a lot of tensions at home was caused by dad having a bad temper and telling mum to do this and do that. Very much like what my brother is doing now... And I hate to see a repeat of this in his family, and seeing it affect his marriage and my nephew's childhood. Because I know how unhealthy it is to grow up in a family where there is someone who's moods can change like the weather and bring everyone suddenly down...

We soon "made up". Really, there was no hatred harboured, just things I needed to get off my chest. And I think my brother heard what I said, and he too toned down a bit too. Sometimes all you need is  a bit of communication to clear any misunderstandings. And maybe I was upset, and yes I brought up mum and dad with the belief that mentioning them may have more influence on my brother, but I am glad that at least one thing is off my chest, and I sure do hope my brother can change a bit for the better.

Walking

 200812.2104

He began walking by himself over the past week or so. A few steps at a a time, and if the distance is a bit far between two places, he would cleverly walk toward a wall or a chair to rest a bit before walking further. And today, my nephew walked and walked and walked unaided. Today, 20 August 2012, twelve days before he turns one year old.

He is so energetic, so cute and such a darling. Looking at his smile can melt away any worries and anxieties I may have. My nephew smiles also brings smiles and laughter to my brother, who in his current spell of bad temper desperately needs to lighten up.

I put up mum's portrait on the living room wall, and the living room happens to be the place where my nephew test walks the most. So in a way, his grandma can also see him walk around happily in circles. And in a way, his grandma can smile and laugh too...

Brother's check up

My nephew climbed around me, shrieking with innocent joy and laughing so loudly and happily. There is an innocence that is so invaluable, so beautiful, so admirable, and nobody and nothing (except perhaps by growing older...) can take that away from him. I watched him play, and looked at my brother sitting on the same chair that mum used to love sitting on. My brother saw my face become sad, and asked: "What's wrong?"

 Nothing is wrong... Everything is fine, except I envy my brother, for he has a family, a beautiful child. These can mean so much at difficult times, and can add to the joy and bliss in happier times. When he goes to sleep at night, he is surrounded by his wife and child. Of course, married life and family life is not without problems, and I should not idolise his life for I have little to complain about... but really, at night when I am alone in bed, I sometimes find myself reaching out into the darkness, reaching out for human companionship and a warm body to comfort my tired, tired body and wounded mind and soul.

"You really should pay attention to your health. Look at him laugh and play..." I said. My brother came home after an entire day at the hospital for a very thorough body check up. A lump was found in his intestines, too small to be of worry, but still, it is a lump. Otherwise, his weight and layer of fat around his tummy is the greatest cause of concern, and the doctor told him to exercise more and loose some weight. Moments earlier, my brother held his son and they rubbed their cheeks against one another. My brother kept on asking his son: "Did you miss daddy? Did you miss daddy?" The baby giggled so happily and shrieked. It was already half past ten in the evening, but still seeing dad for the first time today made my nephew somehow so high. That was so moving and beautiful to see.

"Two people are dependent on you now, so you really have to be more careful," I said, "So really, take good care of yourself..." I hope what I said didn't sound like nagging, and I do hope my brother heard me and is more alert. Because what he has, as I have told him a couple of times before, is so precious, and he should take better care of himself so he can take better care of his family for a long, long time to come...

Rush

"What's the rush...?" I asked him, "Why do you want to clear out everything already?" Brother has been telling us to get packing and clear out the drawers and cupboards. He says there's little time left, and that he doesn't want to leave everything till the last minute. But we have around a month a ten days left till either of us are supposed to leave the country. Sure, for about two weeks or so, I plan to take a break and do some traveling (hopefully, make it around the island by bike...).  That still leaves many days for us to stay home and clear out mum's belongings.

It was already difficult to start doing so when I began to empty some drawers this afternoon. And it is part of the reason why I am so resistant, which gets on my brother's nerves, because he's very eager to see everything out of the shelves and packed into boxes ready to be shipped away. All those cups, all of mum's bone china collection and memorabilia from her travels. Brother wants them all divided and wrapped and in boxes.

I tell him not to  rush so much, because frankly, it'll be depressing to look at empty shelves and to live in an empty home. Mum has already left, dad already left... if everything on the shelves are to be cleared away, then what is the point of living at home? Why even stick around here?

I need time to process things. It's just me. I need time to allow the reality of mum's absence to sink in before I can start clearing away her belongings. Besides, local tradition suggests that the deceased will often 'return' to the old residence to take another look or to stay around for a while before really moving onto the world hereafter. "How would mum feel if she were to come back to an empty house?" I asked my brother.

That would look so sad, so depressing... And it is already sad and depressing enough that we are in mourning...

Holding mum's hand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And out.

Crash

Almost forty eight hours without proper and long sleep. Another exhausting day taking care of mum's funeral arrangements after her passing. So many traditions to abide by, so Manu customs to adhere to. Even now we cannot say for certain when the cremation will be and when mum will be interred at her final resting place (they are two separate events...). It all depends on what is a "good" day for mum to be cremated and interred, and what is "good" depends on mum's zodiac sign, day and time of passing, and the alignment of the heavens. It is a lot to consider, a lot to be aware of, a lot of taboos to avoid. As if losing a loved one is not already burdensome enough.

Have been too tired to feel sad or really mourn. Though, today while sitting in the car heading to the funeral home with my brother, it moved me so close to tears to see him suddenly just shed tears. He said he was missing mum, and it feels like she's just gone to sleep and will wake up soon. He said it's so strange how these past three months he was constantly by her side, and how this three weeks or so he would visit her daily at the hospital. Now it's all over... Now she's no longer at the hospital or in her bedroom. It is as if we half expect her to be lying there resting, as she did for much of the past two months in bed...

"Looking out the car widow," brother said, his cheeks had the markings of two wet streaks, "Taipei feels so empty. There is nothing here for us anymore..." It was only when he said it out that I realised the same. This is my birth-town and was my childhood hometown. It was a place I would return to every single year almost because my parents were here. Now both dad and mum have moved on, so what is left here? An empty home full of things and belongings of two people who have already gone, an empty home full of memories of what once was but is no more. What else is there here for me, for us?

Brother asked me whether I'm sad and why don't look too sad. "I think it's because I know we have done everything we could. Nothing more could have been asked of us. And it all come to a beautiful end..."

Those are true and real reasons, but was I just comforting myself and trying to be unnecessarily brave? Brave for who's sake? My own sake, because I have no shoulder to lean on and no one I can really cry to? Brave so that other people will not hurt if I don't cry?

Mum is back home now. A temporary altar has been erected in her honour in the dining room. There is a giant portrait of mum on the altar, and before the portrait of mum's smiling picture. Mum told me once, a few months ago when I commented how beautiful the picture on her national health insurance card is, that she wants to use that particular picture for her funeral. And I've fulfilled her wish.

Seeing mum smile back at us is not at all scary. In a way comforting to know mum's spirit is back home and with us (at least that is the local belief...). From today till the day of the funeral, we will just do as she used to do before: get up, wash, have breakfast and dinner, and wash again before "bed". We will have to offer her water to wash herself with, offer her favourite foods and drinks and fresh fruits. It is as if she were still with us, and we can bow to her, talk to her as we wish to. Relatives and friends have the opportunity to come to our home and pay respects to her altar by offering incense or white envelops containing money (another tradition).

We'll make the altar beautiful and dignified so that when people come, they can see what a wonderful life mum has had, and that her passing need not be overly sad...

Consultation

The doctor agreed to increase the morphine dosage and to give mum a sleeping aid. If need be, additional injections can be administered. It will reduce her anxiety and feelings of pain and discomfort. Mum has been extremely agitated and looking very pained and anguished for the past twelve hours. It was a very rough night with little sleep.

"I'm right by your side, mama," I told her earlier, "I'll hold your hand..." Mum looked at me and nodded. She said nothing, but she nodded. She looked, at least for a moment, calmer.

"From our observation, two, three days," the doctor said. Perhaps today the IV will be removed. The doctor also advised not to feed her anything, for from what he can see, mum seems to be eating for our sake and less because she wants to eat. "Frankly, her insides may have become more blocked. And it is causing her discomfort to eat and drink too much."

Brother and I walked out of the consultation room (beautifully called "Room where the hearts meet 會心室). We seem have decided mum's life. The doctor said the most they can do is make her sleep more, because by sleeping mum is escaping from whatever pain may be there, whether physical or mental. The body will take it's natural course.

Soon, soon, mum will no longer be gasping laboriously for air...

Restlessness

Brother was crying on the phone. "It is such a difficult topic to bring up..." he said amid tears. I told him calmly I understand. How do you tell someone you want to up the dosage of the morphine, knowing very well that it may hasten the coming of passing? It is not that we want to kill her quicker. We just want to make her feel more comfortable and feel at ease, and go in a calm and peaceful way. I know mum would want the same, for she is suffering, in pain, in agony and trapped in a body that is dying ever so slowly. Must the suffering be unnecessarily prolonged, and for how much longer?

I told my brother I'll speak to mum about it. Mum may be dazed and confused, somehow when I ask her something in Taiwanese she seems to hear me and she does respond.

The doctor came by today and said mum may never leave the hospice ward. I knew this somehow already. I had a feeling. And I saw it in my dreams. The doctor gave us an excerpt from a book loosely translated as "Life's compulsory 10 lessons in life and death". In it, the chapter talks about what a person goes through mentally and physically a few weeks, few days and few hours before death. Within a few weeks, a "spiritual death" occurs, when the person becomes so tired and the body because exhausted. The inability to walk and the inability to go the washroom independently, and in many cases incontinence, will often cause the patient to question the meaning of life.

Within a few days of dying, the patient sleeps more and more, and in those brief waking moments the patient feels a lot of physical pain. Morphine is often used to reduce the pain at this stage, and partly because of the effects of the drug, but also partly because the body is getting ever weaker, the patient has more difficulty expressing herself, and is easily confused and forgetful. There may even be hallucinations, and nonsensical talking. This is where mum is now, I believe.

The doctor said she's going to go from six-hourly injections of morphine to a steady drip into her body. This way mum will feel more comfortable, and will be less susceptible to pain and discomfort, which can wake her up and disturb her sleep. Her body is "changing", as the nurses and doctor like to call it and I figured after so many times of hearing it, the word is just an euphemism for dying. As it "changes", the body rests more and more. Waking up every so often from pain or discomfort is a painful struggle for mum, for she has to expend what very little reserves she has left to fight the pain. A continuous flow of morphine will keep her continuously at ease.

The doctor recommended a dosage of 15ml per twenty-four hours. And an hour or so after the new regime went into effect, I could see mum become very agitated and restless, more so than ever before. Something was bothering her, but nobody could figure out what. Perhaps the dosage is not strong enough. Later the nurse revealed to me that specifically in mum's case, there are increase signs of internal bleeding that are related to progression of mum's cancer. This most likely is causing mum even greater discomfort and pain.

Calmly, I sat down next to mum. "Mama, brother and I discussed and we would like to increase your dosage..." I said to her. I held her hand as I said those words. Held her hand so that she feels the real intentions behind what I'm saying to her, so that she can feel and know that what I am proposing is out of our genuine concern for her wellbeing. "it's not that we want to make you go quicker, but we want you to be more comfortable. You've struggled long enough..."

Mum looked at me in the eyes. From the look I could tell she understood. From the look she agreed. Her nod and a very weak "Ok" confirmed it. Her agreement lifted a heavy burden off of my shoulders. I am her son, her own blood, and never did I imagine there would be a moment when faced with having to decide, or at least influence, my own mother's final moments...

I held her hand even tighter. "Let go, mama. Let go of this body, and let things take it's natural course..." These words were so similar to what I said to dad the moments before he left this world. The memory of that scene, four years ago, at this very hospital, merely a few storeys below where mum and I are now, made sadness swell up deep down. "This body is not ours... Relax. Let go of anything in your mind, let go of this body. Let go..."

Whatever happens in the next days or so, I will be by her side. And I will take her by the hand.

Decision

Mum's eyes were open wide and behind her eyes I could see feelings of discomfort. It has been six hours since the last morphine injection (into mum's IV port). "What's wrong? Are you in pain? Are you feeling bloated? Is something bothering you?" I kept on asking mum, but there was no response.
Mum lifted up her arm, took a long look at it in the air. I saw her arm was trembling slightly. Then she proceeded to lower her arm and  her hand reached for her lower abdomen. She scratched that area for a while. "Is there something wrong there? Are you feeling discomfort there?" I asked. Weakly, she nodded.

I went to the nurse and asked for another morphine injection. The evening nurse began to explain that with mum's condition her body needs to rest, and the discomfort and pain she may be feeling as soon as the effects of the morphine wears off is disturbing her sleeping pattern. "She is so weak now, on her last reserves. Her body needs good, deep sleep. Every few hours when the morphine wears off, she wakes up and has to fight against the pain. It takes a lot of energy and strength." Earlier today, brother was alarmed by how much mum has been sleeping ever since the regular morphine injection began last night. The doctor then suggested to go back to a "need" basis, whereby morphine would only be administered when mum feels pain.

The evening nurse is a lady in her fifties, with greying hair and a kind motherly face. She explained to me, from her experience, it is more important that the patient gets good rest, and having to wake up to pain, or wake up because of pain, is very difficult on the body. "The morphine will make her sleep better. It may be that she is sleeping so much because her body has reached that stage. But the morphine will ease the pain, and also help the patient to breathe easier as well less the patient's anxiety." Sometimes, if the body has rested enough, the patient may wake up feeling refreshed and can be very clear minded.





"From your experience, do you think mum has reached that end stage?"

"It is very possible. But sometimes you have to let go. And it may not necessarily be a bad thing that she is sleeping a lot. The morphine will keep the pain controlled so that your mother is comfortable. Sometimes we have to think of what the patient would like, and not about what the family wants..."

I understood what she was saying. Though I am wary that the regular morphine injections will make mum more and more drowsy and less and less coherent, the bottom line is I do not wish mum to be in pain or have unnecessary suffering. I told my brother if he has anything he wants to say to her, do it soon, otherwise there may be a point when mum cannot respond any more. Now, she barely answers when you ask her a question. The nurse said it's because she's using every ounce of energy left in her body to deal with the pain and discomfort she is feeling that she does not have the energy to respond.

"But she can hear you. She can still hear what you say, so you can talk to her. And her mind is still very clear and conscious. There are a lot of things we do not know yet, but the brain is still functioning and inside her mind she is dealing with a lot of issues and emotions, even though she is silent and does not respond when you talk to her," the nurse said.

I discussed with the nurse for a good while about whether to go back to regular injections of morphine. My feeling is yes, but it is too big a decision to make on my own. I know mum would like to be as pain free as possible; she told me that before many times. "I still need to discuss with my brother..."  I said.

I called him. He picked up and was very anxious, for he thought something was wrong. He has been very edgy (and moody) these days because of mum's continual decline. It is really affecting him a  lot, I can see that, and he does not seem to know how to deal with his emotions, so he gets frustrated and angry easily. Plus, he has a kid to take care of, and doesn't really sleep well because the baby wakes up during the night.

I explained to him mum's pain and what the nurse recommended, and he agreed to the regular morphine injection. He wanted to come back to the hospital, and asked if I wanted to return home to sleep, for I have not spent a single night at home since my return two weeks ago. "It's alright, I'll stay here," I said. I feel safer and more certain this way. And without passing judgment on my brother, I think mum also feels more comforted having me around, because I am more caring and attentive, and I touch mum a lot to reassure her. "I will call if there is anything..."

Mum is sleeping again. Sleeping and not feeling much discomfort anymore. Just as the way it should be...

Brother's touch

Brother sat by my side. We were sitting by mum's bedside, watching her sleep, watching her slip in and out of sleep and that half-conscious state of mind. Mum breathed heavily, and her mouth was half open. Her lips, in the span of only a couple of days, have become so dry that I have to regularly apply lip balm on them to keep them from chapping even more.

Mum opened her eyes slightly. I smiled at her gently, and wanted to reach out to touch her arm. Unexpectedly, brother called out: "Mama..." It was a sad and desperate call. A call out of hurt, out of deep concern and anguish. I turned to look him. His eyes were red, and a little moist. I saw him reach out his hand and touch mum's. I withdrew my hand, to give him a chance to express himself.

 My brother rarely touches mum, even though at times I urge him to. The other day, I joked with him: "How come you can touch your baby, touch your wife, but are embarrassed to touch mum?" But today, at that moment when he reached out his hand to touch mum's hand, it was such a touching sight. It was not even a grasp, but it was a start. Mum and son touching one another. Could there be a more beautiful connection?

Nap

Feel so much like (excuse the language...) death. I came home to take a nap, and it turned into a three hour sleep beset by dreams and images.

There were many scenes. In one, I saw lying in bed very fearfully and telling me that she saw dog- and cat-headed human beings come to get her. These persons with animal heads are in local mythology guardians of the underworld. On occasion, on the brink of death, the one who is about to leave this world can see these creatures. Are they real or imaginary, who knows. But in the dream, mum saw them...

The nurse told me once when the patient sees something frightening, to reassure the patient that those things are mere illusions, and that we are by her side. So in the dream that is what we (brother and I) did...

Even so, in the dream I felt such uncontrollably tears and sadness I have not yet felt before... I saw myself crying, crying so terribly heavily by mum's side; something I had tried and tried to avoid till now.

What is wrong with me that I have been beset by dreams these couple of days...?

Something is going to happen soon. I can sense it.

Bath at noon time

I read in the paper the other day that bathing at noon time (between 11 in the morning and 1 in the afternoon) on the day of the Dragon Boat Festival is supposed to be healing for the body. Today happens to be the summer solstice, a period of time when the "yang" (positive/male) energy is at it's most potent in any given year.

Traditionally, people would collect rain water and use it to bathe or cook. But according to the International Taoist Association (yes, there is such a thing...) you can also use tap water to cleanse the body, as long as the water is collected between the named hours.

So I asked the nurse if mum could have a bath today. Initially, she said she'll try to fit things in, as the ward is short of people given that it's a public holiday. But a few moments later she came back and said to be ready at 1pm.

"Could we do it at 12.55?" I asked, and explained the tradition I just found out in the paper. The nurse hadn't heard of it before, but she was amused and agreed to come a few minutes earlier.

We went back into the special bathroom, and mum was quiet, but quietly pleased. It's definitely the best bit of her days at the hospice ward. The carer and nurse helped undress her, and I handed them two little towels to cover up the "vital" bits. And then followed another half an hour of touching and relaxing experience.

Brother stood at one end and tested the water temperature and rubbed mum's feet, while I massaged mum's head with shampoo as the carer and nurse washed the rest of her body. Mum closed her eyes, and had another look of utter enjoyment and bliss on her face.

"I've never seen two boys want to help their mother bathe. It's so touching..." the nurse said. I smiled, and got out my iPhone and asked her to take pictures of us. Later in the evening, I inadvertently saw on the nurse's mobile workstation that the day nurse had left a report on mum's condition for the night nurse. On the report was the following sentence:

"Special event: First son and second son bathed with patient, took pictures to remember the happy experience."

After a long bath, head scrub and "deep facial cleansing", mum was wheeled back to her room. We massaged her with lotion, blow-dried her hair, and I applied moisturiser on her face. Again, the nurse commented that she's never seen two children who are as attentive as we are. That made my brother and me smile.

Mum's skin felt clean and smooth again, and her eye lids were heavy. After a long bath, who would not want a nice nap?

"Sleep, mama, sleep..." I said and stroke her arm gently while I patted her head, "Sleep well..."

Rush

I heard some noise and approached mum. I reached her bedside just in time to see her gag. Quickly I scrambled for a plastic bag, and she vomited white mouthfuls of Ensure, the drink that is supposed to contain all necessary nutrients. I gagged too, just a natural reflex. Having just downed a cup of soy drink did not help the nausea and feeling like I want to vomit...

I was in a rush to head out. The monk is definitely coming and I had to be at the main station in half an hour or so. Mum suddenly requested that she would like to have some steamed barley rice, available only at vegetarian food outlets. I had no time to go look for it and bring it back for mum.

As Brother was on his way to the hospital, I decided to call him and ask if he could buy some. He got angry at my request, as if it were such a burden to buy something for mum. I know it's last minute, I know he's busy on his way to have breakfast and has to take care of a child. But this is a request from mum, and he is on his way to the hospital anyway. Irritated, he passed the phone to his wife. I had to explain mum's request again.

I rushed to the station. We are out of fresh fruits, and i was tempted to call back and ask for fruits. But given the reaction I got, I decided to go get them myself. I know best what mum likes, so I got her some picked peaches, pineapples and kiwis. Breakfast I had on the go, a piece of bread and drink I devoured and downed in the four minutes walk to the metro.

On my way to meet the monk...

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?

Talk with sister-in-law

I hadn't gone home in over two days. And I haven't showered in just as long. Brother came to the hospital with his family for lunch, and we sat around mum's bed and ate lunchboxes while watching a travel programme about Canada. Later, brother volunteered to stay at the hospital and give me an opportunity to go home and rest.

I got home, exhausted, but still had to empty the fridge a bit and go out to buy some chicken drumsticks to boil soup for mum. The fridge had not been opened for a few days, and old vegetables were going rotten and smelly. I put the chicken and mushrooms in the rice cooker to brew, and was just about to lie down when I heard my nephew playing.

It was supposed to be his nap time, but he was busy playing with his mum's makeup box. I entered their room and sat down, and handed my nephew a wooden toy. A puzzle in the shape of a caterpillar's body. Perhaps a bit advanced for his age of nine months old, but still he's a clever kid, and might be able to figure things out soon. But by the way he took the pieces and began to put them in his mouth to grind his itching gums (he's teething...), he still has a long way to go!

I played with him a little, and all the while chatted with my sister-in-law. It's rare that we do that, and I wanted to know how brother is doing.

"He's grumpy a lot these days. Every time mum's not feeling well, he gets very moody..." she said. "it's understandable, and I try not to get in his way. But his mood is very bad these days..."

She said mum's condition has really affected him, but good thing is that she revealed my brother talks to her about everything. That's what I really wanted to know: whether he has an outlet and whether he talks to someone, because growing up he never was one to open up, at least not to us the family. I told him recently that he's lucky to have a wife, and hoped that he would talk with her. And I was relieved that he does, because we all need someone close and someone we can trust to talk to in the face of something as daunting and overwhelming as the process of losing a dear one...

"He really cares about mum, but he just doesn't say it. He may be strong and buff from the outside, but he's often afraid and has a lot of trouble feeling safe and secure..." My sister-in-law told me about brother's fears of mum returning home. Not that he doesn't want her to, but just he would feel so terribly responsible should something happen to her at home. He already feels bad that she's not getting better (he told me that himself... And I told him we've all done our best, and her condition is such she'll not get better...)

"he's really done a lot in the last month or so..." he really has. He managed to get large insurance payouts, help mum redraft and legalise her will, help mum be officially registered as a hospice patient with the option of home care, he's managed to find a suitable location for mum's remains to go to, one that even mum approves of. And he's done it all while being a part time dad and a husband. That's a lot!

The talk with my sister-in-law really helped me to understand better how brother feels and where he's coming from when he's moody and demanding. And it also helps me to be closer to him and see him in a different light. All of this will help us to grow closer together and to help ease things when we come to deal with and come to terms with mum's passing and arrangements that come afterward...

Brother tearing

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I saw him turn away for a few moments. I wasn't sure until he wiped the corner of his eyes. And when he turned back and tried to force a smile, I saw his eyes were moist and red.

What made him cry? Has brother been crying silently while I was away? He had just come to the hospital from home, where he slept. He found us on the rooftop garden. I was crouching next to mum, smiling I believe, and asking her what she would like for lunch. I proposed to go home and cook some fish soup and vegetables. Was that what made brother cry? Or perhaps the fact that I am finally back again, that I made it home, and that all that worry and fear of not making it back on time have been allayed made him cry?

It doesn't really matter what the reason was. What matters is that we are together as a family, and we will be together till the very end.