Dragon Boat Festival

I woke up from a dream, I woke up tired and agitated from a dream I cannot remember. I woke up to the sound of mum gagging an choking, and the sound of a plastic bag rustling.

Mum looks particularly unwell today, and there are dark shadows around her eyes. She has no appetite, and the vomit just came out of nowhere. The last thing she ate/drank was a mouthful of Ensure. And that was over ten hours ago...

"Open the curtains..." she said weakly. It seemed like a strange request, but I did as she asked of me. Outside the sky was dawning, a brand new day is dawning.

When I turned around to look at her and take her by the hand, she had closed her eyes and fallen asleep...

Get better soon?

Since mum left the hospital, I have rarely massaged her. She seemed to be getting better, she seemed to be walking just fine. But more and more, her mental and physical health is steadily in decline. Tonight, just before she fell asleep, I knelt by her bedside, like a boy kneeling in prayer, and began to massage her arms.

It felt so limp, so weak, so lacking in energy. It felt exactly like this after she had the surgery, and for the weeks that she was confined to the hospital premises.  I pulled her fingers, rubbed the arms, massaged the muscles and shoulders. I felt bad, like I have neglected to take better care of her ever since she got home. But out of nowhere, as I was working on her arm: "You do so much for me..." Mum's words made me instantly cry. Silently cry. Because I feel at times like I have failed to take better care of her, like I am failing her, that's why she is not getting better...

I know, I should not think this way. But as a child, who grew up seeing his mother be the strong refuge to weather all troubles and worries,  it is painful to see her become steadily more frail, and steadily fade... I try, and I try so hard, to make her feel comfortable, to make her feel loved. Yes, there are moments when I am so very frustrated that I lose my temper. There are moments when I am rude to her, and push her too hard because she does not seem to be eating or exercising as she should do. Like she said to me before, I am not the one with cancer. I can never understand what it feels like to feel almost constantly ill, to be in almost constant pain, to be weighed down mentally by an invisible illness that is occupying your body, your thoughts, your worst fears and reminding you of your eventual demise...

Even now, as I was writing, I heard mum coughing... And I rushed to her room to find her bent over the toilet bowl. In the water were bits of leftovers from her dinner, floating. Mum kept on spitting, and throwing up... "Please don't come here," she told me. But I stayed and patted her back..."

I only hope, and hope some more if it is not enough, that mum will get better soon. And even if she does not get better, all I can hope is that she will feel better, and be less burdened by pain and suffering...

Treatment Day Four

The fourth and final day of treatment. Or so I hope.

We again took the taxi to the hospital, and mere minutes after getting off, I could see mum was unwell again. Her mouth puffed, and her lips sealed tightly. I instinctively took out a plastic bag from my backpack and gave it to her quickly. Plastic bags have become a "must-carry" whenever we go anywhere now. As expected, she vomited. Everything from breakfast came out again. I patted her back. She coughed and choked. I swallowed my tears.

 I accompanied her inside the operating room, and helped her onto the operating table. She closed her eyes and grimaced in pain. "I know, I know... But this is the last treatment," I said to her, grabbing her hand. The very last treatment I do hope. The very last treatment...

 The radiologist kindly asked me to leave the room. I paced around outside, watched the crowd, imagined mum inside. A guy next to me was watching a comedy on his hand-held device, and his laughter filled the corridor. Later, he got up and picked up who I believe is his son. His son who was in a vegetative state. The man gently grabbed his son and placed him in a wheelchair. I watched them disappear into the crowd. The echo of the man's laughter remained in the corridor, remained in my head...

 Whirring sounds and a low siren constantly sounded. The technician operating the machine again went in and out of the operating room to adjust mum's position and operating table. Every time he passed me, he would gesture to me to sit and say, "Not yet. It's not finished yet." I would weakly smile at him. I would thank him. Then about forty minutes or so after mum went in, the red light turned off, and the brown door slowly, slowly opened.The technician walked by and smiled at me. "Please, you can go in now..."

 I walked inside, and saw the gigantic machine, motionless. With its metallic arm, its impressive-looking head, it stood there, looking proud and imposing. Mum lay there, also motionless. The blue mould that was made of her body the week before made sure that she lies as still as possible. Mum's eyes were closed, and only when I called out "Mama..." did she open her tired eyes.

"Is it over?"

"It is over." Dear god, please let this be over. Please. Please... "How are you feeling? Did you rest?" I asked. Streaks of infra-red, used to pinpoint and target the coordinates of the tumour, shone on her forehead and upper body.

The technician, a kind, gentle man, helped mum up, and gave her a pat on her back. Mum looked tired, so very, very tired. I held her hand and helped her down from the operating table. She wobbled a little and slowly we walked out the room.

"Thank you," I said, following mum. As much as I am thankful to the gentle man for his patience and hard work throughout these last four days of treatment, in a way I do not wish to see him or the CyberKnife, or any other medical equipment, again. An MRI scan was planned for an hour from then.

Mum felt a little better after a little lunch. Just some congee, a few vegetables and vegetarian steak, but at least she held it down in her stomach, which meant she absorbed the nutrients necessary for her to regain her health, regain her strength.

"The [glutamine] really helps," she said, "My throat is not as sore as before."

I joked: "Well you've had lots of experience, and now know what works and what does not. You should write a blog."

Mum smiled.

Unwell

Such a terrible headache since I woke up this morning. It feels like something is pounding against my forehead, and the back of my head. The pain at times is so intense I feel faint and very dizzy, as if I'm about to collapse at any moment. Being in the hospital till the late afternoon, just sitting around and waiting didn't help. At one point, my legs and hands were trembling slightly uncontrollably for no particular reason...

Mum too felt particularly unwell and extremely tired after her treatment today. And the two of us, both so unwell, somehow managed to make the long journey home on the metro. A long nap helped, but still the tiredness, especially mum's is difficult to shake away...

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...