Mess

Slept only a few hours after a late night of studying. Woke up at close to seven as the nurse came in, followed by mum's carer in the hospital. Didn't really manage to sleep more as the ward was coming to life at the start of a new day.

I wanted to wait for the doctor to come, but he did not show up today. So I grabbed a suitcase of stuff I packed earlier and left. Most likely mum can be discharged today, and slowly I must take some of the many things I've brought to the hospital home.

Arrived home to the sound of my nephew crying. He cried and cried, obviously very unwell. Before just his dad was ill, now his mother too, and inevitably my nephew also caught the flu and coughs. I kept on telling my brother when he was coughing and showing symptoms to put on a medical mask, but he wouldn't listen. And look what happened now...

The house was a mess. Clothes everywhere, suitcases strewn on the floor, bowls and baby things here and there. I know they are busy with the baby, I know they are both ill, but must it be so messy? They left within an hour of me arriving, all three of them heading to my sister-in-law's place in another part of the country. It's a good thing, as mum, if she is able to come home today, cannot afford to fall ill. With all three of them coughing and being bed-stricken, it's best if they were not here to make this a contaminated zone. I put on a mask as soon as I got home, because my brother despite my earlier warnings still did not put on a mask...

It's unfortunate, ad bad timing, though, mum about to be discharged, and coming home to just me again. My brother and his family came back, but they are gone again, so it's almost as if they didn't come back at all. The only sign of their return is the mess and unmade bed in their room, all many colourful stuffed toys belonging to my cousin lying everywhere...

Dreamy afternoon

Having slept only a few hours at the hospital last night, because of very severe stomach cramps (I'm certain related to my uncle's passing and the conversations I had with mum about that...), I came home and wanted to take a nap. But the chance to accompany my little nephew to a children's clinic seemed too fun to miss, so I went with them.

It was pleasant to push my nephew around, pretending that I'm a dad. Of course, the real dad and mum walked behind me, hand in hand, and I was just an uncle trying to imagine what it's like to have a cute little child. As I pushed him around, I dreamed one day of having a child (or two?) of my own... How I could pamper the child, showed her/him with warmth, fun and love, teach him/her about life and the amazing things of this world. Somehow, imagining the conversation I would be having with my partner, like the ones my brother and sister-in-law have about raising the child ("He's sweating! He's too warm!" or "Oh, look at him crawl and flip over!" or "oh, look at him smiling!" or "Watch out! He's biting that thing he found on the floor!") made me smile and smile...

The doctor diagnosed my nephew with an inflammation of the intestines. Nothing too serious, but he'll need to cut down on trying out new foods for a few days. Just soupy rice and a bit of dried shredded pork and rice crackers for him now. And of course some prescribed medicine.

I was exhausted when we got back home at around ten in the morning, and dived into bed. I slept, but dreamed and dreamed a dozen dreams. I know my ex featured in one of them, but details are non-existent. I was even more tired when finally I woke up close to two.

I woke up to the sound of coughing and saw my brother and sister-in-law lie in their den. First my brother caught the cold, and now she's also hit the jackpot. Mum's in hospital, brother and his wife are ill, and so is my nephew.

I really need to be very careful...

Patient next door

The patient next door is loud sometimes at night. He would suddenly wake up screaming, saying something I cannot quite make out what through the walls. It sounds though as if he is very afraid, and screaming for his life, stopping only when the carer or nurse responds and takes care of his needs.

The patient next door is an AIDS victim. Mum told me that, and she in turn heard it from her carer. For the last two days, she's been telling me that, as if to say something, but I'm not quite sure what. I guess the stigma is that gays have AIDS, and that the patient may be gay. And I'm gay, so she's telling me perhaps the patient next door is gay too. Perhaps she's trying to "warn" me.

I've never seen the man next door, and I don't think mum has either. But mum is curious and asks me why the man, in his late forties, is even staying at the colo-rectal surgery ward. There could be any number of reasons why, and the fact that he has AIDS (if the hear-say is true...) may just be one reason he is here, and not the reason.

"There is no cure, is there?"
I explained (assuming that the hear-say is true...) there isn't, but there are drugs that can inhibit the progress of the illness and that nowadays people can live even for a long time. "It's a bit like cancer perhaps," I said, and perhaps insultingly, back in the early eighties, it was nicknamed the "Gay cancer". But HIV/AIDS is not just an illness of gays or spread by gays alone, as we now know.

There is no cure, just like in the case of advanced cancer, and as the illness progresses, the body's immune system is attacked and progressively weakened, and the organs fail one by one. Both cancer patients and AIDS patients have this "iconic" thin and bony look. In the end, it gets very painful, so I read. Both for cancer and AIDS, there are drugs that can slow the symptoms or even significantly delay death. Unlike cancer, AIDS can be prevented.

"if you don't fool around, and don't do do drugs using used needles..." I told mum, to inform her, but in a way also to placate her fears.

Leaving greacefully...

“There is no medicine. All you can give is the love of family, love plus care.”

I bought the movie Leaving Gracefully (帶一片風景走) some weeks back, hoping that we would have the time to sit down and watch it together as a family. I knew the theme would have a lot of meaning for my family, but in the evenings mum has either been too tired or too ill, so we never got around to it.

Only today, on my birthday, or because of my birthday, did mum and I manage to watch it. Half way through, brother called from the other side of the world to say he arrived home safely. Tears I shed were just drying when he called. 

The movie is based on a true story. In 2008, a husband and his wheelchair-bound wife, who is diagnosed with spinocerebellar atrophy, spent 84 days and walked over a million steps to circumnavigate the island of Taiwan (a distance of around 1000km). The working class couple touched many hearts as they walked around the island, and the media dubbed it “Love of a Million Steps”. How far would a husband go to share how much he cares and loves his wife? What would you do with your life when there is limited time and space? As the wife slowly loses her motor skills and ability to speak, the husband decides to fulfil a promise he once made to her. He wants to take her oyster hunting at low tide, he wants to take her on their first honeymoon, for they never had one; he wants to take her on a final journey, and defy what the doctor said about it being impossible. 

And they did manage to do it, in a revamped wheelchair, with a flimsy shopping cart trailing behind, and with the husband pushing all the way. One step at a time, slowly, in sunshine or in rain. Passerbys offered them encouragement and support, some gave them shelter and food, some even offered them rides. But the husband refused, for he said he wanted, needed to walk this final journey with his wife. Just the two of them...

“Even though we cannot walk hand in hand, our shadows on the ground are together…”
 

I shed tears quietly at many moving moments, and quietly wiped away the tears. At one point, the wife insisted to return home after already walking for over a hundred kilometres, in order to sing happy birthday to their daughter. That scene was perhaps even more touching as today was my birthday. The lady, though she has almost lost the ability to speak, tried hard to sing "Happy Birthday" to her daughter. The daughter, obviously moved, ran to hug her mother, and together they cried... Another touching scene was when while going up a steep hill the husband fell, but the first thing he does is ask whether his wife is alright and tends to her needs… Such is their love, the husband's deep commitment to the care and comfort of the wife till the very last moment of her life. How beautiful that is, that love, that affection, which is unconditional and resolute, which transcends the purely physical. "I will grow ugly..." the wife, knowing how the disease will affect her looks and make her  eyes bulge and her arms shrivel, said to the husband at one point, to which he replies "And I will grow old..." He loves her not for how she looks, but for the person whom she is, until the very, very end. Their marriage vows were truly forever. 

The doctor who initially diagnosed the wife became deeply touched and inspired. Though there is no cure, he realises, of all the patients he has seen before, this couple defied his opinion of what a person with a degenerative brain disorder can achieve. Whereas everyone will gradually disintegrate and die in the end, the couple showed their determination to decide life for themselves, and how “Just being happy is good enough…” 

It is not without reason why I wanted to watch this movie, especially watch it with mum. It is my hope the movie will fill mum with hope. Perhaps, seeing that husband and wife, she will be inspired and tell herself: “If they can do it, if a person who is wheelchair-bound and has lost all control over her body can, then I too can live and be happy…”

(translation mine)

Can the soft, soft wind hear? Hear me quietly describe the past?
Don’t let that past vanish. Your little smile was so beautiful.
The waves made up your face, the sky was full of rosy clouds.

The spray of the waves is emotionally attached to the blue, blue sky. The tides never forget the vows of love.
Tightly, tightly [I] hold your little hand, [and] remember to take love away.
Longing is like the tides and is not dispelled, [it] is before one’s eyes.


[I] cannot differentiate whether it is the rain or tears,
Please, moon, [I] hope she can accompany you,
And fly away with a little smile…

Another sleepless night

30012012.0216

Two in the morning, and mum is experiencing severe bouts of coughing, making it difficult for her to fall asleep. Just before bed, she threw up, two, three times. Everything I cooked, everything she ate thinking it'll give her a boost of nutrients and restore her energy level, came pouring out of her mouth. It was a sorry and painful sight to bear...

 Already the fifth night that she has been unable to sleep well, and when she does sleep, it's only for a few hours. As I sleep right on the floor next to her bed, I can hear if she's stirring or still awake ( though admittedly, I've been so exhausted I fall sleep through...).

Is it because of her cold, or is it something more fundamental related to her cancer? Throwing up is one of the symptoms of cancer spreading. That and constant fatigue, which she also has, even though she is unable to fall asleep for long. She tells me every time she  coughs, her surgical wounds hurt terribly. So not just the coughing but also her pains are keeping her awake. Painkillers are not working... Or is it because she's not taking them?

Never before, as far as I know, has she used sleep inducers. and today she requested it to be given to her so she can take it before sleep.

But so far, there has been little effect...

Ill

I was gone less than 12hours, and came home to mum sick and coughing horribly, throwing up and producing large quantities of phlegm. Already past midnight, and she cannot fall asleep, and neither can I. Another late night, even though I am so physically and emotionally drained from my trip earlier in the day. It really was not easy... Not easy to again be on the brink of losing someone close in my life, someone who was a part of my childhood and an integral part of those carefree summer days in the countryside of southern Taiwan...

With treatment planned in two days, mum cannot afford to fall ill. Just yesterday, she told me she wants to delay the new treatment yet again, because she is not feeling up to it.

I am not sure if that will be a good idea, as the doctor seemed really eager to want to conduct the new treatment as soon as possible, perhaps fearing if not done soon, the target areas may become too big for the treatment to be effective.

Countdown to Monday begins...

Slowing down

Walking slowly with mum in the rain, in silence, something crossed my mind...

I looked at mum from a few steps away, and noticed how frail mum has become, how much older and more fragile than I have ever since her before... Sometimes she closes her eyes, and I know because there is a shooting, sharp pain, most likely from her surgical wound. Sometimes she crumples her face in great, great discomfort, and I know it is because she really is hurting from just standing up and walking... I know mum is suffering, and yet I cannot do anything to help her...

Every step she takes seems to take great effort and strain. Every move so slow, so painstakingly slow. I know it frustrates her greatly, but she cannot fully express it. Her voice is too broken to say much, so much of the time we are silent nowadays. I know her current condition frustrates her greatly, for on occasion she lies in bed and tells me how much she wants it to be all over. Really over...

Being around mum, it is hard to stay positive, hard to keep on smiling and keep in being strong. I look at myself in the mirror and feel as if I have aged greatly over the past month, feel like my life, my youth, has been caught up in a relentless spiral that is pulling me back. How very selfish of me to think like that, I know, I know...

but part of me so much wants to hide... Hide far, far away, so I do not have to deal with all this... Hide in my sleep, so I do not have to feel... Hide in temporary moments of euphoric release and self-gratification, so I can drown out the pain... Anything else, anywhere else away from this place, this moment...

In calm I will find strength...
In myself, and from noone else, I must rediscover what it means to care, to be patient and to love...

YUL-ORD

0142102914823 YUL-ORD I feel strangely calm. Have I been preparing for this in my sleeplessness nights? Have I been mentally bracing for this very  day during nights when my mind was filled with terrible dreams and frightful dread?  Where does this calm come from? I'm enjoying it, the calm; it is carrying me, allowing me to brave through the turbulent shock of the latest news of mum's hospitalisation and impending surgery. A strange, gentle calm... Or is it just the lack of sleep and fatigue? Fatigue too can be soothing, pain- and emotion-numbing. Do I perhaps detect an queer sense of excitement mixed with disbelief that this day has finally come? Is there a sense of relief that perhaps after such a long, long time, this may be the end of everything, the end of all that I have so feared and imagined? Nothing is more real than this moment. No imagination, however vivid and fantastical the mind, can conjure this very moment of sitting in the little jet and me typing this on my iPhone. Perhaps the calm comes from knowing that this vital surgery will (if successful) remove the tumour that has for the past year or so caused mum so much pain, suffering, dozens of chemo and radiotherapy sessions. Whatever the reason, I am calm, I am so surprisingly calm, and brave.  I have not shed a tear, not yet.  I have been so close, but the calm and strange peace that reigns my mind now is containing the tears, for I know there will be a time and place for that. And I am and feel  so fortunate to be so calm, to be so brave still. This calm I'm enjoying now has allowed me to comfort mum, to let me talk to her without betraying my fears, my worries, for at this very moment, a mother who has to hear her scared and panicking child sob and lose control of all emotions is the least she needs now.  And my calm, brave voice has allowed me to comfort brother, who was sniffing on the phone, and I can only imagine distraught and so very lost... My calm, this strange inner peace, has allowed to thank and thank again my friends who stayed with me for hours in that mad search for a suitable ticket at 1am... The calm has allowed me to thank and thank again all those family members and relatives and friend's of mum's who are now gathered by her bedside at Taipei Veterans General Hospital.  So what happened...? Why am I flying now and reliving feelings and fears I had almost four years ago when I packed my bags and rushed home to catch a glimpse of dad?  Somehow I knew it, somehow I felt it. I was not imagining things when for the past two weeks or so I felt mum has been particularly  quiet and hiding something from me. I was not too wrong when I told my ex the other day that I may need to head home soon. And here I am, doing exactly what, strangely and without any logical explanation what my intuition and suspicions told me about something being wrong. Details are still vague and hard to come by because of poor phone connections and difficulty having a proper conversation. My cousin called after eleven after I just came from a walk to clear my head. Thank goodness I saw it when it rang picked up almost immediately. She passed me to mum, and it was mum who said that she was in the hospital. Admitted I believe yesterday night (or was it morning? Hard to figure out the chronology of events right now) mum said she began feeling her limbs getting very weak. At various moments during the seemed, when she was again visiting her friend in the countryside, her knee could not hold her weight, and she just collapsed. Yesterday, not long after (or was it before?) I called her, she went to the washroom and her knee collapsed again, causing her to injure her face. She got herself to the hospital and immediately saw her main physician, and the famous neurosurgeon. Together they admitted her into the emergency ward immediately, and began to do scans and tests. Her youngest sister (my cousin's mum) rushed from the south of the country to be with mum, and they have been there with her since... The tests and MRI scans ("the massive, thunderous machine", as mum reminded me, for I went with her to get a scan almost a year ago...) revealed that the tumour growing on the spine has not gotten much bigger, so it is possible to operate and remove it surgically. If not done soon, the compression of the nerves will cause her to lose more and more of the mobility of the limbs and eventually lead to paralysis ("Like Superman [actor Christopher Reeves]", mum said, something she has repeatedly said whenever in the past she spoke her fear of becoming paraplegic...)  "I don't want to burden people. Imagine if I were dependent on people for my every need... It's best to have the surgery now..." Mum said that the doctors are top notch, and they reassured her that they have performed this kind of surgery numerous times. "It's time," she said "I can't bear the pain and always having to rely on painkillers..." As difficult as it was to contain my wavering voice, my shaking hands, mum said a couple of things that almost provoked outbursts of tears. She said she regrets that this year she might not be able to go see dad on the anniversary of his passing together with brother, my sister-in-law and my nephew for the first time... And throughout, she kept on telling me to stay put and study for my exams (as if I would have the ability to focus...). I was glad she told me, for a great fear is that she would hide things from me till it was too late... And as much as she persuaded (in vain of course...) not to rush home, perhaps deep down she wished to see me. Whatever she felt, as I spoke with her, with one hand I held onto my phone, with the other my trembling fingers frantically began searching for flights leaving the next morning. But, looking back now, I amaze myself at how strong I was, how strong I remained throughout the frank conversation with mum about her latest condition... All thanks to this strange, strange calm. Mum was hopeful, or at least she tried to sound it. She said she has confidence in the health care team, and that she believed the surgery would go well. What did she really feel deep down inside? I cannot, I could not, look into her eyes and see what her true feelings are...  She said she wants to see my nephew. She said she wants to get better so she can travel again. She said she wants to come to Canada and attend my graduation... That was the moment when it got too much that I choked and tried to cover it up with a cough. To which she said: "Take care of your cough, go to sleep already!" Typical, typical of mum, my dear, brave mum... At the airport I called again, and found out more people had arrived to see mum, to be with mum. I spoke to her, wanted to tell her things before it is "too late". "Be strong, hang on there, I'm coming home, I'll be home soon! I love you mum..." I'm not sure if she heard the last, but most important bit, for it was and felt awkward to say it, especially in Mandarin. As much as I do for her, and have tried to be there for mum, I've never (I don't think) ever said "I love you" to her.  But there are times in life when you know, when you feel if you do not do or say something, you may regret for the rest of your life, that may make you may feel guilt ridden forever. So I sent her a recorded video message in case she did not hear me. "Mama... I'm here at the gate about to board. Hang on there. Brother and I, we're both thinking of you, sending you metta. I love you, take good care, see you soon." The magical, beautiful and true-to-the-heart words I said in English, for it felt more natural, more real that way... The cabin air is dry, the engines are roaring and the plane is starting its descent into ORD. The first leg of what will bound to be a long, long and difficult journey is about to end...  I slept perhaps ten minutes or so since getting on board. The excitement of rushing home again, barely two months after I returned from home is keeping me awake. The excitement of what I'll face and have to deal with at home is keeping me awake... Another journey, another long long journey to go...

Kicking the bucket

Imagine if you only had a few months to live. How would you live? Most importantly, "Have you found joy in your life and have you given joy to other people?" These are wonderful questions that are asked in the movie The Bucket List.

My brother had recommended the movie to me back in February, but because of all the personal issues happening then, I avoided watching anything which I thought might make me even more emotional. Indeed, as predicted, the movie made me cry. Not just a tear out of the corner of my eyes. But really cry, as in, tears flowing down my cheeks, and my heart filled with such heart-wrenching sourness and pain from having been so touched and moved by the lines and the interactions between the characters.

The fate of two dying men portrayed by Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholaso are brought together when they go into hospital to be diagnosed with incurable cancer. One is from a simple family, filled with love and happiness, and clings onto hope and faith. The other is a bitter and successful millionaire who has little love and boundless amounts of money, but is an utter cynic and has no faith. Their last days are intertwined as they make a list of things they wish to fulfil in their last days. Not just fun and excitement, but also reconciliation and making contact and peace with lost loved ones. Because there is no greater pain than dying with regret.

Seeing the two lie in bed, with tubes connected to their bodies, I cannot but think back to the image of my own dad lying in bed, silent and dying... He did not speak. He did not struggle, and now and then he opened his eyes to look at me. I smiled back, and still he did not speak. He could not speak. But what was going through his mind? What did he want to say? What wishes did he want to fulfil?

The thought of this made me cry... the thought of my hands cupped around his, that feeling of his skin against mine, that warmth of his cheeks clinging onto mine... I miss that. How I so miss that.

2am

Close to 2am. Taiwan time, close to 8am.
Mum is in hospital again for her bi-weekly chemo therapy. It is going well she says, and most likely she can go home tomorrow later afternoon. My auntie is there, sleeping in that narrow couch-bed I used to sleep in, and as I called she was out to buy breakfast. Mum says she still has the appetite to eat, so she wanted this oat meal mix and some fried rice and cereals. “Just like what you bought me when I was in hospital,” she said.

Yes, just as I had bought her back in February because I thought that was the most healthy and nutricious that I could bring her while she lies confined in that hospital bed for those days.

“Have the doctors come yet?” I asked. Because they usually come check up on the patients a little after eight. Not yet, but they will come, mum reassured me. And today she will find out whether after all these treatments the cancer index has diminished. In other words, whether all those grueling and tiredsome days spent at the hospital, whether all those spasms of nausea and all that exhaustion has all been worth it.

“Take care,” I said, and I thought of her face, her eyes, and that dazzling, natural smile of hers that I had captured in a shot just after the doctor told her she could go home again. How I wish I could see her so happy, see her be so healthy. How I wish I could see her.

Music

Once more, much of the food was untouched. We sat down to a quiet dinner, and seeing mum eat so little, how could I eat?

In the background, the stereo played one of mum's favourite music pieces. "The sound of bell emitted in the evening from an ancient temple" (古剎晚鐘) it is called. A beautiful recording of the chiming of bells and percussion instruments that evoke a feeling of serenity as well as awe. Mum said the music used to make her cry whenever she heard it. Sitting opposite me at the dinner table tonight, her eyes seemed to water.

She recounted the days in the past while dad was still around. Though they did not speak much to one another, it was still somewhat 'comforting' to know someone is at home with you. After I am gone coming Saturday, there will just be an empty house.　

I really cannot say much, except console her by telling her that it will not be that bad. There are plenty of things she can do to fulfill her time... like do caligraphy writing and drawing, do TaiChi, and meet up with her good friends for a day of fun and food. She seemed to be less sad after I said that.

The soup became cold as we chatted. Mum recalled a CD which I had not had the opportunity to open yet. Perhaps I unconsciously dread seeing the contents... I first got ahold of it on the eve of dad's death. The doctors had burned a CD containing dad's medical records and X-Rays, which they wanted to show us. But dad passed away even before there was a chance to do so. Mum said she cannot bear to see those pictures, at least not yet. Her eyes watered as she told me that it was in January when they first discovered that the cancer had started to spread from dad's liver to his lungs. Then, there were only a few gray areas on his lungs... within a month those gray areas had become large patches of fresh infection. "How quick it happened... too quick..."

Speaking to mum in the past few weeks, I think dad's passing has had a great impact on her in many ways. Not just losing someone she's been married to almost three decades, but also a subtle realisation of the seriousness of her own illness. Before she would be unable to let go of her work and worry about all sorts of things, but now she is slowly realising nothing is more precious than dear life. Or at least, that is what she says.

I looked at her, and told her like I have repeatedly said many times before. Be happy... be happy and enjoy every moment that life has to offer. Everything else is but an extra.

Back home

I have never packed my bag so quickly and just headed to the airport hoping there would be a flight.

And yet, some 17hrs later, I am half way across the globe, back in the home I grew up. I even took out the garbage just now, blending into the locals as if I have always been here. But truth is, I had just landed mere hours ago, and am still trying to get used to the climate, the noise and the busy-ness of life in Taiwan. It is hard to get used to the buzz and liveliness, the decorations and occasional blast of fireworks, for tomorrow is the local New Year's Eve.

Immediately after arriving, I headed straight to the hospital. Rain and a damp, damp cold that made my breath vapour greeted me in Taipei. What seemed like an endless bus and metro journey to the hospital due to cogestion finally ended as I hauled my drenched lugguage and soaked clothes into the gigantic Taipei Veteran's General Hospital. My stomach tensed as I walked through the doors of Room 12 in Ward 121, an intensive care unit intended for liver disease patients.

The sound of a whizzing first caught my attention. Machines, with colourful graphs measured heartbeat, breathing and blood level. My dad lay under a thick blanket on the hospital bed, his face covered with a respirator that had been plugged into his nostrils and masked his mouth. An incessant sound of breathing in the room otherwise glum and still. But strangely I did not shed a tear then and there, as I had dreaded I would on the long flight home... at least not yet. Dad lay there, almost in a feoutal position, like a baby needing care. I saw mum standing there, smiling weakly at me as I entered the door. I hugged her tightly and said: "I'm home".

I stayed at the hospital for anumber of hours. Knelt down beside my dad's bed, I watched him as his chest heaved up and down. His eyes were crusty at the corners, because he had not opened them for almost two straight days. The nurse said that if you speak to him, he can hear you, but he just cannot respond. His thick brows would at times twitch, and he would at times clench his eyes together, but they did not open. It was as if he was in a deep sleep, and could not awaken, no matter how many times you called his name.

On the plane over here, I was exhausted, drained from lack of sleep and from the images in my vidid head of how dad may be suffering. So for most of the flight I actually slept... but it was not a deep sound sleep, but sleep that would have me awaken to be panicked and disorientated, wondering where I was, and whether everything is but a bad nightmare. Perhaps dad is in such a state of mind, lost between consciousness and unconsciousness, but unable to return and speak, even though sometimes his arms and legs and facial muscles would twitch if you touched it.

I knelt beside dad's bed, and placed one hand on his hand, on the hand that was most free from tubings and wires and artificial vessels implanted into his skin. With my other hand, I gently caressed my dad's high forehead. He used to do this to me when I was a child.. Softly, I said, "I am here dad, right here next to you. You have nothing to fear, nothing to be afraid of. I am here dad, just let go of the pain, just let everything go." His eyes would twitch as if in response, but his lips merely heaved as he gasped for breath through the respirator.

The doctor updated me on his condition. Indeed, as my mum had said, dad had fainted and had a terrible seizure Sunday in the early hours. After he was rushed to the hospital, the doctors put him under intensive care. Blood sugar levels were many times the norm, and his body was becoming poisoned because his liver was not functioning properly due to his cancer... He has been under surveillance since, at times his life signs seemed to fade and grow faint, but now it appears he is stable. But the doctor showed me X-rays of his lungs. There were grey blobs, on both sides, as big as a coin, dotted here and there. The spread, the doctor said. Which explains he has some difficulty breathing, and why every two hours or so they must suck out the phloem collected in his lungs to prevent flooding.

I held his hand tightly, and whispered again those words so softly, "I am here dad, please do not be afraid. I am here with you."

Letter

I tried to write a letter to my parents, almost immediately after hearing the 'news' on Sunday. I began... but I am not sure how to finish it. For once, perhaps, I am lost for words, and not sure what to write.

I wanted to write to them, to console them, to tell them that things will be alright. But somehow I feel like if I do that, I am sort of lying through my writing, and that is the worst kind of writing.

I want to write to them, to tell them that they should not be afraid, to somehow make up for me not being able to stand by their side as they undergo the chemo therapy... but no words, not even all the metaphors, similes and flowery language that I can splash across the page can ever compensate for the touch of a hand when you are afraid and needing to be held.

I want to write to them, to tell them about my life, and how great it is going, despite the ups and downs, so that they will not worry and have to think about whether I am eating well or dressed warm enough. But somehow my letters in the past used to make them cry, because they are that powerful and filled with emotions. And the last thing I want to make them do is cry.

So I am facing a half-written, or perhaps half-finished however you look at it, letter.

A letter that is missing and longing for the other half.