Just before I left home back in February, I prepared a little gift and wrote a nice card and left it behind. I asked mum to please give it to a friend of hers, someone who calls almost every single day to check up on how she is doing. I've only met this 'auntie' a couple of times, but in many ways, when I see them talking and laughing on the phone, my heart is filled with such gratitude.
This auntie came by today, as she would do once every two, three weeks or so. She used to be a nurse, so she is trained and knowledgeable in medicine and nutrition. Especially when mum is doing chemo, she would call to advise mum what to eat, and what to avoid, and generally, to act as a support and confidante.
I saw the auntie only briefly today, as I was rushing to go out. But I thanked her again and again, and wasn't sure what I could say or do to convey my gratitude. She came over this time to bring a throat medicine that will help to soothe mum's aches and swelling from the radiotherapy. "Your mum looks healthier and her face is a bit rounder since I last saw her," she said, implying that she gained a bit of weight. She congratulated me on a job well-done, but embarrassed I looked down at my feet. I only did what I could, nothing more, nothing less...
The auntie said she was worried, especially in the last few weeks that mum would quit the treatment, because she knows how trying it can get when the treatment accumulates. Those final few sessions are the toughest, because the patient is usually so mentally and so physically worn that there is often no more will to face the doctors, face all that medicine and all that radiation... "It's good that you came back," she said to me, "It really has helped her a lot..." She said mum is really strong, and that she is proud of mum fr pulling it through all the way to the end, for it has been a painful, long and arduous journey, a lot of it undertaken on her own. What little time I have spent with her is minimal to the length of time she has had to deal with her condition, deal with the treatments, and the emotional and physical aftermaths of her treatments, which to date has lasted almost half a year.
"Go take her out for a while, let her enjoy the cleaner environment and surroundings overseas," she said, "It'll do her a lot of good".
I intend to. I cannot describe how eager I would like to just board the next plane and take her away. One more treatment tomorrow, and in ten day's time, we will be on our way...
31 May 2011
Remember when?
As a boy, every month at the beginning of the month, we would gather around one evening to see if we've won the lottery. To combat businesses not paying taxes, the government has for decades introduced a system of "uniform receipts", whereby consumers are encouraged to always get a receipt from the vendor, because each receipt carries a unique set of numbers which at the end of the month also act as lottery numbers. Prizes start from NT$200 and go up to a million, and more recently ten million ( though the chances of winning are slimmer nowadays). But it was always something that brought the family together.
When dad was still alive, he was a vehement receipt collector. He would walk around, and whenever he sees in on the floor he would pick it up and take it home, proudly saying "I've just won a million!" He was careful with money, and every time we do win something, he would give it to me or to my mum. A couple of times, with winnings in the thousands, we'd even go out for a luxurious meal together.
It's been a couple of years since I last sat down, next to a big pile of rectangular receipts and carefully compared lottery numbers. Last time, dad was still around, and I remember sitting on the living room floor in the old family home, while he sat on the sofa next to me and squinted through his old-man glasses to read the numbers. Touching, fun, and at times exciting moments, especially when you are off by a number or two and so close to wining something. "better luck next time", dad would say if it was a "bad" month. Afterwards, I would ruffle through all that paper, and toss it all around in the air, pretend as if it were money bills. My fingers would smell of ink for some time afterwards. The smell would go away when I washed my hands, yet the memories remain till this day.
Since dad passed away, mum has been collecting the receipts and sending them to charitable organisations, many of which rely on this as a major source of income. One that she donates to works to provide care for physically handicapped persons, another is an orphanage in a poor part to the east of the island.
For some reason, mum suddenly had the urge to compare lottery numbers, so that's what we did tonight. Before we began, we agreed that if we were to anything, the money would still go to charity. I joked if we were to win ten million, we should at least keep ten percent! As our fingers and eyes focused on the little pieces of receipts, we talked about "remember when...?"
We did not win anything in the end, but we did bring back some memories of dad, and how things used to be...
When dad was still alive, he was a vehement receipt collector. He would walk around, and whenever he sees in on the floor he would pick it up and take it home, proudly saying "I've just won a million!" He was careful with money, and every time we do win something, he would give it to me or to my mum. A couple of times, with winnings in the thousands, we'd even go out for a luxurious meal together.It's been a couple of years since I last sat down, next to a big pile of rectangular receipts and carefully compared lottery numbers. Last time, dad was still around, and I remember sitting on the living room floor in the old family home, while he sat on the sofa next to me and squinted through his old-man glasses to read the numbers. Touching, fun, and at times exciting moments, especially when you are off by a number or two and so close to wining something. "better luck next time", dad would say if it was a "bad" month. Afterwards, I would ruffle through all that paper, and toss it all around in the air, pretend as if it were money bills. My fingers would smell of ink for some time afterwards. The smell would go away when I washed my hands, yet the memories remain till this day.
Since dad passed away, mum has been collecting the receipts and sending them to charitable organisations, many of which rely on this as a major source of income. One that she donates to works to provide care for physically handicapped persons, another is an orphanage in a poor part to the east of the island.
For some reason, mum suddenly had the urge to compare lottery numbers, so that's what we did tonight. Before we began, we agreed that if we were to anything, the money would still go to charity. I joked if we were to win ten million, we should at least keep ten percent! As our fingers and eyes focused on the little pieces of receipts, we talked about "remember when...?"
We did not win anything in the end, but we did bring back some memories of dad, and how things used to be...
30 May 2011
The deed is done
For a long time, I have wanted to take mum on this trip. To the Canadian Rockies, to those enchanted and mystical places deep in the mountains.... Jasper, Lake Louise, Banff... For a long time, they seemed to be far away places, so far, far away. I've been showing her pictures and video montages made by people online to whet her appetite, and to get her interested and excited. And today, we are a step closer to getting there.
After today's good news about mum's health condition, mum and I decided to take a leap of faith. Of course, in life, there may be many unexpected events and changes, and sometimes you just have to weather them. And that also means sometimes you have a to take a risk. After browsing for tour packages for some time, we decided to go for one that includes all the highlights of the Rockies, and most important of all, involves a two day train journey on a special train service. The tour does not come cheap, but sometimes in life, you have to tell yourself that you can only live once, and you can only experience certain experiences once in your one lifetime. So just do it.
Mum certainly deserves a break from all the hospital visits, and all that staying at home, now almost half a year into her retirement. This will be her first trip overseas, and I want to make it a special and memorable one. As I keep on telling her, some things you see and experience, and you will continue to be so amazed and inspired by it for a lifetime. However short or long that lifetime is, does not matter. At least after everything has been said, she has been there, done that.
So I filled in the booking form just now, and the credit card details, and faxed it over to the travel agent. It seems like such a little step, at just a little over midnight local time here, but it took such a long time of weighing all the options, risks and possibilities. But sometimes you just have to do it, and hope that things will turn out as planned.
And if this does, it will be a trip to remember and to talk about for a long, long time....
After today's good news about mum's health condition, mum and I decided to take a leap of faith. Of course, in life, there may be many unexpected events and changes, and sometimes you just have to weather them. And that also means sometimes you have a to take a risk. After browsing for tour packages for some time, we decided to go for one that includes all the highlights of the Rockies, and most important of all, involves a two day train journey on a special train service. The tour does not come cheap, but sometimes in life, you have to tell yourself that you can only live once, and you can only experience certain experiences once in your one lifetime. So just do it.
Mum certainly deserves a break from all the hospital visits, and all that staying at home, now almost half a year into her retirement. This will be her first trip overseas, and I want to make it a special and memorable one. As I keep on telling her, some things you see and experience, and you will continue to be so amazed and inspired by it for a lifetime. However short or long that lifetime is, does not matter. At least after everything has been said, she has been there, done that.
So I filled in the booking form just now, and the credit card details, and faxed it over to the travel agent. It seems like such a little step, at just a little over midnight local time here, but it took such a long time of weighing all the options, risks and possibilities. But sometimes you just have to do it, and hope that things will turn out as planned.
And if this does, it will be a trip to remember and to talk about for a long, long time....
Treatment number 14
The nurse stood next to the patient's daughter as she explained carefully how to feed her dad, who was sitting down on a chair. He looked so frail, his skin was dark, and his collar bones were showing. A long, thick tube led to his nose, entered his nostril, and was taped around that region like a white mask. He barely spoke, and when he did, his voice was so coarse I could barely hear, let alone, understand him.
"For an adult, you need at least six cans a day," the nurse explained. Six cans of Ensure, that disgusting tasting protein drink which is supposed to contain all the essential nutrients a patient needs if he cannot ingest food. Six cans of something mum had tried before, but would not even go anywhere near, even though the nutritionist recommended it as the best way to ensure a balanced and healthy diet. "You need to feed it through the tube," the nurse continued while the daughter listened attentively. The dad looked haplessly down at the ground next to his feet.
I nudged mum, sitting next to me, and still reeling from her latest radiotherapy. "You see, you could be so much worse off," I said, "Two more treatments to go..." I patted her on the back, and gave her a look. In my eyes was the look of encouragement, of hope, of well-wishes. I cannot and can never fully know how painful it is to have the throat so completely inflamed from the radiotherapy that it hurts to swallow. I cannot understand how impossibly sore it can be that you just lose your appetite. It is worse than the pain that she feels and sores she feels on her arm, she said, and the suffering and frustration is so immense she cannot begin to describe it.
A lady walked slowly by with her husband, the couple I have seen half a dozen times already, even though we never spoke. She saw me and gave me a nod and a smile, greeting me as if she understood, as if she shared my concerns and worries, as if we both wore a badge and belonged to the club of relatives who have a loved one undergoing treatment for cancer. I nodded back and, like everyday when I see her, like every time I see a sad, sorry face in the hospital, whether that belonging to a patient or a relative or a friend of a patient, I smiled. Often, in that fantasy world a world away from the realities of illness, sick and death, I imagine that a smile can radiate sympathy and can make another person forget his pains and sorrows, if only for a split second. It is my attempt to reach out and show someone that I care, even though I may not know them, may never know them personally. However feeble, however small, a smile says and means a lot.
The nurse called us into the doctor's room, and we sat down. "Wow, you didn't loose weight, but actually gained weight this week!" said the doctor, surprised. 58.3kg, still on the thin side, but given that I'm taller, and don't weigh much more than her, I was satisfied and assured. Mum looked and pointed at me, proud, "All thanks to him..." At that moment, I was overwhelmed, and began to tear. All those painful meals sitting at the table, all that time and effort preparing things to make sure she eats enough. The moment of truth, the moment the digital display on the scales showed the latest figure of her weight is a joyful one.
The doctor browsed through her medical records and checked on his computer monitor. The latest CT scan results are back. No metastasis to the lung... no metastasis to the bone structure or marrow... no metastasis to the spleen, liver, or gallbladder. The original tumour in the colon, discovered some four years ago, has not grown, and may have even decreased in size. The latest imaging of the tumour in the spine has decreased in size. I sighed inside as I read the report myself. Sighed and cried inside. This may not be the end, but at least for now, her treatment seems to be combating any growth or spread and keeping her condition under control. "Congratulations," the doctor said, "Two more treatments to go, and you are free!" He was a kind, gentle and patient man. I thanked him profusely and bowed as I left his office.
I saw mum smile, such a beautiful, moving smile. "So this means I can go abroad?" she asked.
"No problem," the doctor said, "I'll still prescribe you some medicine, but it seems to be alright for now." He turned to look at me. "You are lucky to have a son like this". Again, I fought hard to contain my tears.
But mum fought much harder, suffered much more to come to this point, and I can see she has been much weakened, both her body and spirits. Weakened, but not undeterred.
I do not know how much of a role I have to play in the stabilisation of her condition... sometimes I wonder whether I push her too hard, and ask too much of her or whether I can fully understand what she is going through when I am telling her to eat and drink this or that. Sometimes I feel so terrible for being frustrated with her, and being frustrated with the entire situation, and for being grumpy and moody, when I should be calm and supportive.
But two more treatments, and a ten day period of recovery, and we should be on our way...
To Canada.
"For an adult, you need at least six cans a day," the nurse explained. Six cans of Ensure, that disgusting tasting protein drink which is supposed to contain all the essential nutrients a patient needs if he cannot ingest food. Six cans of something mum had tried before, but would not even go anywhere near, even though the nutritionist recommended it as the best way to ensure a balanced and healthy diet. "You need to feed it through the tube," the nurse continued while the daughter listened attentively. The dad looked haplessly down at the ground next to his feet.
I nudged mum, sitting next to me, and still reeling from her latest radiotherapy. "You see, you could be so much worse off," I said, "Two more treatments to go..." I patted her on the back, and gave her a look. In my eyes was the look of encouragement, of hope, of well-wishes. I cannot and can never fully know how painful it is to have the throat so completely inflamed from the radiotherapy that it hurts to swallow. I cannot understand how impossibly sore it can be that you just lose your appetite. It is worse than the pain that she feels and sores she feels on her arm, she said, and the suffering and frustration is so immense she cannot begin to describe it.
A lady walked slowly by with her husband, the couple I have seen half a dozen times already, even though we never spoke. She saw me and gave me a nod and a smile, greeting me as if she understood, as if she shared my concerns and worries, as if we both wore a badge and belonged to the club of relatives who have a loved one undergoing treatment for cancer. I nodded back and, like everyday when I see her, like every time I see a sad, sorry face in the hospital, whether that belonging to a patient or a relative or a friend of a patient, I smiled. Often, in that fantasy world a world away from the realities of illness, sick and death, I imagine that a smile can radiate sympathy and can make another person forget his pains and sorrows, if only for a split second. It is my attempt to reach out and show someone that I care, even though I may not know them, may never know them personally. However feeble, however small, a smile says and means a lot.
The nurse called us into the doctor's room, and we sat down. "Wow, you didn't loose weight, but actually gained weight this week!" said the doctor, surprised. 58.3kg, still on the thin side, but given that I'm taller, and don't weigh much more than her, I was satisfied and assured. Mum looked and pointed at me, proud, "All thanks to him..." At that moment, I was overwhelmed, and began to tear. All those painful meals sitting at the table, all that time and effort preparing things to make sure she eats enough. The moment of truth, the moment the digital display on the scales showed the latest figure of her weight is a joyful one.
The doctor browsed through her medical records and checked on his computer monitor. The latest CT scan results are back. No metastasis to the lung... no metastasis to the bone structure or marrow... no metastasis to the spleen, liver, or gallbladder. The original tumour in the colon, discovered some four years ago, has not grown, and may have even decreased in size. The latest imaging of the tumour in the spine has decreased in size. I sighed inside as I read the report myself. Sighed and cried inside. This may not be the end, but at least for now, her treatment seems to be combating any growth or spread and keeping her condition under control. "Congratulations," the doctor said, "Two more treatments to go, and you are free!" He was a kind, gentle and patient man. I thanked him profusely and bowed as I left his office.
I saw mum smile, such a beautiful, moving smile. "So this means I can go abroad?" she asked.
"No problem," the doctor said, "I'll still prescribe you some medicine, but it seems to be alright for now." He turned to look at me. "You are lucky to have a son like this". Again, I fought hard to contain my tears.
But mum fought much harder, suffered much more to come to this point, and I can see she has been much weakened, both her body and spirits. Weakened, but not undeterred.
I do not know how much of a role I have to play in the stabilisation of her condition... sometimes I wonder whether I push her too hard, and ask too much of her or whether I can fully understand what she is going through when I am telling her to eat and drink this or that. Sometimes I feel so terrible for being frustrated with her, and being frustrated with the entire situation, and for being grumpy and moody, when I should be calm and supportive.
But two more treatments, and a ten day period of recovery, and we should be on our way...
To Canada.
29 May 2011
Being frank
Two days over the weekend without the radiotherapy, and mum's throat ache seems to be slowly, slowly subsiding. It still hurts a lot when she swallows, to the extent that sometimes I can see beads of sweat trickle down her forehead, but at least it is a sign that, perhaps, when the treatment stops completely in three days, she will gradually recover.
The weekend has been time for her to recover and rest, and as usual every meal I try to encourage her to eat as much as possible and eat as balanced a diet as possible. It has come to the point where, like a parent watching the small child eat and finish the meal, I clap and congratulate mum whenever she finishes what I put on the table. Truly, that sense of joy that she can finish something, even if with a lot of effort and pain, is immense.
Over lunch today, we talked a bit about my future life and plans. "It's been so unstable," I said, "The last three years or so..." It was not a complaint, more an observation, especially when I look back and realise how many times and how frequent I have been shuttling back and forth between here and Canada just to spend time with mum. I cannot blame her, or the circumstances that made my life this way. But I admitted that I am really tired, and frustrated that a lot of my plans have been put on hold, whereas I really feel like I want to accomplish something real soon. My thesis... my bar exams... finding a job and having a stable income... settling down somewhere without having to look at a suitcase every two, three months.
Mum understood, and said she felt responsible. But by no means did I want her to feel that way. "With the treatment almost over" I said, "And with the planned trip about to take place, I really hope it will all do you good." Traveling has always done wonders for mum's health, for it is when she is traveling and seeing the world that she forgets completely about her illness and her condition. A change of heart, a change of scenery and a change of the way the mind thinks and sees can go a long way to keeping the illness at bay, or at least under control. And that is the hope... that for some time, her condition can be stable, and that I will be able to focus on what I would like to accomplish, focus on living my life. Mum understood what I wanted to say, and she agreed, for as she always has said, I should not be too preoccupied with her health.
I know it is premature to think about going back home and making something out of myself, because no one knows what the future really holds. Perhaps it is even selfish to want to eagerly get back to my own life, while it is not known what will happen to mum in the coming period. Perhaps, taking care and being there for others is my duty in life. But I do often feel like I could do so much more, I feel I could use my talents and potentials to create something for myself and for the benefit of others, whereas the past couple of years have been a rough, stalling period that seem to pass by slowly, with many days spent worrying and agonising over her condition...
We shall see what the future brings... but deep inside I am anxious and eager to work and live.
The weekend has been time for her to recover and rest, and as usual every meal I try to encourage her to eat as much as possible and eat as balanced a diet as possible. It has come to the point where, like a parent watching the small child eat and finish the meal, I clap and congratulate mum whenever she finishes what I put on the table. Truly, that sense of joy that she can finish something, even if with a lot of effort and pain, is immense.
Over lunch today, we talked a bit about my future life and plans. "It's been so unstable," I said, "The last three years or so..." It was not a complaint, more an observation, especially when I look back and realise how many times and how frequent I have been shuttling back and forth between here and Canada just to spend time with mum. I cannot blame her, or the circumstances that made my life this way. But I admitted that I am really tired, and frustrated that a lot of my plans have been put on hold, whereas I really feel like I want to accomplish something real soon. My thesis... my bar exams... finding a job and having a stable income... settling down somewhere without having to look at a suitcase every two, three months.
Mum understood, and said she felt responsible. But by no means did I want her to feel that way. "With the treatment almost over" I said, "And with the planned trip about to take place, I really hope it will all do you good." Traveling has always done wonders for mum's health, for it is when she is traveling and seeing the world that she forgets completely about her illness and her condition. A change of heart, a change of scenery and a change of the way the mind thinks and sees can go a long way to keeping the illness at bay, or at least under control. And that is the hope... that for some time, her condition can be stable, and that I will be able to focus on what I would like to accomplish, focus on living my life. Mum understood what I wanted to say, and she agreed, for as she always has said, I should not be too preoccupied with her health.
I know it is premature to think about going back home and making something out of myself, because no one knows what the future really holds. Perhaps it is even selfish to want to eagerly get back to my own life, while it is not known what will happen to mum in the coming period. Perhaps, taking care and being there for others is my duty in life. But I do often feel like I could do so much more, I feel I could use my talents and potentials to create something for myself and for the benefit of others, whereas the past couple of years have been a rough, stalling period that seem to pass by slowly, with many days spent worrying and agonising over her condition...
We shall see what the future brings... but deep inside I am anxious and eager to work and live.
Foolish me?
Am I a fool? Foolish enough to keep on waiting, keep on hoping, and keep on wondering about whether what he and I shared in the past will come back again?
Am I blinded by emotions, letting my feelings get the better of me, letting emotions take over when my rational side tells me I'm going to get myself into trouble, going to dig myself deep in pain and hurt and longing.
Why am I still hnging around, hovering around like a butterfly when in fact that flower of our relationship has blossomed and wilted?
I am a fool to keep on imagining, keep on fantasizing that that love was real, was true, was going to last when in fact his heart and eyes are wandering and seeking out other pleasures. I promised myself to be faithful, to be true to the other person, to be true and honest to myself. But I cannot expect everyone to do the same. I cannot prevent other people from enjoying fun and living on the spur of the moment, seeking sensual pleasures and indulging in temporary satisfaction.
I must free myself from the negative influences of being played with, and being led to believe in something false and uncertain. I am no angel, an perhaps I have made the same mistake of letting him believe for a long time that there was hope between us.
But now I must protect myself, free myself from all this complication, all this fear of loss, from the degrading uncertainty of being placed on hold while he keeps his options and mind open for what he wants....
I must free myself, an let go.
Am I blinded by emotions, letting my feelings get the better of me, letting emotions take over when my rational side tells me I'm going to get myself into trouble, going to dig myself deep in pain and hurt and longing.
Why am I still hnging around, hovering around like a butterfly when in fact that flower of our relationship has blossomed and wilted?
I am a fool to keep on imagining, keep on fantasizing that that love was real, was true, was going to last when in fact his heart and eyes are wandering and seeking out other pleasures. I promised myself to be faithful, to be true to the other person, to be true and honest to myself. But I cannot expect everyone to do the same. I cannot prevent other people from enjoying fun and living on the spur of the moment, seeking sensual pleasures and indulging in temporary satisfaction.
I must free myself from the negative influences of being played with, and being led to believe in something false and uncertain. I am no angel, an perhaps I have made the same mistake of letting him believe for a long time that there was hope between us.
But now I must protect myself, free myself from all this complication, all this fear of loss, from the degrading uncertainty of being placed on hold while he keeps his options and mind open for what he wants....
I must free myself, an let go.
28 May 2011
Saturday night...
It's been a day filled with agitation today, beginning with a restless night of sleep. The super typhoon that is skimming the eastern shores of the island brought vast amounts of rain throughout the day and night, heaviest during the night. Sleeping next to the window, I was woken up various times and disturbed by the constant pounding of the heavy rain and howling wind, which made me dream and dream...
And then throughout the day, I was feeling increasingly agitated being stuck at home because of the poor weather. I tried to work a bit, but was so distracted by thoughts and emotions. I maybe be physically here, but my mind escapes and wanders off to Canada, to my life and friends there, and I so long to be back there again in my own home, united with my cat. Seeing mum in pain and not eating much frustrates me too, adding to the agitation, coupled with the fact that we are living together in such a confined space for a long time, and I feel like I have no real privacy.
I know a lot of the agitation is my own doing... If I worried a little less, if I thought a little less, if I just longed a little less to be home, then I can calm my own mind. But really, like so many times before, being back here, I feel I cannot get any of my own things done because my mind is preoccupied with taking care of mum and making sure she's feeling alright.
I'm not complaining, because I chose to be here, and in times of need, and at various moments when mum tells me how much she appreciates my presence, I know it is right to be here. But, really, being here I feel somewhat like a prisoner and have little I can turn to for support or fun, whereas back home in Canada, I have friends close by, and all that nature and space around me I can loose myself in.
I know the feelings of agitation will pass, and I do feel better after a few solid hours of work and a bit of meditation. But deep down inside, I do long for and count down to the day when I leave here, and take my mum with me back to Canada....
And then throughout the day, I was feeling increasingly agitated being stuck at home because of the poor weather. I tried to work a bit, but was so distracted by thoughts and emotions. I maybe be physically here, but my mind escapes and wanders off to Canada, to my life and friends there, and I so long to be back there again in my own home, united with my cat. Seeing mum in pain and not eating much frustrates me too, adding to the agitation, coupled with the fact that we are living together in such a confined space for a long time, and I feel like I have no real privacy.
I know a lot of the agitation is my own doing... If I worried a little less, if I thought a little less, if I just longed a little less to be home, then I can calm my own mind. But really, like so many times before, being back here, I feel I cannot get any of my own things done because my mind is preoccupied with taking care of mum and making sure she's feeling alright.
I'm not complaining, because I chose to be here, and in times of need, and at various moments when mum tells me how much she appreciates my presence, I know it is right to be here. But, really, being here I feel somewhat like a prisoner and have little I can turn to for support or fun, whereas back home in Canada, I have friends close by, and all that nature and space around me I can loose myself in.
I know the feelings of agitation will pass, and I do feel better after a few solid hours of work and a bit of meditation. But deep down inside, I do long for and count down to the day when I leave here, and take my mum with me back to Canada....
27 May 2011
At the radiology ward
Treatment number 13 today. While we waited, for the first time, mum said she was getting afraid. The pain in her throat has reached a point where she doesn't want to talk too much. "Well, you can write, and tell me what you want!" I joked, even though deep down, the side-effects are worrying.
Having been to the hospital every (week)day since I arrived, I'm beginning to notice the 'regulars' who go at around the same time for their treatment. There is an elderly couple, the husband of which is doing the treatment. Both have gray hair, and look healthy (besides the obvious affliction of cancer the husband is under treatment for...). I see them everyday, and the lady would nod and smile at me every mum and I arrive in the waiting area. I look at how attentive the wife takes care of the husband, how she hands him water, pats his leg, and it is a beautiful sight. Beautiful not only because of the care and devotion on display, but also because they (seem) to still have that strong bond even in old age.
Usually around quarter past four, a man in his thirties or so would be wheeled in by a nurse and left to wait alone. He would fidget with his phone, and strapped on a pole behind him are usually bags of liquids that flow into him through thin tubes. I remember the first time I saw him, around a week ago, he was still on his feet, and dressed in a nicely pressed suit. But with every passing day, his complexion grows weaker, more tired, and his face grows darker from sadness and (seemingly) from the treatment. Nowadays he wears a blue patient's gown, and today he had a thick blanket that covered most of his body. I was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt.
A frail lady, dressed in a pink patient's gown would be rolled in on her bed at around the same time too. Her arm is so thin it looks like just bones and skin. And yet, every day, she seems to have a smile on her face, a glint in her eyes. Another lady, in her forties, or less, very skinny, would already be sitting there and waiting. She too would smile at us every day, as she anxiously waited her turn.
There was a patient who was already being treated when we arrived today, and she was in the radiation room for quiet some time, perhaps longer than usual. When the thick door opened, slowly a middle aged lady, with sunken eyes and a forlorn look, walked out in the standard pink patient's gown. She had a red bandana on, but I could tell that underneath her head was completely bald.
I turned to look at mum, and leaned in close to stroke her hand. "It's soon over, mum, just one more today, and you have the weekend off. And after that, only three more to go. It'll soon be over..."
"Thank you," she said, "Thank you for being with me..." Just then, her name was called. I replied with a pat on her back, as we slowly walked into the radiation room. I took her handbag, her glasses, her medical mask, and watched from behind a red line as the radiation specialist and nurses aided mum onto the platform. A rotating machine with mirrors and laser lights loomed over her, and the nurse gestured me to leave the premises.
I left the room, the nurses left the room, and the thick door closed behind us. The red and green warning lights came on, accompanied by a low rapid beeping. Treatment in progress.
Treatment number thirteen...
Having been to the hospital every (week)day since I arrived, I'm beginning to notice the 'regulars' who go at around the same time for their treatment. There is an elderly couple, the husband of which is doing the treatment. Both have gray hair, and look healthy (besides the obvious affliction of cancer the husband is under treatment for...). I see them everyday, and the lady would nod and smile at me every mum and I arrive in the waiting area. I look at how attentive the wife takes care of the husband, how she hands him water, pats his leg, and it is a beautiful sight. Beautiful not only because of the care and devotion on display, but also because they (seem) to still have that strong bond even in old age.
Usually around quarter past four, a man in his thirties or so would be wheeled in by a nurse and left to wait alone. He would fidget with his phone, and strapped on a pole behind him are usually bags of liquids that flow into him through thin tubes. I remember the first time I saw him, around a week ago, he was still on his feet, and dressed in a nicely pressed suit. But with every passing day, his complexion grows weaker, more tired, and his face grows darker from sadness and (seemingly) from the treatment. Nowadays he wears a blue patient's gown, and today he had a thick blanket that covered most of his body. I was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt.
A frail lady, dressed in a pink patient's gown would be rolled in on her bed at around the same time too. Her arm is so thin it looks like just bones and skin. And yet, every day, she seems to have a smile on her face, a glint in her eyes. Another lady, in her forties, or less, very skinny, would already be sitting there and waiting. She too would smile at us every day, as she anxiously waited her turn.
There was a patient who was already being treated when we arrived today, and she was in the radiation room for quiet some time, perhaps longer than usual. When the thick door opened, slowly a middle aged lady, with sunken eyes and a forlorn look, walked out in the standard pink patient's gown. She had a red bandana on, but I could tell that underneath her head was completely bald.
I turned to look at mum, and leaned in close to stroke her hand. "It's soon over, mum, just one more today, and you have the weekend off. And after that, only three more to go. It'll soon be over..."
"Thank you," she said, "Thank you for being with me..." Just then, her name was called. I replied with a pat on her back, as we slowly walked into the radiation room. I took her handbag, her glasses, her medical mask, and watched from behind a red line as the radiation specialist and nurses aided mum onto the platform. A rotating machine with mirrors and laser lights loomed over her, and the nurse gestured me to leave the premises.
I left the room, the nurses left the room, and the thick door closed behind us. The red and green warning lights came on, accompanied by a low rapid beeping. Treatment in progress.
Treatment number thirteen...
26 May 2011
thank you, dear friend
Night and day, you stalk my blog and pore over my words, feelings and thoughts...
You know when I am down, when I am crying, when I am afraid...
You know when I am up, when I am happy, when I am feeling brave and confident...
You know better than anyone else perhaps the details and little bits of my life that I hold so dear to heart...
I tell you you shouldn't be so worried or concerned about me, but you tell me you can't stop caring, or even loving...
So I want to say to you, as I have already said so many times before...
...for listening to me, for being 'there' for me even when I am not with you, for giving me comfort and making me feel like I am not alone, for letting me cry and unload when I need to...
...and for being a friend, and so much more to me.
You know when I am down, when I am crying, when I am afraid...
You know when I am up, when I am happy, when I am feeling brave and confident...
You know better than anyone else perhaps the details and little bits of my life that I hold so dear to heart...
I tell you you shouldn't be so worried or concerned about me, but you tell me you can't stop caring, or even loving...
So I want to say to you, as I have already said so many times before...
...for listening to me, for being 'there' for me even when I am not with you, for giving me comfort and making me feel like I am not alone, for letting me cry and unload when I need to...
...and for being a friend, and so much more to me.
25 May 2011
rough morning
Breakfast was a bowl of black bean soya milk, cereals, melon, watermelon and hardboiled eggs. It took over an hour for mum to finish her meal. Again seeing her in pain hurts and frustrates me so terribly...
It was the frustration that led me to burst out "why are you not eating enough?" I know she is really trying, I can only imagine how painful it is to swallow every single time. It's like a knife is cutting her throat everytime she swallows, she described it "you can never understand!"
It wasn't an argument, but I was unfairly pushing her too much. She really is trying to eat as much as she can, but just the pain is unbearable that she loses her appetite. But seeing the intense pain on her face, seeing her leave food on the plate worries me... And in a way it sort of shows that perhaps I'm not doing enough to take care I her, and that I've failed my purpose of being here...
We spoke and chatted about things, about how this illness has affected our lives. Who would have thought that half a year into retirement she would be in this state, instead of enjoying her life and celebrating her hard work throughout the years? Who would have thought that instead of enjoying life, life has become almost daily visits to the dreaded hospital and oncology ward?
I had to cry when she said sometimes she wished she would 'go' soon so as not to burden me any longer. I thought of my friend who just lost her dear, dear mother... And the thought of mum leaving without me knowing is too much to bear. "I don't want you to see me in pain or suffering... I just want to go quietly...."
Nobody knows how one will go or when, but not being able to be at her side, as I was at my dad's bedside when he slipped away from me quietly, scares me greatly. Perhaps premature, but I can feel the guilt and shame if that were ever to happen.
With tears in my eyes, I told her again that I'm sorry to push her so hard and to get frustrated if even angry when she does not eat. But can anyone imagine what it feels like when someone you care about and love so deeply has such difficulty in performing even the simplest of daily functions, like eating and drinking? "I really hope you will get better soon, and that you'll be able to get back to 'normal' life...."
She deserves it, she needs it.
As Impatient and frustrated as I am, I know deep down it takes time to recover and to heal. But the process of watching her suffer and cringe is such a grueling test that is driving me insane, and to tears.
It was the frustration that led me to burst out "why are you not eating enough?" I know she is really trying, I can only imagine how painful it is to swallow every single time. It's like a knife is cutting her throat everytime she swallows, she described it "you can never understand!"
It wasn't an argument, but I was unfairly pushing her too much. She really is trying to eat as much as she can, but just the pain is unbearable that she loses her appetite. But seeing the intense pain on her face, seeing her leave food on the plate worries me... And in a way it sort of shows that perhaps I'm not doing enough to take care I her, and that I've failed my purpose of being here...
We spoke and chatted about things, about how this illness has affected our lives. Who would have thought that half a year into retirement she would be in this state, instead of enjoying her life and celebrating her hard work throughout the years? Who would have thought that instead of enjoying life, life has become almost daily visits to the dreaded hospital and oncology ward?
I had to cry when she said sometimes she wished she would 'go' soon so as not to burden me any longer. I thought of my friend who just lost her dear, dear mother... And the thought of mum leaving without me knowing is too much to bear. "I don't want you to see me in pain or suffering... I just want to go quietly...."
Nobody knows how one will go or when, but not being able to be at her side, as I was at my dad's bedside when he slipped away from me quietly, scares me greatly. Perhaps premature, but I can feel the guilt and shame if that were ever to happen.
With tears in my eyes, I told her again that I'm sorry to push her so hard and to get frustrated if even angry when she does not eat. But can anyone imagine what it feels like when someone you care about and love so deeply has such difficulty in performing even the simplest of daily functions, like eating and drinking? "I really hope you will get better soon, and that you'll be able to get back to 'normal' life...."
She deserves it, she needs it.
As Impatient and frustrated as I am, I know deep down it takes time to recover and to heal. But the process of watching her suffer and cringe is such a grueling test that is driving me insane, and to tears.
Dinner time
Quietly we sat at the dinner table, and I watched as mum painstakingly took a tiny bite of won-ton, chewed, and swallowed. She immediately screwed up her face in pain and agony, what degree of pain or agony I could never really feel nor emphasise with. She took a few more bites, had a bit of tofu, drink a bit of soya milk, ate a few cherry tomatoes, and that was dinner.
I looked at her, annoyed for some reason, even though I have no reason or right to be annoyed. I wasn't so much annoyed at her, more at the entire situation. I would like her to eat, eat a more balanced diet so she wouldn't loose more weight, so she can gradually her strength and health in preparation for traveling. Yet, with each radiotherapy treatment, she feels her throat ache more and more, and the expression on her face whenever she swallows, even if it is just a sip of water is unbearable to watch. With each radiotherapy treatment, it is as if the planned trip is getting a little more uncertain...
"It's not that I don't want to eat," she said, "It's just it hurts a lot every time when I swallow". She put down her chopsticks, and said she knows I mean well. Softly she recounted how, as a child, she used to worry whether I ate enough, whether I was healthy, whether I was ill, whether I was cold, whether I was too warm, whether I slept well and slept enough... Now, it is I who worry about her. "It's funny isn't it, how life changes?"
Funny, yet in a way extremely, extremely moving.
I looked at her, annoyed for some reason, even though I have no reason or right to be annoyed. I wasn't so much annoyed at her, more at the entire situation. I would like her to eat, eat a more balanced diet so she wouldn't loose more weight, so she can gradually her strength and health in preparation for traveling. Yet, with each radiotherapy treatment, she feels her throat ache more and more, and the expression on her face whenever she swallows, even if it is just a sip of water is unbearable to watch. With each radiotherapy treatment, it is as if the planned trip is getting a little more uncertain...
"It's not that I don't want to eat," she said, "It's just it hurts a lot every time when I swallow". She put down her chopsticks, and said she knows I mean well. Softly she recounted how, as a child, she used to worry whether I ate enough, whether I was healthy, whether I was ill, whether I was cold, whether I was too warm, whether I slept well and slept enough... Now, it is I who worry about her. "It's funny isn't it, how life changes?"
Funny, yet in a way extremely, extremely moving.
Child...
It is cruel, just plain cruel, and if there is a God, I sometimes wonder if he is laughing...
As I left the oncology ward, I came across a bed half covered with toys. A young lady was leaning over the bed, whispering softly, "Mum is here with you, my little baby... Mum is here with you..." I walked past the bed, and everything seemed to slow as I took a look at the bed, at the mother, and at the child.
It wasn't a child... It was a baby, wrapped around with a pink blanket so tightly in a bundle that I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl or how big the baby was.
But it did not matter, what mattered was that it was a baby. A baby, a newborn who was just granted the gift of life, and yet is fighting for it, is suffering for it, is probably going to lose it soon. Harrowing...
The mother's voice softly whispered again, "Don't be afraid, my little baby, mum is here with you..."
My heart ached so, and I blinked hard to blink away the tears. I choked...
Her voice was soft gently, so very soft and gentle, yet what must she be feeling deep down inside...? What fear, what worry, what sorrow and grief to see her child in this state, lying in that bed, being in that hospital? Next to a rattle was a bottle filled with yellowish chemicals that flowed into the tiny body. Next to a puppet was a device with all sorts of tick tubing coming out of it and connected to the baby like the frightening tentacles of an octopus.
"Fare well, little child..." I whispered lowly in my mind, "Fare well, and may you be free from pain and suffering..." My hand unconsciously lifted as I waved silently at the bed with a sick baby and the mother leaning over and whispering...
As I left the oncology ward, I came across a bed half covered with toys. A young lady was leaning over the bed, whispering softly, "Mum is here with you, my little baby... Mum is here with you..." I walked past the bed, and everything seemed to slow as I took a look at the bed, at the mother, and at the child.
It wasn't a child... It was a baby, wrapped around with a pink blanket so tightly in a bundle that I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl or how big the baby was.
But it did not matter, what mattered was that it was a baby. A baby, a newborn who was just granted the gift of life, and yet is fighting for it, is suffering for it, is probably going to lose it soon. Harrowing...
The mother's voice softly whispered again, "Don't be afraid, my little baby, mum is here with you..."
My heart ached so, and I blinked hard to blink away the tears. I choked...
Her voice was soft gently, so very soft and gentle, yet what must she be feeling deep down inside...? What fear, what worry, what sorrow and grief to see her child in this state, lying in that bed, being in that hospital? Next to a rattle was a bottle filled with yellowish chemicals that flowed into the tiny body. Next to a puppet was a device with all sorts of tick tubing coming out of it and connected to the baby like the frightening tentacles of an octopus.
"Fare well, little child..." I whispered lowly in my mind, "Fare well, and may you be free from pain and suffering..." My hand unconsciously lifted as I waved silently at the bed with a sick baby and the mother leaning over and whispering...
24 May 2011
restless night
I went to sleep late, even though my eyes were already closing. Late, because I was reading and trying to stay up while waiting for a friend to call.
Eventually, close to midnight, I lay down, but had my phone by my side, just in case. I write to her, telling her not to hesitate to call at anytime, because I feel she needs someone at this moment....
Though I slept, the night was so restless, as I kept on waking up, afraid I had missed her call and slept through while she was hoping to speak to me. I dreamed... Of her, of how distraught and grief-stricken she looked, and in my dream I so wished I could just give her a long, warm embrace to comfort and console her... I think I ended up crying at one point.
Come morning, I woke up and checked my phone. She hadn't called, but she did briefly write me an email, in which she described the last few days. She hadn't slept properly for days, and feels so numb and exhausted... Crying, mourning, and having to bury her own mother after bathing her... Her naps are disturbed by images of her mother waking up....
I swallowed hard reading her email, swallowed down my tears, and could not fathom how very, very difficult ad painful a time she must be going through....
Just then mum woke up, and went into the kitchen. I followed her with my eyes, grateful that she is relatively well still, but at the same time reminded myself that one day I will sit in this apartment alone, and all I will see is a memory of mum walking into the kitchen...
Eventually, close to midnight, I lay down, but had my phone by my side, just in case. I write to her, telling her not to hesitate to call at anytime, because I feel she needs someone at this moment....
Though I slept, the night was so restless, as I kept on waking up, afraid I had missed her call and slept through while she was hoping to speak to me. I dreamed... Of her, of how distraught and grief-stricken she looked, and in my dream I so wished I could just give her a long, warm embrace to comfort and console her... I think I ended up crying at one point.
Come morning, I woke up and checked my phone. She hadn't called, but she did briefly write me an email, in which she described the last few days. She hadn't slept properly for days, and feels so numb and exhausted... Crying, mourning, and having to bury her own mother after bathing her... Her naps are disturbed by images of her mother waking up....
I swallowed hard reading her email, swallowed down my tears, and could not fathom how very, very difficult ad painful a time she must be going through....
Just then mum woke up, and went into the kitchen. I followed her with my eyes, grateful that she is relatively well still, but at the same time reminded myself that one day I will sit in this apartment alone, and all I will see is a memory of mum walking into the kitchen...
Treatment number 10
She went in a little after eleven. We left the hospital together just before five. A lot of waiting, sitting around, just waiting to be seen. I was with her most of the time, keeping her company, trying to be cheerful, even though hospitals are not very cheerful environments. I held back my tears when a child, not more than four or five, with great frailty and difficulty, slowly limped hand in hand with his mother into the oncology ward...
First was an appointment with the neurosurgeon, who last time recommended that she undergo surgery to remove the tumour in her spine. He pulled up a detailed MRI image of her body as seen from the side. I could see her esophagus, her neck, her brain, her organs... and I could see her spinal column. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven down, the doctor counted. Yes, there it is. That section appeared to be darker than the rest. He zoomed in, approached the region from different angles and used different contrasts of black and white to enhance the image.
Yes, there it is. The tumour, the 'enemy', the cause of so much suffering and pain on her part, and so much worry and tears on my part. Seeing it again I felt a heat of frustration rise within me. I wished I could tell it to please go away. I so wished it would somehow disappear and leave my mother well alone. I looked at it, and there it was. A lump, an odd-shaped ball probably no bigger than a tennis ball if it were flattened and compressed up against the spine.
Surgery is not urgent, at least not at this stage. Somehow, there is relief to be found in the doctor's words. Yet in that relief is the possibility that if the tumour grows and grows, or even spreads, if mum starts to lose control of her left arm and hand, she must immediately report to the hospital for surgery. When will that day be, if it does come? That is another great, great uncertainty of life. At least, the good news, if it can be considered such, the tumour is not inside the spinal column, as suspected before.
As we waited, we spoke about family and children. We spoke about brother and my sister-in-law, about their lightning meeting and marriage, about how they are soon to have a child. Around us were husbands and wives, couples, one person would typically be in a wheelchair as the other person pushed. I looked at them, at the tender care and love that was being provided, and wondered to myself whether if one day I should grow sick or old, I would have someone loving and caring by my side.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, and as if answering my thoughts, mum said "Whoever has you is lucky to have you..." Well, of course she would say that, she is my mother. But is there some truth in that that I also recognise? I thought about how I am taking care of my mother, how I have in the last few years tried to be there as much as possible in order to give her comfort and support. My love and affection moves even strangers to comment, and touches friends and relatives to tears. But I would do the same for anyone, and I would give myself fully to anyone who is in my life, without hesitation, without wanting anything in return. I imagined my future partner, whoever he may be, whatever he may look like, and imagined how I would be there for him, devote myself to him in so many ways. For this is me, this is who I am, and deep down I can see the beauty of this side of me.
Together we walked to the radiology ward for her next appointment. Some patients came alone, others were accompanied by their loved ones or a caregiver. I waited with mum until it was her turn, and I accompanied her into the radiation room. Before she climbed onto the platform made of cold metal, I patted her back gently, gently, gently again and again. I do not know what she is feeling inside... was she anxious? Was she afraid? Would she feel claustrophobic under that mesh-mask which has to go her entire head and her face to constrain her head from moving too much? I hoped my gentle pat would take away whatever fears she had. She lay down, the radiologist began preparing the gigantic machine, infra-red lights came on and scanned the length of mum's body as if it were a barcode at the supermarket. A number of number flashed across a screen, and the lights dimmed as I was ushered away and into the corridor...
The heavy door closed, and green and red lights came on, warning people that radiation was in progress. I counted the seconds.... ten... twenty... thirty.... thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three... each passing second felt so long, so very very long... thirty-four... thirty-five.... each passing moment seemed to last forever, and my mind imagined mum with her eyes tightly closed. Would she feel pain? Was she in great discomfort? Is her throat acting up? Is claustrophobia creeping in? .... thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight.....
....thirty-nine, and the warning lights dimmed. A few moments of rest, and the warning lights came back on again for another thirty to forty seconds burst of radiation. Targeted rays of radiation aimed at eliminating, killing, reducing the size of the tumour, at the 'enemy' I had just seen on the computer screen an hour or so earlier. It is an ongoing battle, taking place inside mum's body, against mum's body, and I am but a bystander, but someone who can only watch and who cannot control the outcome of anything at all...
The heavy door opened, and I rushed inside to see mum slowly get up from the platform. She blinked her eyes heavily, and looked tired, even though the entire procedure lasted around five minutes or so. For her, it must have seemed to last hours. She put on her shoes, nodded to the radiologist and nurse in thanks. I took by the arm and led her out of the ward, led her past dozens more patients waiting their turn, waiting and hoping that the treatment will somehow prolong life or at least make it more bearable.
Some patients were alone, others were accompanied by a loved one or a caregiver.
Mum and I walked slowly home.
First was an appointment with the neurosurgeon, who last time recommended that she undergo surgery to remove the tumour in her spine. He pulled up a detailed MRI image of her body as seen from the side. I could see her esophagus, her neck, her brain, her organs... and I could see her spinal column. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven down, the doctor counted. Yes, there it is. That section appeared to be darker than the rest. He zoomed in, approached the region from different angles and used different contrasts of black and white to enhance the image.
Yes, there it is. The tumour, the 'enemy', the cause of so much suffering and pain on her part, and so much worry and tears on my part. Seeing it again I felt a heat of frustration rise within me. I wished I could tell it to please go away. I so wished it would somehow disappear and leave my mother well alone. I looked at it, and there it was. A lump, an odd-shaped ball probably no bigger than a tennis ball if it were flattened and compressed up against the spine.
Surgery is not urgent, at least not at this stage. Somehow, there is relief to be found in the doctor's words. Yet in that relief is the possibility that if the tumour grows and grows, or even spreads, if mum starts to lose control of her left arm and hand, she must immediately report to the hospital for surgery. When will that day be, if it does come? That is another great, great uncertainty of life. At least, the good news, if it can be considered such, the tumour is not inside the spinal column, as suspected before.
As we waited, we spoke about family and children. We spoke about brother and my sister-in-law, about their lightning meeting and marriage, about how they are soon to have a child. Around us were husbands and wives, couples, one person would typically be in a wheelchair as the other person pushed. I looked at them, at the tender care and love that was being provided, and wondered to myself whether if one day I should grow sick or old, I would have someone loving and caring by my side.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, and as if answering my thoughts, mum said "Whoever has you is lucky to have you..." Well, of course she would say that, she is my mother. But is there some truth in that that I also recognise? I thought about how I am taking care of my mother, how I have in the last few years tried to be there as much as possible in order to give her comfort and support. My love and affection moves even strangers to comment, and touches friends and relatives to tears. But I would do the same for anyone, and I would give myself fully to anyone who is in my life, without hesitation, without wanting anything in return. I imagined my future partner, whoever he may be, whatever he may look like, and imagined how I would be there for him, devote myself to him in so many ways. For this is me, this is who I am, and deep down I can see the beauty of this side of me.
Together we walked to the radiology ward for her next appointment. Some patients came alone, others were accompanied by their loved ones or a caregiver. I waited with mum until it was her turn, and I accompanied her into the radiation room. Before she climbed onto the platform made of cold metal, I patted her back gently, gently, gently again and again. I do not know what she is feeling inside... was she anxious? Was she afraid? Would she feel claustrophobic under that mesh-mask which has to go her entire head and her face to constrain her head from moving too much? I hoped my gentle pat would take away whatever fears she had. She lay down, the radiologist began preparing the gigantic machine, infra-red lights came on and scanned the length of mum's body as if it were a barcode at the supermarket. A number of number flashed across a screen, and the lights dimmed as I was ushered away and into the corridor...
The heavy door closed, and green and red lights came on, warning people that radiation was in progress. I counted the seconds.... ten... twenty... thirty.... thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three... each passing second felt so long, so very very long... thirty-four... thirty-five.... each passing moment seemed to last forever, and my mind imagined mum with her eyes tightly closed. Would she feel pain? Was she in great discomfort? Is her throat acting up? Is claustrophobia creeping in? .... thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight.....
....thirty-nine, and the warning lights dimmed. A few moments of rest, and the warning lights came back on again for another thirty to forty seconds burst of radiation. Targeted rays of radiation aimed at eliminating, killing, reducing the size of the tumour, at the 'enemy' I had just seen on the computer screen an hour or so earlier. It is an ongoing battle, taking place inside mum's body, against mum's body, and I am but a bystander, but someone who can only watch and who cannot control the outcome of anything at all...
The heavy door opened, and I rushed inside to see mum slowly get up from the platform. She blinked her eyes heavily, and looked tired, even though the entire procedure lasted around five minutes or so. For her, it must have seemed to last hours. She put on her shoes, nodded to the radiologist and nurse in thanks. I took by the arm and led her out of the ward, led her past dozens more patients waiting their turn, waiting and hoping that the treatment will somehow prolong life or at least make it more bearable.
Some patients were alone, others were accompanied by a loved one or a caregiver.
Mum and I walked slowly home.
23 May 2011
Treatment number 9
Again, at close to four in the afternoon, mum and I walked slowly into the radiology ward. Another week begins, another five days of treatment. It's becoming like going to work, every single day, and the weekend she has off. Her throat ache is worsening, and now even swallowing her own saliva or drinking water hurts. As the doctor said, it will get worse before it gets better...
Often the throat ache will cause the person to lose all appetite, and in the last ten days or so, ever since she began radiotherapy, she has lost three kilograms already. It is extremely worrying, as the doctor said some people lose up to ten kilos due to the treatment. Hearing that instilled fear in me, especially as I can see how eating and drinking has become such a (literally) pain-staking affair for mum. Every meal, I try to prepare something nutritious and make sure that mum eats well. But it really, really pains me to see her grimace and close her eyes from the unbearable every time she swallows. It hurts to see her obviously in pain performing such a normal every-day function as eating and drinking. Seeing her like this I too lose my appetite.
Sometimes, the pain of swallowing is so intense that I can see sweat emerge on her forehead. I try to cook 'soft' foods, often in liquid form, and this is where the blender comes in handy. And whenever mum finishes the food I have prepared for her, there is a sigh of relief that at least for this meal she has managed to eat, and that she will slowly regain her strength, or at least maintain her health. However, for the last two days not only has she had difficulty ingesting, on occasion she has also thrown up randomly for no particular reason. All this seems to throw the planned trip with me to Canada next month into question...
At the oncology ward, almost everyone is thin to the bone. A lady today, probably not much older than my own mum, was wheeled past me on a hospital bed, her arm so frail, so thin I thought it would easily snap. A middle-aged man, whose skin complexion was dark like charcoal, most likely from long term radiotherapy, sat on a chair in the waiting room. So thin he was that he reminded me of someone from a refugee camp plagued by starvation. Mum is somewhat 'lucky' that she has not reached that state yet, but her sores and conditions still troubles me greatly.
So just after her treatment today, I made an appointment with a nutritionist, who is only in the vicinity on Mondays. Luckily we managed to see her without much waiting, and for the next quarter of an hour or so she went through mum's eating habits. The diagnosis is that she is indeed not eating enough, especially not enough proteins and carbs, and if this continues, she will lose more weight. The nutritionist advised taking protein and carbs in powder form to supplement her diet, and these can easily be added to smoothies and juices I make for her without changing much of the texture or taste.
Gratefully, I thanked the nutritionist again and again, and now I am a little more confident about taking better care of mum in the coming period.
Often the throat ache will cause the person to lose all appetite, and in the last ten days or so, ever since she began radiotherapy, she has lost three kilograms already. It is extremely worrying, as the doctor said some people lose up to ten kilos due to the treatment. Hearing that instilled fear in me, especially as I can see how eating and drinking has become such a (literally) pain-staking affair for mum. Every meal, I try to prepare something nutritious and make sure that mum eats well. But it really, really pains me to see her grimace and close her eyes from the unbearable every time she swallows. It hurts to see her obviously in pain performing such a normal every-day function as eating and drinking. Seeing her like this I too lose my appetite.
Sometimes, the pain of swallowing is so intense that I can see sweat emerge on her forehead. I try to cook 'soft' foods, often in liquid form, and this is where the blender comes in handy. And whenever mum finishes the food I have prepared for her, there is a sigh of relief that at least for this meal she has managed to eat, and that she will slowly regain her strength, or at least maintain her health. However, for the last two days not only has she had difficulty ingesting, on occasion she has also thrown up randomly for no particular reason. All this seems to throw the planned trip with me to Canada next month into question...
At the oncology ward, almost everyone is thin to the bone. A lady today, probably not much older than my own mum, was wheeled past me on a hospital bed, her arm so frail, so thin I thought it would easily snap. A middle-aged man, whose skin complexion was dark like charcoal, most likely from long term radiotherapy, sat on a chair in the waiting room. So thin he was that he reminded me of someone from a refugee camp plagued by starvation. Mum is somewhat 'lucky' that she has not reached that state yet, but her sores and conditions still troubles me greatly.
So just after her treatment today, I made an appointment with a nutritionist, who is only in the vicinity on Mondays. Luckily we managed to see her without much waiting, and for the next quarter of an hour or so she went through mum's eating habits. The diagnosis is that she is indeed not eating enough, especially not enough proteins and carbs, and if this continues, she will lose more weight. The nutritionist advised taking protein and carbs in powder form to supplement her diet, and these can easily be added to smoothies and juices I make for her without changing much of the texture or taste.
Gratefully, I thanked the nutritionist again and again, and now I am a little more confident about taking better care of mum in the coming period.
Pangs of guilt
They were such intense dreams, that woke me up numerous times during the night. Dreams that filled me with such guilt, such shame, and such fear of losing something… losing someone. Losing my friend, my ex, losing the person who knows me better than anyone ever has…
I would sleep, and wake up, disturbed and restless… I would sleep again, and wake up, again, agitated and frightened. At just after six in the morning, I finally decided to get out of bed.
The guilt and shame plagued me long after rising, and I was so nervous I could not eat much. After a few bites, I went to write an email to him, telling him how terribly sorry I feel. I am dwelling in the past, dwelling over events and actions that have already taken place, dwelling over words that have already been said. But I do feel terribly guilty about all the things I have done and said to hurt him, to push him away, when in fact, more and more, I realise I want him close to me, I want him to be part of my life.
Did I push him away? With my withholding, with my rejections over the last two years, did I push him away that he has a hard time believing how much I feel for him and care about him? He cared and loved me once, but now that feelings even if strong, has diminished. And there is doubt… doubt whether I am the right person. I contributed to that doubt, and now, being in limbo and being caught in between this twilight zone between lovers and friends, I am feeling so fearful, so guilty…
What we have is so beautiful, so very special… the friendship, the strong memories, the connectedness and levels of intimacy I have never felt toward anyone. Ours was always the perfect relationship I have longed for and heard so much about: one of love built on friendship. Or at least it could have been. And yet, I seem to have soured that relationship by trying to stifle the love that was obvious to develop when for the longest time I tried to hide to myself, hide to him, my feelings toward him.
I wrote to him, apologising for my past wrongs and faults, asking for forgiveness. I sometimes wish I could turn back time, and undo the hurt that I have caused… I sometimes dream of the beautiful possibilities, the lack of complications we would have had if I had said “YES!” when he first proposed to be with me late 2009… but I am powerless to change the past. Hence the guilt and remorse I feel at this very moment…
I hurt him, and now I am hurting back… I am hurting because the guilt and shame I feel now for having done so many things terribly wrong to hurt him. What I am feeling now, this uncertainty, this sickness from fearing I will lose someone so dear and close to my heart, this feeling of being so lost and confused; I caused him to feel that way too. And it is a feeling that is torturous and seems to know no end… This is karma coming back to haunt me, to fill me with remorse and agitation.
I apologised profusely when we spoke on the phone today. He told me I was being “silly”, and that he had also done things to hurt me. But somehow I feel as if I am the greater evil, and I have failed him as well as myself. As usual, he was understanding, and he held out his hand to virtually give me a stroke—the way he would to comfort and reassure me.
We talk and joke on the phone as if nothing has changed between us… at least from my side, it seems like we are just having another conversation like we have done every day since we became a couple. But things have changed… for otherwise, why would we be in a situation of feeling so awkward and so confused about our feelings for one another? If the friendship, the love is so strong, why are there still doubts and hesitation?
I cannot know the answer to those questions, and I could never ask him to reply, just as I could never turn back time and undo my mistakes and correct my failings… Just now, I am suffering and hurting, because of the hurt and suffering I have caused to another… and that is a terrible feeling I know now.
22 May 2011
Good night
I sprinkled a few drops of lavender oil around her pillow, something that has become a sort of ritual before she retires for the night. I fluffed the bed and pillow a bit, took away any fallen strands of hair just as mum is about to lie down.
As if in passing, she mentioned that sometimes she feels pains around her waist, and she pointed to me the general area as she talked about it. Her last body scan revealed a lump around that area. A hemangioma, or benign tumour of the blood vessels. Even if benign, with her condition, it could easily became malignant. And that thought gripped me for a moments, making me freeze. But perhaps my tiredness and sleepiness numbed my emotions, I did not think too much of it. What could I do really even if I worry and fear...?
“Thank you,” she said, “You take care of me so well…” For one split second, I had this thought flash through my mind… who is the mother, who is the child? Have the roles been reversed now that mum is older? I am not complaining, it is just an observation that is surprising, and very moving. To think that some two decades ago, I was the one being tucked into bed at night, I was the one who received a stroke on the arm and a pat on the back. And now, I am doing that as I wished mum a beautiful and peaceful sleep for the night, hoping that her pains and aches will not disturb her sleep too much this night.
Another day gone by, and time to sleep before a new one begins.
21 May 2011
Wedding
It was so uncertain, but in the end mum decided really at the very last minute to go to a wedding she was invited to. Partly, she felt she needed to because it is the big day of her best friend's daughter. Partly she felt somewhat obliged to attend, because according to tradition, she feels she should personally return the same amount of money ("wedding money" in a red envelop) that her friend gave to my mum at my brother's wedding. So she put on a dress, a beautiful black dress that had a glossy glare and delicate blue embroidery at the waistline, and quickly went to trim her hair in the morning. With a little bit of make-up, she looked really nice, and I complimented her many times, and told her she could look well, and feel well, if she just took a little effort.
I recognised that dress, and it turns out she last wore that dress at my brother's graduation back in 2003. She still fits in the dress just fine, and though her hair is thinner now, with her wig, she looks energetic and just like so many years ago.
She sat with her university friends of over thirty years, laughing, eating and enjoying the festivity and joy of two people coming together. It was beautiful seeing more out and back to 'normal' again, even though I did wonder at times whether she was suppressing her discomforts.
Mum asked me to come along, so I did, just to make sure she'll be alright, and should she need me, I can take her home. Every time I check up on her, she has a broad smile on her face. To think just yesterday she was so agitated and restless, and throwing up too. Afterwards, I reminded her again how a change of mentality and a change of scenery can really make a person feel better, physically and mentally.
Though I was very welcome, I literally just showed up at the wedding, and so I was put at a table with relatives of the bride and groom. Not knowing anyone made me feel awfully awkward, and like every Taiwanese social event, it was made worse by a mother next to me trying to ' sell' me her eligible daughter.
I was deeply moved by the celebration of love of the newly weds. The last wedding I attended was my own brother's, and there at various moments I was so moved that I shed a tear or two. The celebration of love, the uniting of two previously separate lives, the miracle of meeting, of falling in love, and of wanting to spend the rest of their lives together "till death do [they] part". It is simply so romantic, so beautiful, the stuff of fairy tales and my dream fantasy. Before I thought it was because it was so close to my own family that I was touched, but today's event proved that those feelings are not isolated, but something deeply ingrained in my heart.
As I watched videos of the new couple projected in the banqueting hall, that sense of intimacy, warmth and comfort radiated from the way they held one another's hands and bodies, the way the laughed and joked around. Of course, the videos have probably been choreographed to look picture-perfect, yet the sentiments are there, and those sentiments came alive as the couple walked down the aisle hand-in-hand and kissed one another for the longest time before all the guests.
My heart swooned with emotions, longing, and in a way, also with hurt. Like at my brother's wedding, I wondered about my own life, and when or whether I will ever experience such a beautiful wedding. Will I ever experience the joy and blessings of so many guests gathered to celebrate the beginning of starting a life with someone I love deeply and who loves me deeply too? With the recent separation from my friend, I wondered whether we can get back together, and if not, whether I will ever find someone who can come close to him, who managed to so captivate my heart and mind... How wonderful it is to build a stable home together, to be with someone and together go through life's trials and miracle moments, to hold and be held when one person is in need of comfort and support...
A song began to play as scenes from the coming-together of the newly-weds flashed across the screen.
When there's love inside (I swear I'll always be strong.) Then there's a reason why. (I'll prove to you we belong.) I'll be the wal that protects you From the wind and the rain, From the hurt and pain.
Let's make it all for one and all for love. Let the one you hold be the one you want, The one you need, 'Cause when it's all for one it's one for all. When there's someone that should know Then just let your feelings show And make it all for one and all for love.
I had to excuse myself from the table and temporarily step outside. In the corridor, were pictures of the couple next to memorabilia of their coming together. Petals of white and red roses were strewn all over the ground. I looked at it all, at the beauty, at the romance, at the colourfulness of it all, and felt a painful lump in my throat that was difficult to swallow.
20 May 2011
Sick
Our seats were barely warm, but we got up again. Mum rushed out of the restaurant, gagging and her mouth puffed from wanting to throw up. Moments earlier, from the expression on her face, I could tell she was not well, and that it pained her to be in that restaurant at that time, even though it was her who proposed we go out for dinner.
Please be well, mum... please...
I quickly told the waiter to pack everything, anxiously waiting as the rest of our order was placed into containers for me to take away. I apologised that we had to rush off like this, "She is suddenly unwell. I am sorry," I said as I paid and made for the door. I was shaking, really shaking from the entire episode, and out of worry for mum's wellbeing.
I walked into the busy street, and saw mum sitting on a bench, quietly wiping the corner of her mouth with a tissue. I patted her on the back gently, and confirmed that she threw up again, for the second time today. The first was just when she came out of her radiotherapy. One moment she was walking toward home, looking fine, the next, she was gagging on the pavement as passerbys looked on.
"Let's go home and you eat first," she said, "I'm sorry you have to see this..."
"Why are you apologising?" I said, my tone louder and more abrupt than I would have liked, "I have no appetite any more". I was frustrated, I really was. I was frustrated, angry perhaps even, and so pained deep down inside because there and then I was not sure what I could do to make her feel better. That pain is still there...
"Why are you apologising?" I said, my tone louder and more abrupt than I would have liked, "I have no appetite any more". I was frustrated, I really was. I was frustrated, angry perhaps even, and so pained deep down inside because there and then I was not sure what I could do to make her feel better. That pain is still there...
Home we went, and she lay down on the bed as I put the food out on the table to cool down. Noodle soup, two types of vegetables, and some pork ribs, on the nurse's recommendation, in order to quickly restore her white blood cell count. I handed her some water in the metal thermos she likes drinking from, and I stood by her bedside.
"I'm sorry I got angry," I said, "It's just that I feel so useless." So useless, so helpless, so hopeless that I cannot do anything other than hand her water or stroke her hand to try to alleviate her pain. She forgave me, and said she can imagine how I am feeling. Of course she does not wish to be this way, nor does she wish that I have to see all this. "It was easier when I was by myself," she said, feeling as if she is burdening me, which made me feel even worse.
I sat down on the floor by her bedside and talked for a bit. About my sister-in-law, about my nephew-to-be, about brother and his/their house, and about the Taiwanese superstition (or banality) that one is not supposed to do any renovation work on the house if a baby is coming, for it may 'injure' the newborn. Apparently, my sister-in-law's mother had been wanting to install new air conditioning units. Though already paid for, the installers have been told to wait until my sister-in-law leaves the country, even though the oppressive heat of summer is fast approaching. I think that the conversation distracted mum from her discomfort and pain, and soon she was dozing off. To a state of sleep and semi-consciousness where there is no more pain, no more discomfort...
I quickly scoffed down my own noodle soup. What normally would taste wonderful tasted so tasteless, and now I feel my stomach churning in discomfort, from indigestion and from worry. I left some food for mum to eat. I am not sure when she will eat again, but eat she must if she is to regain her health and strength.
Please be well, mum... please...
Treatment number 8
We sat in the corridor as mum waited her name to be called. A big flatscreen TV attached to the wall was muted, but the images and flashy icons of the news channel was very much alive. Mum kept on stroking her left shoulder, where the pain is returning, six hours or so after she took the medication earlier int he day. The day seems to be in six to eight hour increments, depending on how soon she feels the pain. Yellow pills, red triangular pills. Pills, pills, so many of them. I watched as she popped them, and as her face grimaced.
A few steps to our left was a man in his sixties or so, who lay there motionless with his eyes tightly closed. He had just been wheeled out of the radiation room next to us. His nose and mouth was covered by an oxygen mask, and by his bedside stood his daughter stood, who rubbed lotion on his forehead to moisten the flaky dry skin caused by the radiotherapy. "What a caring daughter you are," a nurse commented. I looked at them, and was moved by the scene.
A few moments later, the daughter walked up to the counter and demanded the name of the radiation specialist. Her tone was curt and to the point. Before I realised what was happening, she raised her voice "...do you care more about your machine or to the patient?" She looked sad, and though I did not dare to look at her, from her wavering voice, I could hear she was crying. "You told my dad not to move or otherwise he will damage the machine! As a medical specialist, your duty is to the patient, not to the machine!"
The specialist apologised profusely, and the daughter stepped aside and leaned against the wall. I still dared not look up at her face, but I sensed she was overcome with pain and grief. Her outburst was justified, and probably intensified from the prolonged agony of watching her loved one suffer and lie there in a coma state of mind. As an orderly helped the daughter wheel her father way, she turned around and quietly thanked the specialised.
My mum's name was called, and into the radiation room she went, leaving me standing in that corridor, watching as the daughter and her father turned a corner and disappeared.
A few steps to our left was a man in his sixties or so, who lay there motionless with his eyes tightly closed. He had just been wheeled out of the radiation room next to us. His nose and mouth was covered by an oxygen mask, and by his bedside stood his daughter stood, who rubbed lotion on his forehead to moisten the flaky dry skin caused by the radiotherapy. "What a caring daughter you are," a nurse commented. I looked at them, and was moved by the scene.
A few moments later, the daughter walked up to the counter and demanded the name of the radiation specialist. Her tone was curt and to the point. Before I realised what was happening, she raised her voice "...do you care more about your machine or to the patient?" She looked sad, and though I did not dare to look at her, from her wavering voice, I could hear she was crying. "You told my dad not to move or otherwise he will damage the machine! As a medical specialist, your duty is to the patient, not to the machine!"
The specialist apologised profusely, and the daughter stepped aside and leaned against the wall. I still dared not look up at her face, but I sensed she was overcome with pain and grief. Her outburst was justified, and probably intensified from the prolonged agony of watching her loved one suffer and lie there in a coma state of mind. As an orderly helped the daughter wheel her father way, she turned around and quietly thanked the specialised.
My mum's name was called, and into the radiation room she went, leaving me standing in that corridor, watching as the daughter and her father turned a corner and disappeared.
Unwell
Mum is lying on the sofa, her eyes are closed. Yet on her face is the grimace of someone in discomfort, possibly even pain. I put on soft classical music from her own easy-listening collection, Hoping the music will calm her more.
Every few minutes she'd get up, wriggle around, go sit or lie down somewhere else, trying to find a pose or place where she feels more comfortable. Every few minutes she gets restless and agonised. Lying down doesn't feel right, sitting doesn't feel right, watching tv doesn't feel right, me sitting her side trying to calm her and talking to her doesn't feel right... Nothing feels right when your body has undergone eight chemotherapy treatments over a span of close to six months, and to know that there are ten more radiotherapy treatments to go... It pains me so to see mum like this, it really really does....
She feels her throat is aching, like the mind of discomfort and dryness when you are showing the first symptoms of a flu... Only with this one, it will last for some time and get worse before it gets better. I try to comfort her in any way I can, by stroking her arm, holding her hand, by cooking what she wants or feel she can swallow without too much pain or effort. But am I doing enough? Am I ready for this, ready to see once again my own mother suffering and in pain for the coming period? Being away for two months I did not have to see or experience this first hand. It was like a selfish escape from seeing her in pain. But now I'm back here, back by her side again, and must swallow whatever pain or frustration I feel seeing mum like this deep inside, for her sake, and for my own.
I feel the exhaustion and moodiness creep slowly in and get ahold of me. Maybe it's all related to the jetlag too. At this point I really don't know if I can cope with all this again by myself... I feel my heart and mind becoming so disturbed and agitated. more so after learning that my friend's mother just suddenly passed away
My friend, the one with whom I recently was together with, kept calling this morning and texting me to make sure I'm alight. He finds out news about me and how I'm feeling thorough this very blog. I know he is very concerned about my wellbeing and my feelings, but after our separation, after he said he needed to take time out to think, I don't think it's fair for me to burden him any longer with my own problems.
I am touched, so very grateful that he still cares and thinks of me so much, and I let him know that. He said once before he cannot stop caring, but It cannot be healthy to talk or message one another so much, however much I need it, when the object of me being here is to create some distance. How can he think clearly when I am emotionally dependent on him and when he is still so willing to just call and listen?
I need to calm down and collect myself, remind myself whatever I am feeling, however agitated I am, mum has it so much worse. I must remind myself that all this will pass.... But the passing is so agonisingly slow and painful...
Every few minutes she'd get up, wriggle around, go sit or lie down somewhere else, trying to find a pose or place where she feels more comfortable. Every few minutes she gets restless and agonised. Lying down doesn't feel right, sitting doesn't feel right, watching tv doesn't feel right, me sitting her side trying to calm her and talking to her doesn't feel right... Nothing feels right when your body has undergone eight chemotherapy treatments over a span of close to six months, and to know that there are ten more radiotherapy treatments to go... It pains me so to see mum like this, it really really does....
She feels her throat is aching, like the mind of discomfort and dryness when you are showing the first symptoms of a flu... Only with this one, it will last for some time and get worse before it gets better. I try to comfort her in any way I can, by stroking her arm, holding her hand, by cooking what she wants or feel she can swallow without too much pain or effort. But am I doing enough? Am I ready for this, ready to see once again my own mother suffering and in pain for the coming period? Being away for two months I did not have to see or experience this first hand. It was like a selfish escape from seeing her in pain. But now I'm back here, back by her side again, and must swallow whatever pain or frustration I feel seeing mum like this deep inside, for her sake, and for my own.
I feel the exhaustion and moodiness creep slowly in and get ahold of me. Maybe it's all related to the jetlag too. At this point I really don't know if I can cope with all this again by myself... I feel my heart and mind becoming so disturbed and agitated. more so after learning that my friend's mother just suddenly passed away
My friend, the one with whom I recently was together with, kept calling this morning and texting me to make sure I'm alight. He finds out news about me and how I'm feeling thorough this very blog. I know he is very concerned about my wellbeing and my feelings, but after our separation, after he said he needed to take time out to think, I don't think it's fair for me to burden him any longer with my own problems.
I am touched, so very grateful that he still cares and thinks of me so much, and I let him know that. He said once before he cannot stop caring, but It cannot be healthy to talk or message one another so much, however much I need it, when the object of me being here is to create some distance. How can he think clearly when I am emotionally dependent on him and when he is still so willing to just call and listen?
I need to calm down and collect myself, remind myself whatever I am feeling, however agitated I am, mum has it so much worse. I must remind myself that all this will pass.... But the passing is so agonisingly slow and painful...
19 May 2011
A dieu
I gave mum a hug, and I could not hold back my tears. Mum was right in front of me, I could feel her body, feel her warmth, hear her breathing and her voice. Mum was right here with me, but to my great shock reading her mail a few moments earlier, my friend's mum is no longer with her.
I wiped the tears, but more seemed to follow. My mum comforted me, told me that life is only so much... there is life, and there is death. We all must leave this world one day. She herself must have been impacted by seeing me cry. Was I crying for my friend, for the loss of a mother I have had the privilege to hear so much about, but have never met... or was I selfishly crying for myself, crying out of fear, out of the realisation that one day I too will lose my mother? I have this intense, intense feeling bottled inside, and I am not sure how to release it...
I do not know, cannot possibly imagine how my friend, so far away is feeling right now. Over our last few email exchanges, she expressed her great fear and pain about slowly losing her mum, the rock and the core of her life. And now she has lost that, and worse still, she was not there when her mum left this world. What sense of loss, what sense of guilt, pain, hurt and deep, deep sorrow my friend must feel!
How she must ache so terribly inside... how I wish I knew what I could write to her to comfort and console her or at least take away part of her pain and sorrow...
I accompanied mum for a jog at the sports field close to our house. I was solemn and quiet, my mind drifting away to my friend and her family. At one point mum said she wanted to rest, so I went off jogging by myself. From a distance I looked back saw mum, saw her slim, frail figure sitting there in the shade. She had her left arm held upward to alleviate the ache and sore she is increasingly feeling. Mum was there, in the distance, and I could see her. But one day, she will no longer be there, she will no longer sit there, and I can no longer see her, even from a distance.
And that pains me greatly...
I cry as I write this... again confused whether I am crying over my own fears, or over my friend's great loss. I have never met her mum, but little by little, from the way my friend has been describing her in the past three years, I have this image of this kind, gentle lady who worked so hard and endured hardship throughout her life to raise so many children. I have this image of the pain and suffering she has been enduring in the past decade or so battling the cruel illness of cancer... Now that battle is lost, and she has left this world.
I will never know this brave soul and caring, loving mother. I do not even know her name. I will never see her face. Nor will I be able to write to her, as I have wanted to do so many times before, to encourage her and to let her know that somewhere out there, someone is thinking of her and wishing her well.
But she has been in my life, in my mind, indirectly through the words and narrations of my friend...
Rest in peace, kind, gentle soul... may you finally rest without pain or suffering, and may you forever protect and watch over the beautiful and fine daughter you have brought into this world...
Treatment number 7
"You brought a bodyguard today?" the nurse joked as we stepped into the radiotherapy room.
"Yes," mum replied, "All the way from Canada!" She sounded proud and happy that I was there with her.
At the entrance was a wall with a scenery of majestic mountains, which brought life to the otherwise sterile room. I turned a corner, and saw mum climbing onto an adjustable platform. Behind it, a massive contraption made of shiny metal, with two parts protruding out of the front like outstretched arms. The body of the machine had a monitor of some sort, dotted with figures and what looked like a bulls-eye. By now, mum was on her back, and the nurse fitted her custom-made protector guard to protect her head and face from excess radiation. Like a friend described, it looked like an iron mask, and according to her, being confined under that mask and being unable to move was one of the most excruciating experience she has ever had.
The nurse motioned to me to leave the room, and everyone left except for mum who lay on the table. The thick door slowly closed, and a red light flashed above it to warn others about the risk of radiation exposure and to keep away.
I watched from a few steps away at the tightly shut door. I stood there for a few moments, wondering about what must be going through mum's mind at the time. She has done this five times already, and she looked like it was nothing daunting or new to her. Perhaps, as my friend assured me, radiotherapy is less strenuous on the body compared to chemo therapy. But, as I later learned from talking to the nurse, there are still side-effects. Constant feeling of thirst and dryness of the mouth, throat aches, pain in swallowing, and if the radiated area is exposed to sunlight, it will make the skin blacken.
Mum has already begun to complain of pain in swallowing and the thirst. The nurse said that it will get worse as the treatment continues, and told me a few things about what she should eat. Hot foods can irritate the throat further, so better to have cooled foods, and soft foods to ease swallowing and alleviate pain. My friend said for a while she ate lots of juices and soups, and blended just about everything, including meat. Nutritional beverages exist that can act as a meal replacement and contain all the essential nutrients necessary for the patient. What is important is to continue eating, so as not to loose too much weight.
The door slowly opened, and I followed the nurse into the room. Mum was sat up and removed her mask slowly. She looked a little tired, but looked relieved that it was over. The whole procedure must have lasted five minutes, not much more. But did it feel like an eternity for her, strapped and confined under that mask and unable to move, while machines and lights whirled above your body?
Six treatments down... ten more to go.
"Yes," mum replied, "All the way from Canada!" She sounded proud and happy that I was there with her.
At the entrance was a wall with a scenery of majestic mountains, which brought life to the otherwise sterile room. I turned a corner, and saw mum climbing onto an adjustable platform. Behind it, a massive contraption made of shiny metal, with two parts protruding out of the front like outstretched arms. The body of the machine had a monitor of some sort, dotted with figures and what looked like a bulls-eye. By now, mum was on her back, and the nurse fitted her custom-made protector guard to protect her head and face from excess radiation. Like a friend described, it looked like an iron mask, and according to her, being confined under that mask and being unable to move was one of the most excruciating experience she has ever had.
The nurse motioned to me to leave the room, and everyone left except for mum who lay on the table. The thick door slowly closed, and a red light flashed above it to warn others about the risk of radiation exposure and to keep away.
I watched from a few steps away at the tightly shut door. I stood there for a few moments, wondering about what must be going through mum's mind at the time. She has done this five times already, and she looked like it was nothing daunting or new to her. Perhaps, as my friend assured me, radiotherapy is less strenuous on the body compared to chemo therapy. But, as I later learned from talking to the nurse, there are still side-effects. Constant feeling of thirst and dryness of the mouth, throat aches, pain in swallowing, and if the radiated area is exposed to sunlight, it will make the skin blacken.
Mum has already begun to complain of pain in swallowing and the thirst. The nurse said that it will get worse as the treatment continues, and told me a few things about what she should eat. Hot foods can irritate the throat further, so better to have cooled foods, and soft foods to ease swallowing and alleviate pain. My friend said for a while she ate lots of juices and soups, and blended just about everything, including meat. Nutritional beverages exist that can act as a meal replacement and contain all the essential nutrients necessary for the patient. What is important is to continue eating, so as not to loose too much weight.
The door slowly opened, and I followed the nurse into the room. Mum was sat up and removed her mask slowly. She looked a little tired, but looked relieved that it was over. The whole procedure must have lasted five minutes, not much more. But did it feel like an eternity for her, strapped and confined under that mask and unable to move, while machines and lights whirled above your body?
Six treatments down... ten more to go.
18 May 2011
First morning
What is wrong with me that I cannot shake off thoughts of him? I promise myself I shouldn't think of him, should try to focus on what is important in my life at this moment, and yet, my thoughts, my mind naturally seem to drift to him.
Exhausted from the trip, I went to bed at half past ten last night. I fell asleep pretty quickly, and woke up a couple of hours later to the sound of mum's groaning from her bedroom. The radiotherapy, combined with her chemotherapy just two days ago, is beginning to have painful side-effects on her throat. It feels constantly dry, she says, and she feels pain every time she swallows. She told me how affected she is every time she has to go to the hospital, and for a week now, it has been every single day. Just seeing those other patients, just hearing their groans of agony, or seeing their sad, hapless faces makes her sad. The sore in her throat will get worse before it gets better, especially as her radiotherapy progresses in the next two weeks. I spent some time comforting her, gave her a bottle of water to drink from, and went back to lie down more.
My thoughts should be with mum, for that is the reason I am here... and yet, I drift back to Canada, drift back to those beautiful memories of him and I, to those passionate moments in bed. I miss him dearly, I know, more than I would like to know or admit, and I am scared of feeling this way.
Last night, we exchange a skype call after he wrote a brief email to me, telling me about the emptiness he feels inside. I feel the same way... this emptiness like there is something missing from my life, and I long for that so badly. I told him, however much I would like to contact him, message him and video-call him, I would feel terribly guilty for doing that, especially as I feel like I'm impinging on his time to reflect, and on his time to study. Despite all this, he told me, again and again, I am free to call him anytime to talk about things, anything, because he still cares about (and loves?) me deeply.
It will be difficult the next few weeks. It will be very difficult, and I just hope I have the strength in me to continue without being so torn by my feelings towards him, and my willingness to be here fully for my mum as she undergoes her grueling treatments.
Exhausted from the trip, I went to bed at half past ten last night. I fell asleep pretty quickly, and woke up a couple of hours later to the sound of mum's groaning from her bedroom. The radiotherapy, combined with her chemotherapy just two days ago, is beginning to have painful side-effects on her throat. It feels constantly dry, she says, and she feels pain every time she swallows. She told me how affected she is every time she has to go to the hospital, and for a week now, it has been every single day. Just seeing those other patients, just hearing their groans of agony, or seeing their sad, hapless faces makes her sad. The sore in her throat will get worse before it gets better, especially as her radiotherapy progresses in the next two weeks. I spent some time comforting her, gave her a bottle of water to drink from, and went back to lie down more.
My thoughts should be with mum, for that is the reason I am here... and yet, I drift back to Canada, drift back to those beautiful memories of him and I, to those passionate moments in bed. I miss him dearly, I know, more than I would like to know or admit, and I am scared of feeling this way.
Last night, we exchange a skype call after he wrote a brief email to me, telling me about the emptiness he feels inside. I feel the same way... this emptiness like there is something missing from my life, and I long for that so badly. I told him, however much I would like to contact him, message him and video-call him, I would feel terribly guilty for doing that, especially as I feel like I'm impinging on his time to reflect, and on his time to study. Despite all this, he told me, again and again, I am free to call him anytime to talk about things, anything, because he still cares about (and loves?) me deeply.
It will be difficult the next few weeks. It will be very difficult, and I just hope I have the strength in me to continue without being so torn by my feelings towards him, and my willingness to be here fully for my mum as she undergoes her grueling treatments.
Touch down at TPE
The plane touched down with a thump, the flaps lifted and the engines roared as the wheels screeched to decelerate.
I don't understand what triggered the flow of emotions, and I was suddenly close to tears. Landed in Taiwan, and it feels so bizarre yet familiar to be back here just two months or so after I left.
Perhaps the emotions are triggered by the fact that soon I will be able to see and hug mum again, and that I'll see for myself how the last two months has aged and changed her. And in a way I am afraid of seeing what adverse effects her treatment may have had on her... Afraid to see her in pain, afraid to see her suffering.
Or perhaps, quite simply, the overwhelming emotions are triggered by the combination of lack of quality sleep, queasiness from my reoccurring stomach upset, and that strange, strange sense of feeling out of place after having crossed so many time zones and been to different locations all within twenty-four hours. The exhaustion is enough to make drain the strongest of souls...
Whatever the reason for that emotional encounter upon landing, the 'long' departed son has returned once again.
I don't understand what triggered the flow of emotions, and I was suddenly close to tears. Landed in Taiwan, and it feels so bizarre yet familiar to be back here just two months or so after I left.
Perhaps the emotions are triggered by the fact that soon I will be able to see and hug mum again, and that I'll see for myself how the last two months has aged and changed her. And in a way I am afraid of seeing what adverse effects her treatment may have had on her... Afraid to see her in pain, afraid to see her suffering.
Or perhaps, quite simply, the overwhelming emotions are triggered by the combination of lack of quality sleep, queasiness from my reoccurring stomach upset, and that strange, strange sense of feeling out of place after having crossed so many time zones and been to different locations all within twenty-four hours. The exhaustion is enough to make drain the strongest of souls...
Whatever the reason for that emotional encounter upon landing, the 'long' departed son has returned once again.
17 May 2011
At YUL
Last night, he came over and we had a predeparture dinner and get-together. However strange it may be, even after splitting, we are still great friends, and the circumstances surrounding our abrupt end are such that really it is no one particular person's fault.
I am glad that we are both very reasonable and rational people, who can talk things through calmly. Even though there are moments when we break down in tears, we know that we are important in each others lives, and that we care and love one another deeply. I realise this again, as I was doing the dishes and somehow the tears just got ahold of me...
I have been so emotional in the last two days, partly because of mum's state of health, partly because of the breakup, partly because of having to leave my home and zone of comfort, and partly because this friend whose mum is seriously ill wrote to me a few hours earlier telling me how so distraught and hurt and in pain she feels because her mum does not have much longer to live. As the tap water ran over the dishes, washing away the stains and bits of food, I felt I needed cleansing too, and I just sobbed.
I felt so afraid, again, of losing people, losing the creature comforts that I have so grown accustomed to as I have built up in life, that when I realise that I am so vunerable when they start slipping through my fingers.
Mum's vicarious condition, a relationship I had thought and so hoped would last, and the hopes of staying put in Canada for a while to finally get something done so I don't feel utterly useless and like a failure... The tears fell and fell, triggered by fears of the unknown, of the uncertainties. I whimpered and told him how much I treasure our relationship, our love, not really because I wanted to influence his opinion of me, of us, but because he needs to know how I feel, and how much I have attached myself to him and all he has brought to my life. He hugged me, and perhaps hearing my words, he too began to cry, and I felt his warm, warm tears on the back of my shirt...
We both agree and everything happened so quickly, within a span of a couple of days, that it seems so surreal. At one point he told me something that really really touched me, something he had said to me before. I deserve the best, he said, and at this moment he feels he cannot fully give me a hundred percent. Even if it's ninety percent, ninety-nine percent, it's still not giving ne fully... And he feels that is not enough.
I'm not sure whether he will ever feel sure about me, whether he ever feel he can give himself to me without doubts or reaervations. At this point I just have to make do and make peace with the fact that he cares deeply for me, and has cared perhaps ever since we met. Perhaps I am a fool to still hang around him, to be attached to him and the warmth and comfort he brings me, and has brought me for the last two years. But there is such a strong, solid bond between us that cannot easily be severed.
As the evening progressee, he gave me a card, and his favourite teddy bear to take away... A symbol of his burning love and care, he called it. I was so touched when I saw just the grey coat of the little bear Billy. And immediately my tears fell and fell as I sobbed... Out of gratitude, out of being so moved that he would willingly part with his best (animal) friend and trust me with him, and out of also confusion what it all means to take the little bear away when we are no longer a couple... He was adamant I take Billy away, so Billy can take care of me, look after me when he is not physically next to me. As always, our evening together ended with long talks in bed, and long passionate embraces, and intimacy.
He insisted in going to the airport with me, even though we had both slept only three, four hours. We held one another's hand in the taxi there, and just before seeing me off, we sat on a bench away from the crowd, and listened to music. I played and sang along to an all time favorite of mine...
"...so what happens now?
-Another suitcase in another hall...
... So what happens now?
- Take your picture off another wall...
Where am I going to?
- you'll get by you always have before...
Where am I going to?
- don't ask any more..."
I used to listen to this song over and over again as a teenager, for it describes well my loneliness soul, my wandering heart and my insecurities at being somewhat abandoned and left to fend for myself since a young age. At this moment in my life, flying back and forth, and having just emerged from a relationship which brought me so much happiness and warmth, the words to that song resonate deeply in my heart.
My flight was delayed for an hour, and he kept on calling me to make sure I was alright and concerned about making my flight connections in Calgary and in Narita. This is how he is, how he cares, whether in his role as friend or lover, he does care about my well-being. And that is beautiful.
As I was about to board, I spoke to mum and said I'm be home in a day. She sounded weak the moment she picked up the phone, and it was because she had just returned from another chemotherapy session, while at the same time did a radiotherapy treatment. She sounded weak, and at that point I told myself I must be strong. At that point I realise what my main purpose was, why I was at the airport and about to board the plane. To give mum the strength and hope she needs, to care and give her the love she deserves, and to let her know that despite all the strenuous treatments, her sores and pains, I am there by her side, and I hope to take her with me back to Canada when she feels well enough.
I boarded the plane, with Billy smiling and sitting there in my bag. I silently wished goodbye and happiness to Montreal, to all the trees, to all the people, to my cat, to my friend, and hoped that I would return soon.
As uncertain as I felt and have been feeling over the last couple of days, there was a moment of clarity, and I was not sad or happiness. I just was, and that is a tranquil state of mind and being...
I am glad that we are both very reasonable and rational people, who can talk things through calmly. Even though there are moments when we break down in tears, we know that we are important in each others lives, and that we care and love one another deeply. I realise this again, as I was doing the dishes and somehow the tears just got ahold of me...
I have been so emotional in the last two days, partly because of mum's state of health, partly because of the breakup, partly because of having to leave my home and zone of comfort, and partly because this friend whose mum is seriously ill wrote to me a few hours earlier telling me how so distraught and hurt and in pain she feels because her mum does not have much longer to live. As the tap water ran over the dishes, washing away the stains and bits of food, I felt I needed cleansing too, and I just sobbed.
I felt so afraid, again, of losing people, losing the creature comforts that I have so grown accustomed to as I have built up in life, that when I realise that I am so vunerable when they start slipping through my fingers.
Mum's vicarious condition, a relationship I had thought and so hoped would last, and the hopes of staying put in Canada for a while to finally get something done so I don't feel utterly useless and like a failure... The tears fell and fell, triggered by fears of the unknown, of the uncertainties. I whimpered and told him how much I treasure our relationship, our love, not really because I wanted to influence his opinion of me, of us, but because he needs to know how I feel, and how much I have attached myself to him and all he has brought to my life. He hugged me, and perhaps hearing my words, he too began to cry, and I felt his warm, warm tears on the back of my shirt...
We both agree and everything happened so quickly, within a span of a couple of days, that it seems so surreal. At one point he told me something that really really touched me, something he had said to me before. I deserve the best, he said, and at this moment he feels he cannot fully give me a hundred percent. Even if it's ninety percent, ninety-nine percent, it's still not giving ne fully... And he feels that is not enough.
I'm not sure whether he will ever feel sure about me, whether he ever feel he can give himself to me without doubts or reaervations. At this point I just have to make do and make peace with the fact that he cares deeply for me, and has cared perhaps ever since we met. Perhaps I am a fool to still hang around him, to be attached to him and the warmth and comfort he brings me, and has brought me for the last two years. But there is such a strong, solid bond between us that cannot easily be severed.
As the evening progressee, he gave me a card, and his favourite teddy bear to take away... A symbol of his burning love and care, he called it. I was so touched when I saw just the grey coat of the little bear Billy. And immediately my tears fell and fell as I sobbed... Out of gratitude, out of being so moved that he would willingly part with his best (animal) friend and trust me with him, and out of also confusion what it all means to take the little bear away when we are no longer a couple... He was adamant I take Billy away, so Billy can take care of me, look after me when he is not physically next to me. As always, our evening together ended with long talks in bed, and long passionate embraces, and intimacy.
He insisted in going to the airport with me, even though we had both slept only three, four hours. We held one another's hand in the taxi there, and just before seeing me off, we sat on a bench away from the crowd, and listened to music. I played and sang along to an all time favorite of mine...
"...so what happens now?
-Another suitcase in another hall...
... So what happens now?
- Take your picture off another wall...
Where am I going to?
- you'll get by you always have before...
Where am I going to?
- don't ask any more..."
I used to listen to this song over and over again as a teenager, for it describes well my loneliness soul, my wandering heart and my insecurities at being somewhat abandoned and left to fend for myself since a young age. At this moment in my life, flying back and forth, and having just emerged from a relationship which brought me so much happiness and warmth, the words to that song resonate deeply in my heart.
My flight was delayed for an hour, and he kept on calling me to make sure I was alright and concerned about making my flight connections in Calgary and in Narita. This is how he is, how he cares, whether in his role as friend or lover, he does care about my well-being. And that is beautiful.
As I was about to board, I spoke to mum and said I'm be home in a day. She sounded weak the moment she picked up the phone, and it was because she had just returned from another chemotherapy session, while at the same time did a radiotherapy treatment. She sounded weak, and at that point I told myself I must be strong. At that point I realise what my main purpose was, why I was at the airport and about to board the plane. To give mum the strength and hope she needs, to care and give her the love she deserves, and to let her know that despite all the strenuous treatments, her sores and pains, I am there by her side, and I hope to take her with me back to Canada when she feels well enough.
I boarded the plane, with Billy smiling and sitting there in my bag. I silently wished goodbye and happiness to Montreal, to all the trees, to all the people, to my cat, to my friend, and hoped that I would return soon.
As uncertain as I felt and have been feeling over the last couple of days, there was a moment of clarity, and I was not sad or happiness. I just was, and that is a tranquil state of mind and being...
16 May 2011
Difficult to resist
I told myself when the upheaval between him and I began, I would try to distance myself from him, from us. I am so afraid of being too drawn, too stuck I cannot pull myself free, and thereby continue to hurt myself, and also hurt him. Perhaps I have already reached that point.
With less than a day till I leave, I woke up this morning feeling suddenly very vulnerable, very emotional. I will really be gone tomorrow, just like that, and like always before a long trip, I get so apprehensive and scared by the uncertainty of when I will return again. On my mind is how I will deal with him... I am tempted, for our sake, for his sake, and for my own sake, not to have too much contact with him while I am away. We tried that back in December, when we went through a similar phase of soul-searching and "distance and time apart". But it didn't work out well, as we called one another everyday, texted regularly, and I wrote messages-- even though I was always so cautious that everything was counter to the original idea of needing time to reflect on his (and my) real feelings. And even in the last two days, we have been calling, texting (though with less frequency compared to before) one another, as if we were still together as a couple.
Look at me, thinking and torturing myself about something which shouldn't be so convoluted and complicated (but nonetheless seems so important...), when mum on the phone earlier just said that her radiotherapy treatment will be extended from the original 12 to 16 sessions. I feel a conflict in my mind, like I need to juggle my priorities and concerns again. As a friend wrote to me to wish me well, she said I shouldn't think too much about the relationship issue, and I should focus all my energy and positivity to be there for mum's treatment and recovery.
I hope I can find the strength to do exactly that...
With less than a day till I leave, I woke up this morning feeling suddenly very vulnerable, very emotional. I will really be gone tomorrow, just like that, and like always before a long trip, I get so apprehensive and scared by the uncertainty of when I will return again. On my mind is how I will deal with him... I am tempted, for our sake, for his sake, and for my own sake, not to have too much contact with him while I am away. We tried that back in December, when we went through a similar phase of soul-searching and "distance and time apart". But it didn't work out well, as we called one another everyday, texted regularly, and I wrote messages-- even though I was always so cautious that everything was counter to the original idea of needing time to reflect on his (and my) real feelings. And even in the last two days, we have been calling, texting (though with less frequency compared to before) one another, as if we were still together as a couple.
Look at me, thinking and torturing myself about something which shouldn't be so convoluted and complicated (but nonetheless seems so important...), when mum on the phone earlier just said that her radiotherapy treatment will be extended from the original 12 to 16 sessions. I feel a conflict in my mind, like I need to juggle my priorities and concerns again. As a friend wrote to me to wish me well, she said I shouldn't think too much about the relationship issue, and I should focus all my energy and positivity to be there for mum's treatment and recovery.
I hope I can find the strength to do exactly that...
15 May 2011
Tears of no reason
I popped by a neighbour/friend's house to drop the keys to my apartment. The friend was not home, but her mum, someone who has been like a 'big' mother to a bunch of us friends in the neighbourhood, was.
I told the auntie my decision to suddenly go home, citing my worries about mum's latest chemo. She looked at me with concern and care. "You are so filial and caring to your mother..."
At that point I could hardly contain my tears. I had to turn away and swallow so hard to sound normal when I spoke again. But the waver in my voice betrayed my feelings, betrayed the worries of a child who is again thrust into confusion and fear by the unstable conditions surrounding his mother's health...
The auntie went into the kitchen, and took out some food and soup which she had made and wanted to give me. I was touched, so touched to the heart by this yet another act of giving and generosity, that I was almost bursting with tears. Almost. I thanked her deeply, my gratitude knowing no boundaries, not only toward her, but also toward my friend (who was not there), and toward my other friends who are so willing to lend a helping hand whenever I am away. She told me to call whenever I need anything, even if it is just to talk, she can be there to listen.
I took the food, though it was cold having been in the fridge a little while, it felt heartwarming to the touch. I thanked her, thanked her again, and gave her a hug. I could no longer speak, and I turned to walk away. Just before closing the door, I thanked her again, and briefly looked at her. Somehow, my own emotions, the tears on the rim of my eyes made her eyes moist and red.
"Goodbye", I said, "And thank you..."
I walked home, the whole world a watery blur, my heart aching, my breathing laboured, and my mind wondering when I will see her again, and how I could possibly return her continuous acts of kindness and care...
I told the auntie my decision to suddenly go home, citing my worries about mum's latest chemo. She looked at me with concern and care. "You are so filial and caring to your mother..."
At that point I could hardly contain my tears. I had to turn away and swallow so hard to sound normal when I spoke again. But the waver in my voice betrayed my feelings, betrayed the worries of a child who is again thrust into confusion and fear by the unstable conditions surrounding his mother's health...
The auntie went into the kitchen, and took out some food and soup which she had made and wanted to give me. I was touched, so touched to the heart by this yet another act of giving and generosity, that I was almost bursting with tears. Almost. I thanked her deeply, my gratitude knowing no boundaries, not only toward her, but also toward my friend (who was not there), and toward my other friends who are so willing to lend a helping hand whenever I am away. She told me to call whenever I need anything, even if it is just to talk, she can be there to listen.
I took the food, though it was cold having been in the fridge a little while, it felt heartwarming to the touch. I thanked her, thanked her again, and gave her a hug. I could no longer speak, and I turned to walk away. Just before closing the door, I thanked her again, and briefly looked at her. Somehow, my own emotions, the tears on the rim of my eyes made her eyes moist and red.
"Goodbye", I said, "And thank you..."
I walked home, the whole world a watery blur, my heart aching, my breathing laboured, and my mind wondering when I will see her again, and how I could possibly return her continuous acts of kindness and care...
Decision, decision
I woke up this morning, having not slept much, but feeling somewhat rejuvenated and ready. I spoke to mum, and despite hesitation, despite not wanting to make her worry, I told her about troubles my boyfriend and I have been having. She was extremely understanding, and concerned, but she was not judgmental and did not reject me. She is my mother, and she cares for me, as I do for her and her well-being.
In the end, I told her I would like to go home. It has been on my mind for sometime already, especially since she recently began 12 sessions of radiotherapy and is scheduled to have another chemo in the coming week. I am afraid of how she will react to all this , especially as she complained recently of how week she has been feeling... This, coupled with the upheaval in my relationship, is enough reason to get away for a while.
I started writing to him, and an hour or so later, was a long email. Not of blame, not of animosity or pain... I was surprisingly collected, calm, and I said it is for the best that I go away for some time, so that he can have the time and space to think, reflect. I myself need that space and time apart and away from all those memories, all the little notes and items that remind me of us.
I was not angry in my tone, and the words simply flowed out of my fingers so smoothly and quickly. I said I wished him well, and hoped he would find some clarity of thought and that he can focus on goals he has set himself. I wrote not in any way to influence his decision or whatever outcome may result from this time away and apart from one another. He is confused, lost, as am I. And it does not help that we are close to one another, and have the temptation to be and sleep with one another. I apologised for my own failing, for hurting him in the past, for being complicated and difficult to decipher as a person, for having held back my feelings for him, and for contributing to the complications we find ourselves in today.
Most of all, I wished him well, told him I really appreciate all he has offered me, given me, as friend or lover, friend and lover. Because really, he has made my life so much fuller and happier since he entered into it. He filled me with care, with love, and he showed me that I can love, and that I can give myself to someone completely. I feel he can, and would like him to, play a role in my life, but at this stage, am just uncertain what role that would be.
So in two days, I will be gone, away from here, away from all this... It is a sudden, abrupt decision, and the consequences have not really fully sunk in yet. I do worry about my cat, and how troubling it will all be to my friends to leave her behind again... We have been bonding so well, she has been so patient and caring and loving with me, but I must leave her again... I feel so guilty, so ashamed of bringing her into my life, and not being able to be there for her fully.
But this trip, sudden and last-minute (even though it was booked randomly three months ago) I feel is necessary for my mum's sake, and for my own sake and peace of mind.
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