"You are so brave..." my cousin said. We stood in the lobby for almost half an hour just talking about mum. She has not seen mum for about two weeks, and my cousin visited today after work today, and also to have dinner with me. After she came out of the hospice ward, her eyes were red and moist.
"It's so hard not to get emotional. How do you do it?"
I don't know. I don't know how I look at mum everyday, how I touch her skin and stroke her arms and legs without crying. I don't know how I can look into the yellowishness of her eye whites and not quiver. I don't know how I can watch her heave for breathe without feeling pain or such resentment at what cancer has done to her. Instead, my mind seems to be filled with compassion, patience, and love... seemingly boundless love and the feeling that love (and a little foolishness and childishness) can overwhelm everything sad or painful.
My cousin hugged me, and told me about her dream the other day in which she saw a coffin and also ornaments for the deceased. She was shaken awake by the vividness of the images in her dream, and by the sight of herself howling from pain in the dream. It was so powerful that dream that she is still shaken from it all. I heard her describe it, and it sent shivers down my spine...
"What do you feel...?"
I'm not sure. I'm not sure where this calm comes from. I find myself being so calm and collected, being so stoic and perhaps even appearing unfeeling. "I know I will break sometime, but for the time being, I am able to just do things, be with her without being or becoming too sad..." I explained and compared my feelings now with feelings at the time of my dad's passing. I was so calm too, unexpectedly so. "I guess if you do everything and are kind to the person, there is no remorse or too much sadness..."
The body will decline, the body will fail and decay, but I believe the spirit will live on. And in a way, I am fortunate that mum's mind is so clear and she still remembers a lot of things from the past, and it has been beautiful viewing pictures of the places we have been together with her. I know one day she will not physically be there for me to hold or touch, but she will live on in my mind, in my heart... And I know she will be with me, watch over me, care for me wherever I may be... I told my cousin about how the month in Canada has been therapeutic and been like a pre-mourning period.
I told my cousin about going to see altars where we could place mum immediately after she passes. I told her about the frank discussion we had just yesterday about what clothes she would like to wear on the day of her funeral, and what she would like to "bring" with her. Mum replied very calmly and clearly when I gave her suggestions and even showed her pictures of the beautiful dresses she wore once. I seem to have this strange ability to describe it all as-a-matter-of-factly, which makes me so uncomfortable at times. Why is it that other people cry after seeing my mum, why is it that brother struggles to contain his tears, whereas I don't even shed a tear...?
"You have prepared well..." my cousin said.
Have I really? How can one really prepare for death? All I've done is take a bunch of pictures and memorabilia home with me on this trip, because I know it'll be the last trip. I did it too four years ago when I rushed home to be at dad's side. Because you just know. You just know...
Showing posts with label emotional. Show all posts
Showing posts with label emotional. Show all posts
15 June 2012
27 May 2012
The Falls
I began howling, but the sound of water falling drowning my sorrow and pain. I cried tears long overdue, sobbed and shook energy that had long been suppressed and unreleased. I broke down, the first time since the start of mum's gradual deterioration of health.
It was seeing the falls. Even at night, even in the darkness, it was so powerful, so awing, so persisting. It was nature inspiring and goading broken and disappointed souls to safety and to comfort. The rush of the water was nature's way of dispelling all doubts and all fears. How can anything else really matter in the world compared to the immensity and sheer brute force of the water falling at such rapid speeds and with so much momentum?
What made me cry so much? The sounds, the deafening, constant sound of the water falling in the middle of the night. Falling into complete darkness, originating from complete darkness. The incessant sounds, incessant flow of water gushing and rushing over the precipice and naturally, fearlessly falling into the unknown.
What made me cry so much? The memories... memories of how eighteen years ago my entire family, my dad, mum, brother and I, stood (admittedly on the other, American, side of the falls) here and admired the water together. How much has changed throughout those seemingly carefree days... Who have I lost, and who am I about to lose? A heart-wrenching sense of loneliness choked my breath, and my breathing was made harder by my uncontrollable sobbing. All alone... All alone, standing there, crying. My ex gave me some space and walked away to lie down a little in the distance. Even he did not notice me howling and sobbing like I have rarely done. To think, that many years ago we were all together, and now I am here by myself...
There was some solace to be found in the fact that I managed to build up a life in the country I thought was so mysterious and foreign back then when I was just ten. Now, that great vast nation across the Niagara River is my home, and I made it (more or less) on my own. I made a whole new start after losing dad, and now on the verge of losing mum, I am consolidating my presence in Canada by submitting my application for Permanent Residence.
But the thought of building a home in Canada all own my own drowned me again in sadness and pain. I so wanted to share with dad the excitement I felt discovering this country... I so wanted mum to experience the beautiful scenery and bountiful berries and good quality of life after she retired. I know I am fortunate to have traveled with her extensively around this amazing country... But I so wanted her to come again, to visit again, to see me walk down the podium as I collect my degree in two weeks' time. I so much wanted mum to be proud of me, to see me thrive and be successful... to see me happy and settled...
The waters did not stop falling all the time these and so many other thoughts flooded my mind and erupted out of my eyes in the form of tears. I looked into the distance, at the colossal columns of water pouring down... and I felt so small, so insignificant. I could jump across the barrier and just vanish, and all my pains and sorrows would vanish too. I would never do that, of course, because how could I just give up my life when mum is struggling to hold onto hers? But the thought did cross my mind.
I began to walk off in a hurried pace. I was drunk from crying and stumbled. The tears clouded my vision and made me so dizzy. I stopped again on the side of the cliff and sat down on the rocky barrier. My ex followed me and was trying to comfort me. But I found little solace in my ex's arms, even though he tried hard to get me into them. Those arms belong to another, I can no longer find comfort and security in them, however sincere he offers them to me.
I took out my phone and began to dial home. I needed to speak to mum.
"Can you hear the waterfalls, mama?" I asked. I tried so hard to suppress the tears, I tried so hard not to whimper and not to let my voice betray my heavy tears and sobbing. Mum said she heard it.
"It's good you're taking time to travel. Relax, enjoy yourself. You have gone through so much..."
Those words drew out more tears, and I felt my face contort in pain. My voice was so powerless. I was unable to speak. "Remember... eighteen years ago we were all here... I miss you [all]. I miss you [all]..."
Mum said she was at this very place back in 2008, and that she stayed in a "tall tower". Was it the same hotel I was staying in? The knowledge that mum was there, that mum only recently also saw what I was seeing, was comforting and yet heart-wrenching. I felt the sprays of water cleanse my tired eyes and refresh my face.
And I stopped crying.
I cried what I needed to. The sorrow, the pent-up emotions, the pain, terrible pain of watching mum suffer and suffer even more all flooded out of me. And I felt lighter, more at ease, and the pain did not feel so painful after all...
I was numb. The water continuously fell, the sound of the water falling did not cease for a single moment. Nature seems to have such inspiring and invisible strength that last forever and forever.
But my emotions were temporary, like a summer storm that brews and brews until it is eventually released.
And afterwards the skies clear up again...
It was seeing the falls. Even at night, even in the darkness, it was so powerful, so awing, so persisting. It was nature inspiring and goading broken and disappointed souls to safety and to comfort. The rush of the water was nature's way of dispelling all doubts and all fears. How can anything else really matter in the world compared to the immensity and sheer brute force of the water falling at such rapid speeds and with so much momentum?
What made me cry so much? The sounds, the deafening, constant sound of the water falling in the middle of the night. Falling into complete darkness, originating from complete darkness. The incessant sounds, incessant flow of water gushing and rushing over the precipice and naturally, fearlessly falling into the unknown.
What made me cry so much? The memories... memories of how eighteen years ago my entire family, my dad, mum, brother and I, stood (admittedly on the other, American, side of the falls) here and admired the water together. How much has changed throughout those seemingly carefree days... Who have I lost, and who am I about to lose? A heart-wrenching sense of loneliness choked my breath, and my breathing was made harder by my uncontrollable sobbing. All alone... All alone, standing there, crying. My ex gave me some space and walked away to lie down a little in the distance. Even he did not notice me howling and sobbing like I have rarely done. To think, that many years ago we were all together, and now I am here by myself...
There was some solace to be found in the fact that I managed to build up a life in the country I thought was so mysterious and foreign back then when I was just ten. Now, that great vast nation across the Niagara River is my home, and I made it (more or less) on my own. I made a whole new start after losing dad, and now on the verge of losing mum, I am consolidating my presence in Canada by submitting my application for Permanent Residence.
But the thought of building a home in Canada all own my own drowned me again in sadness and pain. I so wanted to share with dad the excitement I felt discovering this country... I so wanted mum to experience the beautiful scenery and bountiful berries and good quality of life after she retired. I know I am fortunate to have traveled with her extensively around this amazing country... But I so wanted her to come again, to visit again, to see me walk down the podium as I collect my degree in two weeks' time. I so much wanted mum to be proud of me, to see me thrive and be successful... to see me happy and settled...
The waters did not stop falling all the time these and so many other thoughts flooded my mind and erupted out of my eyes in the form of tears. I looked into the distance, at the colossal columns of water pouring down... and I felt so small, so insignificant. I could jump across the barrier and just vanish, and all my pains and sorrows would vanish too. I would never do that, of course, because how could I just give up my life when mum is struggling to hold onto hers? But the thought did cross my mind.
I began to walk off in a hurried pace. I was drunk from crying and stumbled. The tears clouded my vision and made me so dizzy. I stopped again on the side of the cliff and sat down on the rocky barrier. My ex followed me and was trying to comfort me. But I found little solace in my ex's arms, even though he tried hard to get me into them. Those arms belong to another, I can no longer find comfort and security in them, however sincere he offers them to me.
I took out my phone and began to dial home. I needed to speak to mum.
"Can you hear the waterfalls, mama?" I asked. I tried so hard to suppress the tears, I tried so hard not to whimper and not to let my voice betray my heavy tears and sobbing. Mum said she heard it.
"It's good you're taking time to travel. Relax, enjoy yourself. You have gone through so much..."
Those words drew out more tears, and I felt my face contort in pain. My voice was so powerless. I was unable to speak. "Remember... eighteen years ago we were all here... I miss you [all]. I miss you [all]..."
Mum said she was at this very place back in 2008, and that she stayed in a "tall tower". Was it the same hotel I was staying in? The knowledge that mum was there, that mum only recently also saw what I was seeing, was comforting and yet heart-wrenching. I felt the sprays of water cleanse my tired eyes and refresh my face.
And I stopped crying.
I cried what I needed to. The sorrow, the pent-up emotions, the pain, terrible pain of watching mum suffer and suffer even more all flooded out of me. And I felt lighter, more at ease, and the pain did not feel so painful after all...
I was numb. The water continuously fell, the sound of the water falling did not cease for a single moment. Nature seems to have such inspiring and invisible strength that last forever and forever.
But my emotions were temporary, like a summer storm that brews and brews until it is eventually released.
And afterwards the skies clear up again...
02 April 2012
Call
Unexpectedly, the phone rang. I did not recognise the voice, but the lady asked for me. She said she was the social worker at Hope, the foundation for cancer welfare.
She called to see how I am doing. With a lot of attention focused on my mum, rarely do people as how I am doing. I almost cried when she asked. I forced a smile, said "I'm coping". She could hear it was a forced smiled.
"You have to eat well and sleep well. I know it's hard."
I told her about my dreams, about how I do eat, but more out of necessity than anything else. I haven't lost too much weight in the past three months, but people say I have grown thinner, visibly bonier. I know I am at the limits of my patients, I am being tested and driven to the limits of my mental and physical tolerance. Perhaps it is a good thing that I notice it, for otherwise, I might just press on and on and on and suddenly without realising it, break down. If I notice that I am frustrated, troubled, fearing even in my sleep, then I can do something about it; at least I can warn myself, warm my body and my mind, to beware, to take things easier.
It is so much harder when there is nobody at my side with whom I could talk to... There is really nobody here I am close to, with whom I can turn to and pour my frustrations and fears out.
"You have to take care of yourself, or otherwise how can you take care of your mother?" the lady kindly said. She's probably seen plenty of cases of "carer fatigue"-- situations when a carer becomes so overwhelmed s/he becomes overly burdened, depressed, angry, or perhaps even suicidal and loses interest and hope in everything. Absolutely everything.
I am getting help, for a carer is coming tonight to help out just before the operation tomorrow early in the morning. And in less than two weeks, brother and his family (the "European Support Group") are scheduled to return. I am hoping, unlike last time, they will provide some relief and allow me time off so I can go off on my own. I need it. I desperately need time on my own.
"Thank you for calling and being so concerned," I said.
"Don't thank me. I really am concerned..." she answered.
That was touching, for though we have only met and spoken twice, she could see I am struggling. Struggling from day to day, struggling to find rarer occasions to be on my own, struggling to come to terms with all the invasive treatments that seem only to make my mum ever weaker, and ever weaker...
She called to see how I am doing. With a lot of attention focused on my mum, rarely do people as how I am doing. I almost cried when she asked. I forced a smile, said "I'm coping". She could hear it was a forced smiled.
"You have to eat well and sleep well. I know it's hard."
I told her about my dreams, about how I do eat, but more out of necessity than anything else. I haven't lost too much weight in the past three months, but people say I have grown thinner, visibly bonier. I know I am at the limits of my patients, I am being tested and driven to the limits of my mental and physical tolerance. Perhaps it is a good thing that I notice it, for otherwise, I might just press on and on and on and suddenly without realising it, break down. If I notice that I am frustrated, troubled, fearing even in my sleep, then I can do something about it; at least I can warn myself, warm my body and my mind, to beware, to take things easier.
It is so much harder when there is nobody at my side with whom I could talk to... There is really nobody here I am close to, with whom I can turn to and pour my frustrations and fears out.
"You have to take care of yourself, or otherwise how can you take care of your mother?" the lady kindly said. She's probably seen plenty of cases of "carer fatigue"-- situations when a carer becomes so overwhelmed s/he becomes overly burdened, depressed, angry, or perhaps even suicidal and loses interest and hope in everything. Absolutely everything.
I am getting help, for a carer is coming tonight to help out just before the operation tomorrow early in the morning. And in less than two weeks, brother and his family (the "European Support Group") are scheduled to return. I am hoping, unlike last time, they will provide some relief and allow me time off so I can go off on my own. I need it. I desperately need time on my own.
"Thank you for calling and being so concerned," I said.
"Don't thank me. I really am concerned..." she answered.
That was touching, for though we have only met and spoken twice, she could see I am struggling. Struggling from day to day, struggling to find rarer occasions to be on my own, struggling to come to terms with all the invasive treatments that seem only to make my mum ever weaker, and ever weaker...
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