One last look...

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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...

6 February

6 February

I dozed on and off since I got on the plane. So tired I am, exhausted after having only slept two hours (actually less...) last night.

I had a vigil... Lit a candle and places it before a picture of mum and dad. It was a picture taken professionally over a decade ago. I remember that day vividly, how we all met up after dad finished work and gathered at a nice steak restaurant. After dinner, we've me across this photography parlour, and as we were all dressed up that night, someone (was it mum or dad...?) suggested we take a family portrait together. It would be our only one. And at the same time, mum and dad took a picture, just the two of them, mum holding onto dad's arm.

I sat and meditated for a while before the little make-shift shrine. My friend dropped by, as he remembered the significance of the day, he wanted to be there, even though I was agitated and wanted more to be alone. In my mind I wondered what his intentions were, why he was even with me at such an intense and melancholic occasion when he could elsewhere... Why was he even spending time with me when often he just ends up crying as if I depress him and am the source of all the pain and unhappiness in the world... It's all so personal, the memories still all so fresh after five years.

As the clock ticked toward 2.21pm in Taiwan, I felt the memories return... All of us gathered at dad's bedside. Beeping of a heart monitor. Dad's breath heaving. Me kneeling by his bedside, holding his hand, his arm. Me whispering to him, reminding him to let go, to take it easy. There was sobbing in the background. A nurse was called when the beeping of the machinery decelerated. Mum and brother stood a few steps behind me, away from the bed, stricken with grief. Who would have thought, that day would be the beginning of several years of struggle against illness and death?

My friend and I sat down, at a moment when I felt comfortable to sit down. He asked what word came to mind when I think of dad. I didn't know. But I could see his face, I could see his smiling face, the dark shade of his skin, the thick black hair he still had at age sixty (even though he was ever so conscious of every little strand of white hair and used to spend hours trimming them away in with two small mirrors...)

Then a word did come to mind. Not exactly a nice word, but it was what I felt described dad in the last few years of his life, at least in relation to me and the rest of the family: distant. He isolated himself from everyone, led a solitary life, and lived in a separate apartment for years prior to retirement. We would never know whether he was truly solitary, or, as speculated he had someone else or perhaps another family. But he was truly a distant figure, who appeared very rarely, yet was always still so wiling and able to provide for us the children and support us through university.

I spoke about perhaps dad's proudest moment, looked into the distance and at nothingness an just narrated what came to mind. My friend sat and listened and cried. Perhaps there is something therapeutic in just being allowed to talk, and just having someone listen. Just listening without commentary from someone who doesn't really know what it's like, what if feels like to lose a parent.
It was helpful, and so unlike the ways my friends have snubbed me with cliche comments whenever I start to talk about how difficult and fresh mum's passing has been...

Dad's proudest moment was the few months he spent in New York as a trainee. He lived with a distant relative, who owned an ice cream parlour, out in Flushing Meadows, Queens. There's a picture of dad lying on the floor next to a transparent glass table, and spread on the table were bills of American dollars. He had such pride in his eyes, in his smile. He managed to save so much money in those few months in the US. I was not around yet, and he and mum had just started a new family. Those were the hey years of our family, when mum and dad worked hard to solidify a foundation for a better life for the two children they were to eventually have.

When the time closed on that moment, I could not stop tearing. Those last few moments with dad were so calm and gentle back then, but now, five years later, so painful to remember. How did I manage to stay so strong? How did I manage to be so collected? Why am I so weak now, so broken and in pieces and torn by memories of loss, breakup, feelings of abandonment and loneliness, and haunted by traumas of my childhood?

Perhaps I never had time to grief, properly grieve day's passing, my friend suggested. Perhaps, I do not know. For immediately after dad passed, mum's treatments for cancer increases in frequency and reoccurred occurred every single year. Did I really have time to grieve, to live my life, to pick up the pieces, to salvage all the memories and belongings before mum's illness and needs took over?

At 2.21pm local time, with my fingers I snubbed out the flame.

Dream: on the bus

Earlier I saw a picture of brother and his family in Taiwan. They were together with all my relatives from mum's side, having the annual get together in this lunar new year period. I cried seeing the picture... They all look so happy together, and I'm not there to share the joy of being together as a family... Four generations, grandma, my mum's siblings, their children, and my nephew. All twenty or so of them together in a big picture...

I napped, as I slept only three hours or so last night (terrible sleeping patterns...)
I felt my body shake and move. I was on the bus in downtown Taipei. I saw the familiar surroundings, I recognised the route. It was the route I took everyday (almost) to and from the hospital... I felt the memories come back again... Mum lying in hospital, and me bringing her whatever nourishment I could think of buying or cooking up...

I shook awake. It was all a dream...
My relatives and my family are so far away... They are all a dream...

Terrible mistake

I cannot deal with all this from so far away...
I do not have the strength or energy to fight or argue. But do I just let people step over me? Do I just let people take advantage of me and forfeit my rights?

I'm too tired to fight, too tired...

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 home

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Sold

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Over a month of preparation for this day.
I signed my name and stamped my seal. And the deal  was  made.

This house, one I helped moved into and one in which I have spent many a nights over the past three years, is no longer mine. From this day on, I am just a visitor here.

What was never mine will never be mine.

Mum's words

Mum wrote down these words on 12 February 2011. She showed it to be earlier this year, and told me to show it to my brother when she is gone.

I showed it to him today when I came across the booklet it was written in. His eyes became moist.

"Humans must learn to let go.
Let go the unwillingness to let go in the heart.
Let go and be able to cut away and get rid of the love between parents and children.

Because your child does not belong to you. (s)he is a symbol of humankind's continuation of life. However much intimacy, love and respect there may be between family members, everything will ultimate be covered with dust.

Let us then, with tears in our eyes, silently pray and hope:

Child, take my full, full blessing and bravely go be yourself.
There is no need to turn back your head."

Celebrations

There was a beautiful, joyous mood in the air. The nurses, volunteers and doctors gathered and clapped their hands as they sang "Happy Birthday" to all those who had gathered at the lounge. There were two elderly people in their beds, and a couple of other patients in wheelchairs, and a dozen relatives and friends there. The Happy Birthday song is often sung to the elderly and infirm. We believe everyday can be your birthday, every day can be a special and happy day, and not just your real birth-day.

There was plenty of fresh fruits-- sweet and sour mangoes, kiwis, grapes and apples, as well as bundles of steamed rice dumplings wrapped with lotus leaves. A volunteer played harmonica tunes of Taiwanese folksongs and even "On top of the world" by the Carpenters. Later when I read the lyrics again, I realised how meaningful they were:

Everything I want the world to be
Is now coming true especially for me
And the reason is clear
It's because you are here
You're the nearest thing to heaven that I've seen

I'm on the top of the world looking down on creation
And the only explanation I can find
Is the love that I've found ever since
you've been around
Your love's put me at the top of the world 

The celebrations were part of the Dragon Boat Festival, which is tomorrow (the fifth day of the fifth month in the Lunar Calendar). I sat in the lounge with all these relatives and patients, nurses and doctors, and I clapped along when patients grabbed the microphone and sang their joy out. Mum was too tired, too sleepy to come out. Since she became very ill, she has been avoiding crowds. A few times during the morning when the nurse and volunteers excitedly came to invite to the party, she seemed very tempted. But in the end, she did not want to. It was disappointing, for she has not left her room for over a week, and not left her bed for almost as long. I went to the lounge  and only stayed for a little while before I headed back to the room to join her.

Even in her room, we could hear the live piano recitals and karaoke. I took mum's hand, and mouthed some of the songs, one of which is a Taiwanese song called "Holding my hand".

"Hold my hand, drenching in the rain,
Hold my hand, following your footsteps,
Hold your hand, walking our path,
Hold your hand, unafraid of difficulties..."

Just as mum was about to fall asleep again, there was a knock at the door. A man in a long white robe
came in with another doctor we had not seen before. It was the director the ward. In both their hands they had plates of fruits and rice dumplings, and even a decorative pouch filled with scented herbs as a gift. "Happy every day," the director said to mum. She smiled and smiled so much and was so touched by the personal visit and the food and gift they brought.

"I am so lucky to be here..." she said.

So the Dragon Boat Festival is upon us. But aside from the celebrations, there is a sinister side that to the festival that has not escaped my mind...

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.

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...

Diagnosis

"For two days she's well, and the third day [her health] decline[s]..." That was how the doctor described mum's condition. They tried to take some blood samples, but her blood vessels have shrunk to an extent that it's next to impossible. Only after poking in two areas did they manage to draw a few milliliters of blood. I watched and cringed as mum lay there with a face of agony...

The tone of Mum's face is especially dark today. And for the entire morning she writhed in bed in obvious discomfort. It's been four days since she last got out of bed. The last time her knee buckled when the carer and I tried to hold her up. That was cause for quite a scare, and it left mum gasping for air...

Two steps forward, three steps back. Mum is in decline. Every day she says things like: "It may not be long..." or "I'm just waiting..."

My nephew came and we all had lunch together. Mum had a small piece of chicken and a bite of rice and a mouthful of vegetables. That was her lunch. We watched a DVD about Canada, and we reminisced all the places we have been together. For that hour or so, she was lost in the memories of those travelling days gone by, she was focused and amassed by the mischievous grin of my little nephew who likes to wriggle like a worm and who likes to reach out and touch mum's arm...

I stroke her face, I stroke her hair, I touch her cheeks, I press my cheeks against the palms and feel the weak grasp of her hands... There are moments when I think to myself, when I see her gasp for air or close her eyes and grimace: "Is this it...? Is this the moment...? Is this how it ends...?"

But mum's life and fate have not run their course just yet. I keep on telling her "It doesn't matter how long... Don't think about it too much..." But I know deep down it matters, because she is in pain, she is not feeling well, she is suffering-- if not physical discomfort then she is suffering the humiliation of being mentally so wide awake as her body breaks down. The humiliation of being unable to walk, being unable to control her bladder or bowels, of having to wear diapers and being unable to change them herself and needing another to clean up after her...

Hang on there mum... We are here with you.

Graduation

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It still has to sink in what it all means. What holding this piece of paper (degree), what being a graduate really means.

I was just dazed today. Dazed and lost and emotional. So many people were there with me, so many stood by my side and congratulated me. But I was so "out of it", so lost at moments all the speeches that were made, all the pomp and ceremony, all the congratulatory words that were said just washed over me and did not register...

I appreciate so much how people made special plans just to be with me. How they went to all the effort to take time off, to journey here and to get dressed just to be able to stand with me and hug me, to hold me, to tell me how hard I've worked and how courageous I have been despite all odds.

I appreciate it all greatly, really I do. My ex took his first day ever off of work to be here. A friend, a classmate from the same year I began, took several days off to celebrate. Another friend pre-poned her return to Canada just to attend my graduation. Another traveled especially to Montreal just for one day to attend my graduation, before she had to fly back to London (UK) the very next day...

These are such grand gestures I did not feel I deserve, and they are true signs of how much the friends mean to me, and I guess also how much I seem to mean to them.

But I sat there today in the auditorium and was overcome with sadness. The valedictorian gave a speech about being grateful to family, friends and pets for our achievements. I am, but how I so wish mum were by my side to see all of this... To see me walk up on stage and see me in a split moment of honour and glory... I teared a couple of times during the ceremony. And that split second when my name was called I was not there. I was like a zombie walking across the stage, a zombie trying to force a smile, trying to be happy. I'm not sure anyone noticed. But the pictures that a friend took of me sitting there waiting for my name to be called certainly did...

Long talk

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I woke up, and it was already past ten in the morning. The longest and uninterrupted sleep I've had in weeks. The stress of dealing with my passport seems to have subsided, especially after the immigration officer at the Taiwanese "embassy" said there's nothing I have to really worry about regarding military service, since I left the country well before the military service age (15 is the cut off date). I have my visa, one for three months, and now it's just a matter of boarding a flight.

And which one and when is the big question. Mum did not go to ER the other day when she was feeling unwell. She did not want to go through the noise and trouble of the hospital. Instead, they just went to a clinic for iv drips, and she said (said...) she felt better.

Her condition remains unstable, and brother told me frankly that it may not be long till...

He was upset that he called dozens of times when I was asleep, at 2AM, 6AM, 8AM... I didn't hear anything. To my surprise I saw six missed called when I finally did wake up, and I trembled as I dialled.

It was just a "drill". Even so, I trembled as I listened to brother remind me the importance of keeping my phone constantly next to me, next to my pillow at night, on my person etc, just in case. "Be on standby mode!" he said, "There may come a time when mum wants to talk to you, and it may be the last time. If you miss that chance, I don't know..."

"I know, I understand", I said. It would be devastating. Devastating. Like a traumatic trauma I must deal with for the rest of my life if I never had the chance to really say goodbye, either in person or on the phone.

Brother and I spoke for almost an hour again. He told me about further arrangements he had made, and about how the insurance company paid out a large sum of money to more than cover the medical costs over the last year or so. So financially there's nothing much to worry about. And he said he decided to stay on, to extend his sabbatical, which means it'll Br unpaid leave from July onwards. I assured him I will take care of whatever needs he has. There was an affirmation that we would be there for another whatever comes. It is important for us, as siblings to make this bond before our last remaining passes on. And it is also important for mum to see, so close to the end of her life, that we are reconciling, and that we can work together and understand one another to deal with the most difficult and challenging things in life...

Three of mum's closest friends, together with a lawyer, came by today to redraft her will. Originally she intended to leave some for her youngest sister, but she's been a great disappoint over the past month or so. The sister promised me and my mum that she would come up to be with her and cook for her as soon as mum left the hospital, so mum can restore her health. Nobody has heard from my aunt since I left at the beginning of May. The will also has to be redrafted so that the siblings cannot squabble over her pension, which can only go to nationals of the country-- which we the children are not.

Brother said the hospice nurse will come visit next week now that the hospice agreement has finally gone through. We now know for sure that it was my aunt (mum's brother's wife) who cancelled the instruction for hospice care. And the other day when my brother asked her about it, her response was "Was that necessary?" The hospice nurse confirmed it. It is a very disappointing revelation.

The long talk ended. I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down. I cried again. Cried myself to sleep. When I woke up less than half an hour later the sadness subsided.

Time to smile. Nobody has to know that I cried. Nobody except my stuffed animals and maybe my cat who lay lay feet and who probably wondered why I was sobbing close to her...

Dream

Was it one dream or two? They were somehow related.

One was brief, involving my ex. We were walking around together, in a busy city until we came to a bridge. (That much i could remember...)

The next dream involved something sad and happy. The happy bit involved my whole family going to a venue to plan a wedding, my brother's wedding. (strange because he already had one in real life...) Then the next scene, which lasted a while was one in which dad appeared.

He was lying in a bed, dying. Mum, brother and I gathered by his side. We talked and laughed, it was not sad. Dad was giving advice to mum, about how to "go". They talked about death, about grandma's passing, about how there were many unspoken things and a lot of regret.

Mum was in tears. She said at grandma's deathbed grandma apologised to mum for being picky and difficult. Mum cried because she said she had tried so hard ever since she came into dad's family, yet she never got approval from dad's relatives. But when grandma passed, she asked for forgiveness, and grandma told mum she knew and could see mum did more than was expected of her.

Brother was in the room with his wife, but he seemed frustrated. I found myself on dad's bed, leaned in close to dad and was in tears. On his quilt were a bunch of writing and numbers I could not decipher, but they seemed to tell me something. Mum was sitting by dad's bedside, looking sad. They were still talking about death and dying...

Message to brother

"I'm boarding flight to vancouver now. Thank you for being there [...] with mum. I know it's hard to deal with this kind of situation, but we will go through this together. Keep mum comfortable and make her feel at ease. If there is anything, I'll take the first flight back. Take care"

Mother's Day

Mother's Day today. I spoke to mum just now. "Happy Mother's Day," I wished her as she picked up the phone. We only spoke briefly, as she said she was tired. It was very warm last night, and she did not sleep all that well, and she got up early in the morning to go out for a little walk around the sports park. The painkiller she took also made her drowsy, so she was just lying down for a rest. The carer just finished massaging her sore bones, so she was ready, and sounded ready, to close her eyes.


I could see her with my eyes closed, lying there, in the bed that I made for her a little over a week ago. I hope she still finds the bed, now with the special foam mattress on top, comfortable. Many times when she was not around, I would lie on the bed and close my eyes and imagine that positive and healing energies would pass from my body onto the bed. I fantasises that these energies would stay on the bed and 'bless' mum whenever she lies down, whether to rest, whether to nap or to sleep. I fantasised that she would feel less pain and her body would be more comfortable. How I do wish it were really so!

When I spoke to her yesterday, she said to me she was touched. "I have two children who are both filial. I have nothing to regret about..." She described how brother has been very caring and doing many things for her. He bought her a wheelchair to take her out for walks, he installed supports in the bathroom so mum can hold onto to something, especially as she is now weaker and more prone to falling. And he went to visit mum's friend, whose husband is a Taoist priest, and to whom mum has entrusted to take care of the "after-affairs". "We still have time, so I have to consider finding a place before ..." mum told me.

It has been a long time since she last talked about this. I know we have had this conversation many times before, and before it never really bothered me (though it is always emotional to talk about...). But when mum mentioned it today, I was moved to tears. I was again reminded of the reality of her condition, reminded how close she was just a month or so ago, and perhaps still is, to the end of her journey...

It should not scare me. It should not bother me. But when I talk about it, when I think about, I become moist in my eyes and have difficulty expressing myself. Since my return here a few days ago, I have more or less been burying myself under books and the blanket to overcome my jetlag. So I have had little time to think about or expose my emotions. And I do feel, I can sense that there are raw, painful feelings that are threatening to erupt, and that will erupt soon, somehow...

"I have asked [brother] to go pick up my will. I want to make some changes..." I remember going to the courthouse over a year ago and having it notarised, and how we together walked to the basement of the bank where she has rented a deposit box. I remember placing the will inside the box and thinking to myself that one day when I open it again, circumstances will be different... Now mum cannot even go down to the basement herself because she has difficulty in moving, because just a few steps can cause her body so much pain and discomfort.

It is hard to imagine... So hard to see screensaver pictures that flash across my idle computer to see pictures of mum and I traveling through the Rockies. I know, we had our time, and we lived those times together, we enjoyed those intimate moments together beautifully. I know, I should be grateful we had those moments and that we have those memories to think back to... But it hurts me to just think and know that mum can probably not go out and go so far again like she used to... And if it hurts me, how does it make mum feel, to be 'trapped' in a body that is declining and much of which is no longer hers to control? "The will is there, but the physical strength is not... (力不從心)" she told me several times when I try to walk with her just a short distance. Mum has become so weak... so very weak.

"Happy Mother's Day..." I said again, "You have to eat well, and  go out to exercise! This way, you can regain your strength again!" I say that to her often these days, and I repeated it again today. Do I believe what I say, because sometimes I catch a glimpse of cynicism and dark brooding thoughts as those words escape my mouth. Sometimes I feel like I am lying to her, lying to myself. But I truly do wish she could feel better, I truly do wish she can get back on her own feet again and walk around like she used to because she lost so much weight...

Because she has been a wonderful mother, who has given me, given us so much, who has made sacrifices  and toiled for so long. And it pains me, pains me so deeply, so powerfully, to see that when she has the time and the means to enjoy life and all the wonderful, beautiful things that this world has to offer, she has lost her health, her body...


Happy Mother's Day,  my dear, dear mother. May you be happy and at ease, today and everyday.



 --
I made a little donation on behalf of mum today, to World Vision, a charity that she supports. She does not know it, but it was for a "Pre/postnatal Care for Mother and Child", which is a very appropiate 'gift' in her name. And for a limited time, my donation is matched by a generous donor, so it will be double the impact! 

Eve of departure

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In a few hours I'll be leaving here. I don't felt sad. Is there a reason to be sad, to feel sad? Or maybe the feelings will come flooding when I board the taxi or the plane tomorrow (provided I'm not too distracted by the excitement of boarding a special livery plane...!)

Mum was already very sleepy and her eye lids were closing when I sat next to her on her bed and massaged her arms and hands one last time. I told her the usual things. "Eat well! Exercise! Be happy! Don't think too much about anything else!"

I told her I'll be back soon, even though I did not want to for I wanted to surprise her, like I've done so many times in the past. But things are different now, and I felt I needed to tell mum, reassure her, that I won't be gone for long, so she has something to look forward to. And I felt I needed to tell her I'll be back soon, so that she is not too overwhelmed by sadness, for she has on several occasions expressed to me how painful it would be when I leave. And I am leaving. By this time tomorrow, I'll be gone...

"You've been here too long. Half a year almost..." she said.

"No, it's only been four months," I said, and counted the months to let her know it really hasn't been all that long. Because I know she feels terribly guilty I've stayed around for much longer than before this time. It was necessary, and I don't regret anything. As I told the monk in the mountains on the phone earlier, I think I have done all I could, and perhaps that is the source of my calm, and in a way also quiet bliss.

I've done all I could, I've tried to do everything I know I could, tried to arrange things, and pass on the knowledge of caregiving to my brother and the new carer, and even stocked up on some items that I know mum would need. And I think I've given mum hope, a renewed chance to recover and live with dignity and the knowledge that she has overcome a very difficult struggle. Whatever happens, and even if there are more difficult days ahead, mum can think back and hopefully remind herself of how brave and how very strong she is to cling onto to dear on through even the most testing of times.

"I'll go back and work hard! I know I can do it when I return and concentrate of my studying!" I told mum. And I reminded her of the promise she made me, that she would also work hard and get up and out so she can recover her strength and be able to stand on her own two feet again. We both have work cut out for us ahead, and I hoped that in knowing that, even though we will be kilometres apart, we are connected in an additional way through the challenges we must face and overcome separately, but in a way also together.

The night is already ripening, and I have not much longer to rest. I must sleep, and will fall asleep to the sound of mum's breathing, and the quiet solace in knowing these few months have come and gone, and I have survived, and gotten stronger, and a little bit wiser...

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.

Touching moments

I could not help myself even though I turned away and began to cry. The teardrop flowed down my cheek, even though I pretended it did not happen. I know mum saw it, and that she was hurting too. We were both hurting, both dreading the moment when we must say good-bye... Is there anything more painful than seeing your loved one cry and be utterly powerless to stop your own tears?

"You have been too good to me all these months..." she said, "Having a child like you is worth it all..." She shed tears, and it was so very difficult, so very painful to see mum openly cry. She does not cry when she is feeling pain, she does not cry when she feels so much discomfort. And yet I make her cry... I am making her cry!

I handed mum a tissue and wiped my own tears with my sleeve. "I just hope you are comfortable now you are back home again..." I choked on my words and had difficulty getting my voice out. I stuttered and croaked. "I just hope you can eat and regain your health. The doctor said that's the most important thing now. Eat and recover..." The doctor said so much more, but mum does not need to face so much when she has just overcome an almost six week stay at the hospital. Really, the most important thing is for her to eat, to rest, to eat and eat some more so that she can regain some of her lost weight and look healthy again. In the picture I took of her yesterday, one with me posing next to her as she ate perhaps two, three spoonfuls of noodles, you could tell mum lost a lot of weight... You could tell she's ill. She had the look my uncle had at my brother's wedding. A dazed, fatigued and tortured look. A painful look to look upon...

"I'll eat well and I'll get better. You've done too much for me to let it go to waste..." Mum likes the new mattress cover, and she said several times it's so comfortable and that she feels less of her sores. She kept on asking me how much it cost, and I kept on telling her it was deeply discounted. "The store lady was moved by my story, and she gave me great discounts. And she threw in the heart-shaped pillow for free!" What price can you put on comfort and good rest, I asked mum rhetorically.

"I'm sorry I've been moody and shouted at you, I..."

"It doesn't matter. It's all in the past..." I broke her off. Nothing matters. Nothing except mum being comfortable and at ease in her mind. Nothing else really matters. I have no regrets. The pain I feel is not from regret, but from having gone through so much with mum over the span of over four months. The pain comes from having pulled through, and to see her back home again. What will happen now, what will happen in two weeks, two months from now, nobody knows. The moments of frustration, anger, confusion and being so pushed to the limit... It's all gone, and we made it, somehow we made it. It is a joyful pain, but just as painful, just as heart-wrenching.

"It will be so painful to see you go. You've been here so long. You've done so much, and spent so much money..."

Inside my heart was shattering. I cannot imagine how it will be... Already I am crying, and I feel the tears are just beginning. "It'll be hard to go back, but I must. I promise I'll study hard and do well on the exam. And I'll go to my graduation." Alone, at least without any family present as I had hoped for, but I will go nonetheless.

Brother entered the room. "Mama, are you crying?"

Mum wiped her tears with her fingers. "Weiwei is leaving. It'll be so hard..."

"We're here..." brother said.

"But soon you'll leave too..."

With red and moist eyes, brother uttered the words with difficulty: "Sooner or later we will all leave. You will leave too..." My sister-in-law stood next to him and clung onto my nephew close to her chest. With a free hand, she wiped the corner of her eye.

My nephew giggled, and the mood and all attention turned. He wriggled in his mother's arms like a wriggly worm. He chuckled and seemed to find something so terribly amusing. Perhaps he was laughing at us "crybabies", for the real baby was not crying, but the four of us were. I laid down next to mum while my brother and sister-in-law stood at mum's bedside. I felt in that moment like the luckiest person, and was basking in the warmth of our bonds, our togetherness.

It was such a brief and rare moment, but it was a moment I could not have wished more for. Just the five of us, our whole family together, mum smiling at her grandchild, her children and daughter-in-law at her side. Such a beautiful, touching moment. Shame it did not come earlier, and that there are only two more days for us to relive similar moments together. But we had that moment, and it was so beautiful.

One day, we must all say farewell. But today is not that day, this moment is not that moment.