I walked my cousins to their school and said goodbye. The past few days I've been staying with them and spending some time together. Brief, sweet moments, playing games, catching up.
It's been almost two years since the oldest of the two arrived in Canada. In his room, which I've been sharing, I can see the soft toy beaver I gave him when he first landed in the country. Inside a little pouch I put a five cent coin, which bears the image of a beaver, minted in 2009, the year he arrived. And on his desk I saw the postcard I gave him two summers ago. A few welcoming words, and on the back of the card a colourful map of his new home land. It's the little things that say a lot, and I think he appreciates the little gifts and notes I've given him over the two years.
Though he has a younger brother, I'm a bit more concerned about the older one. He reminds me somewhat of me, kind of closed off, quiet, and bit too much of a thinker and bit too mature for his age (15 now). I guess I see my youth in him, somewhat. Perhaps it's projecting my own life and thoughts onto his life, but he doesn't seem happy here, and has a tough time adjusting. Who can blame him, especially being sent abroad, being uprooted from his familiar surroundings and transplanted to a whole new environment and surroundings. It's intimidating, alienating and can really leave a deep impression, of the negative kind, on anyone, especially a teenager just beginning to find himself in the world.
So at night, lying next to him, we chat and talk, about his life, about school, about his worries and fears. I've always wanted to be an older brother, to have someone I can take care of and help, and with him I feel that role taking root.
We said goodbye, and told them as they crossed the road to their high school. "See you in Montreal," I said. Hopefully, if things work out, the next time I see them, I can show them more of what this vast country has to offer.
16 June 2011
Tiredness
What's wrong now? I should be happy that I'm here with mum, in Canada, but my mind is distracted, I'm not completely here. My mind plays tricks on me, fools me, makes me fantasise and dream ridiculous illusions of moments and people who are not real.
I'm so very tired, and it feels like it's more than just the jetlag. Last time I made this very journey, I was tired and moody for two weekS. Am I feeling the same now? Or can it be that I'm simply exhausted being with mum too long, having to take care of her every need, having to worry about her health and wellbeing?
I need some good sleep...
I'm so very tired, and it feels like it's more than just the jetlag. Last time I made this very journey, I was tired and moody for two weekS. Am I feeling the same now? Or can it be that I'm simply exhausted being with mum too long, having to take care of her every need, having to worry about her health and wellbeing?
I need some good sleep...
14 June 2011
Shadows
On board the Coastal Celebration bound for Tsawassen, BC. Spent the last two days in Victoria with mum. Overall a pleasant trip, but it's strange to be back there again, especially knowing that the last time I was there was with my friend.
It's been three months since, and it feels somewhat bizarre to be back so soon. the weather is of course much different, but also the mood, or at least my mood. Who would have thought so many things could happen in just a season, from coming together to separating? But that is life... It never is the way you imagine it, it rarely is the way you would like it, for better or for worse.
Wandering through the same streets, the same shops, and even staying at the same hotel, I feel myself trying to resist memories. Trying to exorcise a very recent past that was beautiful but, for one reason or another, had to end so abruptly. I find myself trying to be in the moment with mum. But it is difficult, and my mind wanders with my wandering feet...
And like last time, despite the beautiful surroundings, despite the light mood and freedom of travelling, I feel very tired (perhaps much due to the jetlag) and find myself longing for home.
I realise one thing again... It's not really the company or surroundings that make me feel or think like I do. It is myself, it is the restlessness and anxiety within. And nothing can change that, not even the most beautiful flowers, the most magnificent view of a vast ocean and the silhouettes of resting mountain ranges in the background.
There has to be peace within.
It's been three months since, and it feels somewhat bizarre to be back so soon. the weather is of course much different, but also the mood, or at least my mood. Who would have thought so many things could happen in just a season, from coming together to separating? But that is life... It never is the way you imagine it, it rarely is the way you would like it, for better or for worse.
Wandering through the same streets, the same shops, and even staying at the same hotel, I feel myself trying to resist memories. Trying to exorcise a very recent past that was beautiful but, for one reason or another, had to end so abruptly. I find myself trying to be in the moment with mum. But it is difficult, and my mind wanders with my wandering feet...
And like last time, despite the beautiful surroundings, despite the light mood and freedom of travelling, I feel very tired (perhaps much due to the jetlag) and find myself longing for home.
I realise one thing again... It's not really the company or surroundings that make me feel or think like I do. It is myself, it is the restlessness and anxiety within. And nothing can change that, not even the most beautiful flowers, the most magnificent view of a vast ocean and the silhouettes of resting mountain ranges in the background.
There has to be peace within.
12 June 2011
Jetlag
I've done it so many times, but the symptoms seem to get worse and worse. Crossing the Pacific, especially Eastward from Asia to North America, is torturous. The body and biological clock becomes so befuddled by the strange 'time travel'. Even though you fly for ten hours (or more), you actually arrive on the same day, and even a few hours before you departed. So last night, I left at around midnight, and landed at quarter past seven in the evening. I slept, as you would when it's around midnight, woke up and had a meal just before landing. But was that my breakfast, or my supper?
Time is relative as they say, and I've been told it's best to immediately imagine you're already in the time zone of the place of destination as soon as you board the plane, so you can better adjust to the time difference. But really, inter-continental travel, especially between places that are half a day ahead (or later) can be very confusion to the mind and body.
This morning I woke up at just a little after four thirty, and whatever I did, I simply could not fall back asleep again. So I got up and did some work, and by ten in the morning, when everyone else was just waking up ad starting their day (it's the weekend...) I was dozing off.
As much as I resisted the pull of a warm, comfortable bed, it was just too tempting. Throughout the day, I napped on and off, even though I know it would probably not do me much good and would delay my adjusting to the new time zone.
But it felt like I was struck down by a horribly numbing and headaching illness. My head spun around heavily, and my body felt so heavy I could not lift myself up from the bed.
Hopefully, the headache, nausea and time confusion will gradually fade...
Time is relative as they say, and I've been told it's best to immediately imagine you're already in the time zone of the place of destination as soon as you board the plane, so you can better adjust to the time difference. But really, inter-continental travel, especially between places that are half a day ahead (or later) can be very confusion to the mind and body.
This morning I woke up at just a little after four thirty, and whatever I did, I simply could not fall back asleep again. So I got up and did some work, and by ten in the morning, when everyone else was just waking up ad starting their day (it's the weekend...) I was dozing off.
As much as I resisted the pull of a warm, comfortable bed, it was just too tempting. Throughout the day, I napped on and off, even though I know it would probably not do me much good and would delay my adjusting to the new time zone.
But it felt like I was struck down by a horribly numbing and headaching illness. My head spun around heavily, and my body felt so heavy I could not lift myself up from the bed.
Hopefully, the headache, nausea and time confusion will gradually fade...
10 June 2011
First morning back
I’ve forgotten how jetlag can suddenly wake you up at the strangest hours and leave you wide awake, staring at the seconds and minutes ticking by till everyone else wakes up.
First night in Vancouver, staying at my relative’s place. The rest of the flight went by relatively quickly. I fell asleep an hour or so after getting onboard, and for the first time, I did not take the meal that was offered to me by the flight attendant, because I was still full, and didn’t want to feel even fuller sitting down for so many hours. I slept, woke up only a few times, and the next time I was wide awake, we were only two and a half hours from the Western coast of Canada, and I could already smell the next meal being prepared in the galley a few steps away. Perhaps it was travelling together, or the plentiful sleep I got, but I really cannot recall a ten hour flight that seemed to last so “short”.
Mum slept too, and she said relatively alright, even though the dryness of the cabin air irritated her throat. Ironically, the long flight somehow made her noticeably regaining her voice, but that of course does not mean she should talk and talk and talk. “We should be observing noble silence,” I joked, a reference to the self-imposed prohibition on speech (with the exception essential communications) when people enter monasteries to practice meditation.
It’s good to be back in Canada, to the much cooler climate (though I was told it can vary from day to day and also reach extreme highs…), to the cleanliness and orderliness that I have grown accustomed to. I was a bit apprehensive at the customs, fearing they would question me on my bags and what I brought into the country (a ‘bit’ too much, especially with a new laptop and tennis raquet…). But the guy at the passport check (“primary”) was extremely friendly and welcoming. I’m not sure if it is related to the fact that I said I’m taking my mum to visit me (when I said she’d only stay two, three weeks, he actually asked, to my surprised, “Why so short?”) or that at one point I actually asked him questions about renewing my study permit, which is due to expire in two months (that’s another complicated story worth another blog entry…)
So far, mum’s been well, and I think she is beginning to get used to and compliment the cleaner air, tidiness and all that green here. She was smiling a lot, and last night, she ate more than usual, which is a good sign that, except for the continuing inflammation in her throat, she is recovering well.
It is wonderful to see her happy, and I look forward to more of that.
Departing for Canada
I stood in the pouring rain, getting drenched as I waited for a bus home. My hair felt heavy with the downpour, and droplets of water were blurring my vision. Less than an hour to go before we had to leave for the airport, and I frantically running around on an errand.
Mum had forgotten to get an extra prescription of medicine, even though she’ll most likely be away for around two months. She said she’d be fine, but I didn’t want to risk it. Even if she didn’t need to take the painkillers (and she hasn’t really taken much in the past two weeks already, since the last few of her radiotherapy sessions), I wanted to make sure she had her pills with her, just in case her pains come back again while we’re traveling. So though I had just returned from an afternoon doing some last-minute shopping downtown, as soon as I finalised packing my bags, I rushed to the hospital, for the second time today. The first time was earlier in the day, when we went in together to get her artificial vein cleaned for the two months to come…
…the nurse was happy to see her, and greeted her as if greeting an old friend. Carefully, the nurse placed a needle into mum’s right shoulder, close to the shoulder blades where a round cap-like object can always be seen just under the flesh. “Be brave, auntie,” the nurse said with a caring and kind voice, “Bear with it a little…” I stroked mum, and silently thought that this would be the last time mum has to come to this place… to this place filled with so many painful and difficult memories… to this place with all those patients, young and old, whose faces and facial expressions depict sorrow and hopelessness… An elderly lady walked past me and approached a nurse. “It hurts so much…” she moaned, “Is it supposed to hurt so much?” The nurse just nodded with a look of sympathy, and comforted her by saying the pain will go away. Perhaps not now, perhaps not soon, but it will go away…
Back to the evening, to when my mind was racing to get back home while my clothes dripped with cold rain. The sky was heavy, and thundering, and the traffic was terribly slow. I was getting extremely anxious and hadn’t even eaten yet. It was already past seven, and the taxi was due to arrive at eight. The time was ticking away, the roads were terribly congested due to the rain and Friday evening rush hour. But anything, anything to make sure that mum’s trip is as trouble free as possible.
Eventually I made it home, after a visit to the local temple to pray for the protection and blessings of the deities as we embark on this long, long awaited journey. What a sense of ‘accomplishment’ and relief I felt handing mum her pills! With around half an hour left, I changed out of my wet clothes, quickly showered and gulped down a bowl of mung bean and barley soup mum had bought earlier. On the table were two wild mangoes, given to me in the morning when I went to the market to bid farewell to the lovely storekeepers of the organic grocery store mum frequents a lot. The ladies seemed touched that I went to say goodbye, and gave me the mangoes as a parting gift.
Sweet… sour… savoury. That is the taste of wild mangoes, a taste and smell reminiscent of my childhood, and summers spent in the countryside. Each mango is no bigger than half a fist, oblong shaped, green skinned, with succulent bright orange flesh. Somehow, biting into the mangoes, I felt so touched. A taste of Taiwan, a taste of the kindness and goodness of this land and its people, of the place I grew up, and still am very fond of. One last taste before I leave home again…
I knelt down before dad’s portrait, and saw him smiling down at me. I smiled back, silently told him that I’m going away, but that he will always be with me. “Take care of this house, and protect mum when she is away…” I asked of dad. I think he heard and understood.
One last check around the house, for food that might spoil, for electrical appliances that need to be unplugged, for windows that need to be open just a little bit to let some fresh air in, but not too big in case the onslaught of a violent typhoon causes rain to pour in. I had wanted to give the house a big clean and sweep, so mum could come home to a clean place, to a clean start after her trip. But with the last minute rush to the hospital there was
no time.
On the way to the airport, I watched the raindrops slide down the glass window of the taxi, and I nodded off. It has been a long two days, with very little sleep, and a floating, uncertain feeling gnawing inside of me that I cannot describe or explain. This trip, this long awaited trip together with mum is finally upon us. I am happy, mum’s spirits are high, and her pains seem to be subsiding.
She said a couple of times before, that traveling will make her forget her pains, forget that she is ill. I really do hope so, and hope that she will forever take the beauty and memories we are about to experience on this trip with her, wherever she may be, even long after the trip is over.
09 June 2011
Night before departure
This time tomorrow, I will be ascending above the Pacific Ocean, on my way. Mum will be next to me, and probably the lights in the cabin will have just come on. We will be on our way together, to Canada.
Last night in Taipei, mum is already in bed, snoring a little. I put her to sleep, and gave her a pat on her arm "We're really going away!" I said. She smiled, and she looked confident, even though the pain in her throat still bothers her whenever she swallows. I told her that she didn't have to say much, and to save her voice.
One last day in Taipei, and there are still a number of things left to be done. A last minute trip to downtown to pick up some items, a last minute trip to the hospital for mum to clean her artificial blood vein (which needs to be done at least once every two months...), and then final packing and arranging of the suitcase. Most of the things have been packed, and there are a lot. For myself, my suitcase is filled mostly with souvenirs and gifts for others. For friends who have helped me greatly while I have been away... for friends who I treasure and so appreciate for their presence and support in my life in Canada. Colleagues who make working at the office enjoyable, entertaining, and fun. Mum's suitcase is filled with mostly medicine and supplements to give her strength and to control the growth of the tumour. I remember seeing dad's suitcase, filled with all sorts of pills, a year or so before he passed away, and seeing mum's suitcase brought back that memory.. .I have already made it very clear that I will do most of the hauling and carrying. All mum has to do, I told her, is carry her purse and a small trolley and light carry on.
Last night in Taipei, and I spent the night writing cards. To friends, but most importantly, to my uncle.Though none of my relatives know that I have been here in the past month or so, three days ago I received a picture of my uncle from my cousin. I could barely recognise my uncle (husband of my dad's older sister). He was frail looking, thin, and the grey hair that once covered his head had all disappeared in the three months since I last saw him. I understood immediately why, and learned from my cousin that that he has been undergoing chemotherapy for a tumour growing on the lymph glands in the neck area. I wanted to rush down south to visit my uncle, but some family complications (so ridiculous and trivial that it's not even worth going into...) prevented me from making the trip. Though I did have a heart-to-heart talk with my cousin, and we connected over the fact that a parent of ours has been so weakened and changed by the terrible, terrible illness of cancer. Even so, we were not sad, but hopeful, our spirits buoyed by mutual encouragement and sympathies.
So I wrote to my uncle,to show him I care and how I would like to lend him a word of encouragement the best way I can without being able to be there with him physically. I wrote him a card, "Smile," I wrote, "It's the best self-treatment" (in Mandarin, a play on the sounds of the words that works very cleverly). I told him to take good care, to live in the moment, live in every moment. Everything else... illness, death, fear, anxiety are but distractions from living, really living.
Tomorrow this time, I will not be here anymore. But as I tell myself every time I leave a place, I leave so that I will come back again one day...
Last night in Taipei, mum is already in bed, snoring a little. I put her to sleep, and gave her a pat on her arm "We're really going away!" I said. She smiled, and she looked confident, even though the pain in her throat still bothers her whenever she swallows. I told her that she didn't have to say much, and to save her voice.
One last day in Taipei, and there are still a number of things left to be done. A last minute trip to downtown to pick up some items, a last minute trip to the hospital for mum to clean her artificial blood vein (which needs to be done at least once every two months...), and then final packing and arranging of the suitcase. Most of the things have been packed, and there are a lot. For myself, my suitcase is filled mostly with souvenirs and gifts for others. For friends who have helped me greatly while I have been away... for friends who I treasure and so appreciate for their presence and support in my life in Canada. Colleagues who make working at the office enjoyable, entertaining, and fun. Mum's suitcase is filled with mostly medicine and supplements to give her strength and to control the growth of the tumour. I remember seeing dad's suitcase, filled with all sorts of pills, a year or so before he passed away, and seeing mum's suitcase brought back that memory.. .I have already made it very clear that I will do most of the hauling and carrying. All mum has to do, I told her, is carry her purse and a small trolley and light carry on.
Last night in Taipei, and I spent the night writing cards. To friends, but most importantly, to my uncle.Though none of my relatives know that I have been here in the past month or so, three days ago I received a picture of my uncle from my cousin. I could barely recognise my uncle (husband of my dad's older sister). He was frail looking, thin, and the grey hair that once covered his head had all disappeared in the three months since I last saw him. I understood immediately why, and learned from my cousin that that he has been undergoing chemotherapy for a tumour growing on the lymph glands in the neck area. I wanted to rush down south to visit my uncle, but some family complications (so ridiculous and trivial that it's not even worth going into...) prevented me from making the trip. Though I did have a heart-to-heart talk with my cousin, and we connected over the fact that a parent of ours has been so weakened and changed by the terrible, terrible illness of cancer. Even so, we were not sad, but hopeful, our spirits buoyed by mutual encouragement and sympathies.
So I wrote to my uncle,to show him I care and how I would like to lend him a word of encouragement the best way I can without being able to be there with him physically. I wrote him a card, "Smile," I wrote, "It's the best self-treatment" (in Mandarin, a play on the sounds of the words that works very cleverly). I told him to take good care, to live in the moment, live in every moment. Everything else... illness, death, fear, anxiety are but distractions from living, really living.
Tomorrow this time, I will not be here anymore. But as I tell myself every time I leave a place, I leave so that I will come back again one day...
08 June 2011
Peace within?
Last night at the monastery, a humid and still night where there's not even a waft of wind.
Been a good few days of get away, and my mind has been somewhat settled, yet not completely. Peace, real peace comes from within, and it can be found and realized wherever you may be. But at thus moment in my life, there is little peace, however much I try to meditate to calm my own mind, however much I try to dispel thoughts and confusing inner chatter, my mind is wondering around and lost.
It is too easy to blame other people, blame the outside world and all the things that are unsatisfactory about it for my troubled state of mind. But really, it is my mind that is disturbed and troubled. Things and people are just the way hey are. Conditions are simply the way they are, and cannot be changed. What can be changed is my own mind and way of thinking.
Do I want to continually worry about things that I have no control over? Do I want to fret over possible events and encounters that are only playing out onside my head? Do I really want to second guess other people's emotions and feelings? Do I want to make sure everything is perfect, and dread and get upset that things do not turn out the way I plan them to be? it's all in my mind... All that worry, all that anxiety, all that fear.
Let it all go... Enjoy the surrounding here and now. I've been told so many times, read about it so many times, and I know that it is so, that I can live a much lighter and happier life if I only let go. So why don't I?
Why do I cling onto things? Cling onto what I want, what I would like to happen, when everything in life is so uncertain and unclear?
Going back to Canada soon, and taking mum with me. It's a moment I've been waiting for, longing for, and I should just let things be, let things run their natural course.
There can be peace within. If only I will allow it.
07 June 2011
Feud
Is there not enough suffering already in the world to discourage us from causing more suffering? Aren't there enough troubles and worries in our lives to not want to pile more on, on yourself and on others?
Yet, we as human beings all seem to have an attraction to complicated matters, an attraction to people and hints that we attach to but cannot let go of, even though we know in the end it'll only add to our suffering, create more misery.
I see it in my own life, and in the lives of others around me. This is what we do, this is the level of intelligence we have, and often we cannot jump out of it, we cannot let go. But like mud, the more you grasp onto it, the more you will lose it through your fingers... The same with life, and it's worries... The more you want to be in control, the less you are in control of.
Even being away at the monastery, trying go calm myself, trying to find some peace and quiet away from my usual life, I find my mind disturbed by thoughts and imaginations, fears and inner chatter. Worse still, even being in a tranquil setting, surrounding by the company and wisdom of a monk, the outside world can so easily reach within and disturb my mind so quickly and violently.
A family feud erupted this evening, and I was caught in the middle, even though I am so far from it all, and fins myself trying to call people to explain and placate their feelings. All this happened as I just got up from a quite sitting session, and it is amazing how quickly the mind can shift gears and perceptions from one moment to the next.
Really, just let go of things... Just let things be and run their natural course until it wanes and dies, as everything will do, because that is he nature of this world and everything that exist in it.
Try not to be so hard in yourself, and push yourself, frustrate yourself. Instead take the Middle Path, of moderation, of neither guilt or rejoicing, blame or praise. Things are the way they are, and they will change. People are the way they are, and they will change. all feelings are the way they are, and they too will change...
No need to worry and torture yourself, have an agitated and frustrated mind, when in the end there is so little you can do to change the world the way and people are...
Uncle
My cousin sent me two pictures, as he normally would on traditional holidays. Most of the pictures show him and his family happily together for the festival, and many are of his cute son, and more recently, cute son and daughter.
I opened the latest email with picture attachments today. It was entitled "Dragon Boat Festival celebrations". I saw a small version of the picture but did not recognize the people in it. I could only make out that they are praying with incense sticks before the family shrine.
I clicked on the pictures and zoomed in... And then I saw it. My aunt, my dad's older sister, standing next to her husband, my uncle. But I could not recognize him.
His head was completely shaven, completely bald. And he looked thinner, thin and tall, with a clean shaven head. I could no believe my eyes, until I realized what must have happened since I last saw him back in February.
Just before my brother's wedding he had been in the hospital for "treatment". It was never clear what for, but I suspected it was to remove a malignant tumour, as I overheard the conversation over lunch one time.
I wrote to my uncle, sent him some little booklets containing Buddhist teachings about letting gland not fearing death, just before I left Taiwan. He was eternally grateful, and said it was verge thoughtful, especially the card that accompanied the booklets. Growing up, it was him who often wrote to us, it was him who often would send us little newspaper clippings and words of advice and wisdom.
In the last three months since I last saw him, he must have undergone chemotherapy of some sort. Who knows for how many times.... As I zoomed in on the pictures, it was as if I could see he sadness on my relatives' faces. I recognized that sadness, it is the sadness of being confronted with illness, confronted with the increased chance of death, that saps away all motivation and the last semblance of happiness from within. It is a sadness that is heavy, oh so very very heavy...
My heart cringed when I saw my uncle's image, and I had an urge to go see him. Soon, even though my entire trip to taiwan this time around has so far been kept a secret from everyone except my mum, my brother, my sister-in-law and her family.
But I feel the urge to go see my uncle, talk to him, and talk to his family, because I know how painful and difficult it is to live with cancer. I know how painful and difficult it is to watch a loved one suffer and be sick...
05 June 2011
Leaving
I'm taking a trip, the first trip away from home ever since I arrived back home three weeks ago. It's been a physically tiring and mentally very challenging three weeks, filled with intense moments, hospital visits, and watching, watching mum in pain but being unable to do anything about it. Do you know what it does to the soul? It kills it slowly...
There have been moments where I feel like I'm going to burst open from frustration and pent up emotions. There have been moments where I feel the life and energy being sapped out of me. Seeing mum like this, in pain, unable to eat much, fearing that she will lose more weight, really drains me. Drains me to an extent which makes me wonder how much there is inside of me to give, how much more can I give in terms of care and compassion and love before I am left with nothing? A part of me fears that with time, I will lose my humanity, lose my ability to care and to love, because the frustrations and the impatience will have gotten ahold of me, and overshadowed my intentions to want to help, my willingness to care.
It has been unimaginably tiring and challenging. and I need some time away and alone to settle down and collect myself. I need to get away for a few days, even though I'm worried mum will stop eating and stop taking care of her diet when I am away. Today, even though she said her throat feels a bit better, she only ate half a bowl of rice for lunch and dinner. That's simply not enough, but she said she simply cannot eat anymore...
I need to get away for a few days, to a place where I can find peace of mind and calmly meditate (even though I know, peace of mind and a place to meditate can be everwhere and anywhere...). It will do me good, and do mum good too, because I think being in a confined space so long is really getting to both of us. And we still have a long trip and long time together if we are to go abroad coming Friday.
Back in a few days...
There have been moments where I feel like I'm going to burst open from frustration and pent up emotions. There have been moments where I feel the life and energy being sapped out of me. Seeing mum like this, in pain, unable to eat much, fearing that she will lose more weight, really drains me. Drains me to an extent which makes me wonder how much there is inside of me to give, how much more can I give in terms of care and compassion and love before I am left with nothing? A part of me fears that with time, I will lose my humanity, lose my ability to care and to love, because the frustrations and the impatience will have gotten ahold of me, and overshadowed my intentions to want to help, my willingness to care.
It has been unimaginably tiring and challenging. and I need some time away and alone to settle down and collect myself. I need to get away for a few days, even though I'm worried mum will stop eating and stop taking care of her diet when I am away. Today, even though she said her throat feels a bit better, she only ate half a bowl of rice for lunch and dinner. That's simply not enough, but she said she simply cannot eat anymore...
I need to get away for a few days, to a place where I can find peace of mind and calmly meditate (even though I know, peace of mind and a place to meditate can be everwhere and anywhere...). It will do me good, and do mum good too, because I think being in a confined space so long is really getting to both of us. And we still have a long trip and long time together if we are to go abroad coming Friday.
Back in a few days...
04 June 2011
Dinner
"You really use [your] heart," she said, meaning that I really took a lot of effort. She grimaced as she painfully swallowed a small bite of soba noodles. "Thank you..."
It was nothing, really. Fresh chicken soup with tomatoes and onions (both high in antioxidants and flavourful in soup), stir-fried sweet potato leaves with garlic, and a grilled salted fish. I left the food to stand for a while before asking her to eat, so that it would be easier on her throat. Cut wax apples for dessert. It really was nothing, and I was even afraid that it was not nutritious enough. Mum said she had no appetite, and I tried to fix something that was, at least in my mind, appetising. I knew she did not want to eat, and in some ways she was only eating because I made the food. I ate quickly, forgetting even to sample the food, just eating mindlessly because I need to eat too.
In the span of an afternoon, her voice has almost completely disappeared. For some reason, even though it has already been three days after her latest (and last) radiotherapy, she is still feeling the side-effects. Losing her voice, I was told by a friend, would be one of them. I thought if the treatment stopped, she would gradually recover. But no, she has even more difficulty swallowing and eating, it seems, and I fear for her weight, even though my own weight has not fared much better in the past month or so. The stress, the worries, the fears are simply too much sometimes...
We took a walk after dinner, just around the neighbourhood, and to a department store nearby. It was a quiet walk, for I did not want her to have to exert herself talking. A group of Falung-gong practitioners meditated in silence, reminding me again that today is the 22nd anniversary of the Tiananmen Massacre. How many people actually took notice, I wondered.
To the bookstore we went, more specifically to the travel section. Together we picked up a guide to Canada, and browsed excitedly through the pages, admiring the beautiful pictures of Canada's landscape and sights. Perhaps the excitement and anticipation of the upcoming trip 'healed' mum, at least for a moment, and her voice was less strained, less coarse. I bought the book for her, hoping that browsing through it will make her forget her condition, and make her more and more determined, physically and mentally to travel.
It was nothing, really. Fresh chicken soup with tomatoes and onions (both high in antioxidants and flavourful in soup), stir-fried sweet potato leaves with garlic, and a grilled salted fish. I left the food to stand for a while before asking her to eat, so that it would be easier on her throat. Cut wax apples for dessert. It really was nothing, and I was even afraid that it was not nutritious enough. Mum said she had no appetite, and I tried to fix something that was, at least in my mind, appetising. I knew she did not want to eat, and in some ways she was only eating because I made the food. I ate quickly, forgetting even to sample the food, just eating mindlessly because I need to eat too.
In the span of an afternoon, her voice has almost completely disappeared. For some reason, even though it has already been three days after her latest (and last) radiotherapy, she is still feeling the side-effects. Losing her voice, I was told by a friend, would be one of them. I thought if the treatment stopped, she would gradually recover. But no, she has even more difficulty swallowing and eating, it seems, and I fear for her weight, even though my own weight has not fared much better in the past month or so. The stress, the worries, the fears are simply too much sometimes...
We took a walk after dinner, just around the neighbourhood, and to a department store nearby. It was a quiet walk, for I did not want her to have to exert herself talking. A group of Falung-gong practitioners meditated in silence, reminding me again that today is the 22nd anniversary of the Tiananmen Massacre. How many people actually took notice, I wondered.
To the bookstore we went, more specifically to the travel section. Together we picked up a guide to Canada, and browsed excitedly through the pages, admiring the beautiful pictures of Canada's landscape and sights. Perhaps the excitement and anticipation of the upcoming trip 'healed' mum, at least for a moment, and her voice was less strained, less coarse. I bought the book for her, hoping that browsing through it will make her forget her condition, and make her more and more determined, physically and mentally to travel.
At the temple
I know it myself, it's just that perhaps I don't want to admit it. And even if I do admit it, what can I do to change anything, to change fate, to change life or death?
The medicine to soothe mum's throat inflammation finished yesterday, so I travelled across town to meet up with her friend, the one who used to be a nurse and has a supply of the medicine at home.
I met her at a Matsu temple in Songshan district, a place where I first lived until the age of five or so. The temple is dedicated to the Goddess of the Sea, who also happens to be my godmother, and I do have some vague memories of playing on the steps of the temple as a little boy.
Fast forward twenty something years, to today, and there I sat on the bench talking to mum's friend.
"You know it's near the end..." Under normal circumstances, it would have been too direct, perhaps even rude to say that to a child, but I know it myself. I have known it when I first saw the doctor's report that all they can do now is provide palliative care, and make sure mum does bot have too much pain. The tumour on the spine, even if it's under control now, even if it's become smaller as a result of the chemo and radiotherapy, it's only a matter of time... Till it spreads... to the lymph glands... to the brain... Who knows where to? The future is unimaginable, the pain and suffering nobody can fathom... I know, I know... Even if I sometimes pretend not to know.
"It's good that you came back to be with her through this latest treatment," she said, "I was very afraid that she would not go through with the treatment." I nodded, and said I've only done my best.
"You're doing a lot, it's a lot to take for anyone..." Yes it is, it really is, and sometimes I do wish I could just turn away and not care so much. Wouldn't that be so much easier- to not care, to not worry, to not feel pain when you see someone in pain?
I swallowed and thanked her again and again for being there for mum while my brother and I are away. All those phone calls, home calls, all those words of encouragement and support mum's fried has given in the last few years. The box of chocolates in my hand which I wanted to give her, even a thousand boxes of the same chocolates, could never repay what I feel I owe her... My eyes filled with tears, but they were contained around the rim of my eyes.
"I'm just doing what a friend do, it's nothing more than lifting my hands," she said, meaning it's something that doesn't take too much extra effort. Once again, I realise what simple joy and comfort friends can bring, and how they can help to ease the heavy heavy burden on your shoulders.
We parted ways, and she promised she will continue to call mum, to check up on her regularly when I'm not around. "Take her out, talk about happy things, make her enjoy life...!" she reminded me.
I'll try...
I'll try...
Just as I've always tried, I'll keep in trying...
Before my godmother I knelt on my knees with a bunch of incense sticks in my hands. I closed my eyes softly, and felt the scent of herbal incense waft into my nostrils. Around me were prayers and murmurs of other devout worshippers. She sat on a high stool at the back end of the temple, surrounded by gilded cloaks, ornamental decorations and dragons, and other lesser deities.
"Godmother," I whispered in my heart, "please take care of mum, please let her be healthy, please let her be happy, please don't let her have too much pain or suffering..." My head was bent low, and I wad there silent for a while. But what I felt deep deep down surfaces in the form of tears that swam and shimmered in my eyes.
There are millions and millions of prayers and wishes my godmother Matsu must listen to everyday and night, and mine is no more or less important. Everyone wants to be happy, everyone wants to live without pain and worry. Perhaps prayer to a higher being is self-consolation and seeking solutions for problems that are beyond us, beyond our comprehension and understanding....
But I will keep on trying, and I will keep on hoping.
The medicine to soothe mum's throat inflammation finished yesterday, so I travelled across town to meet up with her friend, the one who used to be a nurse and has a supply of the medicine at home.
I met her at a Matsu temple in Songshan district, a place where I first lived until the age of five or so. The temple is dedicated to the Goddess of the Sea, who also happens to be my godmother, and I do have some vague memories of playing on the steps of the temple as a little boy.
Fast forward twenty something years, to today, and there I sat on the bench talking to mum's friend.
"You know it's near the end..." Under normal circumstances, it would have been too direct, perhaps even rude to say that to a child, but I know it myself. I have known it when I first saw the doctor's report that all they can do now is provide palliative care, and make sure mum does bot have too much pain. The tumour on the spine, even if it's under control now, even if it's become smaller as a result of the chemo and radiotherapy, it's only a matter of time... Till it spreads... to the lymph glands... to the brain... Who knows where to? The future is unimaginable, the pain and suffering nobody can fathom... I know, I know... Even if I sometimes pretend not to know.
"It's good that you came back to be with her through this latest treatment," she said, "I was very afraid that she would not go through with the treatment." I nodded, and said I've only done my best.
"You're doing a lot, it's a lot to take for anyone..." Yes it is, it really is, and sometimes I do wish I could just turn away and not care so much. Wouldn't that be so much easier- to not care, to not worry, to not feel pain when you see someone in pain?
I swallowed and thanked her again and again for being there for mum while my brother and I are away. All those phone calls, home calls, all those words of encouragement and support mum's fried has given in the last few years. The box of chocolates in my hand which I wanted to give her, even a thousand boxes of the same chocolates, could never repay what I feel I owe her... My eyes filled with tears, but they were contained around the rim of my eyes.
"I'm just doing what a friend do, it's nothing more than lifting my hands," she said, meaning it's something that doesn't take too much extra effort. Once again, I realise what simple joy and comfort friends can bring, and how they can help to ease the heavy heavy burden on your shoulders.
We parted ways, and she promised she will continue to call mum, to check up on her regularly when I'm not around. "Take her out, talk about happy things, make her enjoy life...!" she reminded me.
I'll try...
I'll try...
Just as I've always tried, I'll keep in trying...
Before my godmother I knelt on my knees with a bunch of incense sticks in my hands. I closed my eyes softly, and felt the scent of herbal incense waft into my nostrils. Around me were prayers and murmurs of other devout worshippers. She sat on a high stool at the back end of the temple, surrounded by gilded cloaks, ornamental decorations and dragons, and other lesser deities.
"Godmother," I whispered in my heart, "please take care of mum, please let her be healthy, please let her be happy, please don't let her have too much pain or suffering..." My head was bent low, and I wad there silent for a while. But what I felt deep deep down surfaces in the form of tears that swam and shimmered in my eyes.There are millions and millions of prayers and wishes my godmother Matsu must listen to everyday and night, and mine is no more or less important. Everyone wants to be happy, everyone wants to live without pain and worry. Perhaps prayer to a higher being is self-consolation and seeking solutions for problems that are beyond us, beyond our comprehension and understanding....
But I will keep on trying, and I will keep on hoping.
03 June 2011
nightmare
I woke up suddenly, screaming. A silent scream, a voiceless scream inside my head, so very unsettling, so very disturbing.
My head is spinning, turning an dizzy with things I'm longing to say, but I cannot say, not at this moment.
But deep down, I am tormented by the silence.
I must break free.
My head is spinning, turning an dizzy with things I'm longing to say, but I cannot say, not at this moment.
But deep down, I am tormented by the silence.
I must break free.
Go ahead
I had wanted to rush home from downtown to accompany mum to her appointment with her main physician. But it would have meant leaving my sister-in-law alone with her heavy suitcase, and trying to cross town at lightning speed through Friday traffic. Mum told me not to worry, and that she will head to the hospital alone.
Later in the evening, she told me what happened earlier. The doctor took a look at her latest test results and scans. He nodded and told her that things look "not bad" (in Taiwanese, a somewhat pessimistic-sounding language, it means "good").
"Would you like to do another chemo?" he asked.
"Seriously!? I thought I just finished!"
He was just pulling her leg, trying to humour her. Sometimes, in the face of death and illness, you should be able to laugh. You should be able to do something that is not expected, so you can escape the dark lure and demeanour of death and illness. Additional chemotherapy is not necessary, but he has prescribed some medicine that can be taken orally and will have a similar effect of suppressing tumour growth. Two weeks daily, and then one week rest.
"So I am good to go...?" she asked.
"Sure, go travel, go wander around a bit!" the doctor said. Another go-ahead, this one from her main physician, a confirmation of what her radiologist said earlier on Monday, making her even more assured. She can travel for around two months, and it is recommended that she come back for a check-up. Mum looked happy as she told me this, and afterwards I made further plans to travel after we arrive in Canada.
I pulled out the scale, and asked her to weigh herself. In the last four days since she last measured herself, she gained weight by 0.2kg. Not a lot, but at least it is a gain, not a loss. Hopefully she can keep this up and recuperate well enough to fly in exactly a week's time.
Later in the evening, she told me what happened earlier. The doctor took a look at her latest test results and scans. He nodded and told her that things look "not bad" (in Taiwanese, a somewhat pessimistic-sounding language, it means "good").
"Would you like to do another chemo?" he asked.
"Seriously!? I thought I just finished!"
He was just pulling her leg, trying to humour her. Sometimes, in the face of death and illness, you should be able to laugh. You should be able to do something that is not expected, so you can escape the dark lure and demeanour of death and illness. Additional chemotherapy is not necessary, but he has prescribed some medicine that can be taken orally and will have a similar effect of suppressing tumour growth. Two weeks daily, and then one week rest.
"So I am good to go...?" she asked.
"Sure, go travel, go wander around a bit!" the doctor said. Another go-ahead, this one from her main physician, a confirmation of what her radiologist said earlier on Monday, making her even more assured. She can travel for around two months, and it is recommended that she come back for a check-up. Mum looked happy as she told me this, and afterwards I made further plans to travel after we arrive in Canada.
I pulled out the scale, and asked her to weigh herself. In the last four days since she last measured herself, she gained weight by 0.2kg. Not a lot, but at least it is a gain, not a loss. Hopefully she can keep this up and recuperate well enough to fly in exactly a week's time.
Day out
"Pregnant woman," I said loudly, on purpose, as we boarded the metro, "Do you want to sit?"
My sister-in-law was embarrassed and said she felt too full to sit, and preferred standing instead. There were two teenager sitting in front of us, napping. They did not wake up. She remained standing for around ten minutes before a middle-aged woman encouraged her to sit. "It's better to sit," the woman said to my sister-in-law, and she finally did.
We were on our way downtown, and I helped carry her suitcase as she did some errands before she made her way home to the centre of the island. Though her stomach doesn't look that big yet, she is officially into her sixth month of pregnancy, and I wanted to make sure she was alright. She told me even that sometimes she forgets that she is pregnant, and the other day she actually ran and waved for a bus to stop. Luckily the bus did stop and wait for her, and as she got on board, the driver told her to take it easy.
We talked a lot, about all sorts of things, and I realised that it was the first time that we were alone together, and it didn't feel awkward at all. She really is a kind and charming person, as I've always felt she is ever since I met her. And, importantly, she is really respectful to my mum, and her presence has really changed my brother in many ways for the better. She even volunteered to come up and stay over for two days, because she wanted to pay respects to my dad before she leaves the country in a couple of weeks to join my brother in Europe. That shows a lot, especially how much she cares about and respects tradition, and both our families get along nicely too.
A lot of the conversation centred on life in her new home, and of course also on the baby. Though he is still growing inside, I somehow feel such affinity toward him, and I told my sister-in-law that. I said I will do everything I can do help them, and to give the baby a good, healthy childhood by providing him with lots of good quality playthings and toys. The other day, her mother actually joked that perhaps they should consider sending the baby to Canada for me to raise, given that I've got some experience already with my godson. Both my brother and sister-in-law have little or no experience at all dealing with nappies, feeding or even holding a baby. "It'll come naturally," I said, and wondered how I actually managed to deal with all that when my godson was born.
For some time have been browsing baby stores to get an idea of what there is to buy. Perhaps I know that, however much I would like to have and/or raise a child, it will be some time before my life can settle down and before I can find a partner I can share my life with (if ever). That is a big reason why my nephew's birth feels so close to heart and excites me so. If I had a child in my life, I would take care of (for lack of a more better, gender-neutral word) it, pamper it, shower it with love, affection and care.
And I cannot wait to welcome my nephew into this world, and to show him all the wonders and beautiful things there are in life...
My sister-in-law was embarrassed and said she felt too full to sit, and preferred standing instead. There were two teenager sitting in front of us, napping. They did not wake up. She remained standing for around ten minutes before a middle-aged woman encouraged her to sit. "It's better to sit," the woman said to my sister-in-law, and she finally did.
We were on our way downtown, and I helped carry her suitcase as she did some errands before she made her way home to the centre of the island. Though her stomach doesn't look that big yet, she is officially into her sixth month of pregnancy, and I wanted to make sure she was alright. She told me even that sometimes she forgets that she is pregnant, and the other day she actually ran and waved for a bus to stop. Luckily the bus did stop and wait for her, and as she got on board, the driver told her to take it easy.
We talked a lot, about all sorts of things, and I realised that it was the first time that we were alone together, and it didn't feel awkward at all. She really is a kind and charming person, as I've always felt she is ever since I met her. And, importantly, she is really respectful to my mum, and her presence has really changed my brother in many ways for the better. She even volunteered to come up and stay over for two days, because she wanted to pay respects to my dad before she leaves the country in a couple of weeks to join my brother in Europe. That shows a lot, especially how much she cares about and respects tradition, and both our families get along nicely too.
A lot of the conversation centred on life in her new home, and of course also on the baby. Though he is still growing inside, I somehow feel such affinity toward him, and I told my sister-in-law that. I said I will do everything I can do help them, and to give the baby a good, healthy childhood by providing him with lots of good quality playthings and toys. The other day, her mother actually joked that perhaps they should consider sending the baby to Canada for me to raise, given that I've got some experience already with my godson. Both my brother and sister-in-law have little or no experience at all dealing with nappies, feeding or even holding a baby. "It'll come naturally," I said, and wondered how I actually managed to deal with all that when my godson was born.
For some time have been browsing baby stores to get an idea of what there is to buy. Perhaps I know that, however much I would like to have and/or raise a child, it will be some time before my life can settle down and before I can find a partner I can share my life with (if ever). That is a big reason why my nephew's birth feels so close to heart and excites me so. If I had a child in my life, I would take care of (for lack of a more better, gender-neutral word) it, pamper it, shower it with love, affection and care.
And I cannot wait to welcome my nephew into this world, and to show him all the wonders and beautiful things there are in life...
Facing death
There is an ad in the Taipei Metro recently featuring three people, all famous celebrities. One man has his hands cupped around his ears... a woman has her hands covering her mouth... another man has his hands covering his eyes. "Regarding death," the caption reads, as three voices read out, "What is your attitude?"
There are three different kinds of ads, with similar messages. The setting for each ad is set in an airport, with the main character sitting and symbolically waiting with a packed suitcase. "Facing death, [you] should listen, talk, read". Listen to the advice of the medical care specialists, listen to your friends and relatives... Talk about your health, talk about death, about leaving this world, express your love, your regrets, your dreams before it is too late... Read about how to prepare for death, about the experience of falling ill, about the difficulty of dying, about the difficulties of letting go...
I have seen the ad numerous times, and every time I stop to watch it. "What is my attitude to death?" I find myself asking. I am not sure yet, but I would like to think I am not afraid. If I were to go now, I have little or nothing to regret about. I have said and written everything there is about myself and about my life, here or elsewhere. I just hope to leave this world quietly, as quietly as I came. I do hope to be able to leave something behind to this world and to some of its people. Which is partly why I feel compelled to write and to take pictures, in attempts to capture precious little moments and share them, lest they are gone and forgotten forever.
I know that death will come. Come to take my friends, my family away... I have see and experienced it first hand. I held onto dad's hand, as death took him by the other. And at times, when mum is hurting, or even when mum is smiling and laughing, I tell myself that death is always lurking around, waiting. In no way is this a morbid way of thinking, I do not think. It tells me to be vigilant, and to treasure every waking moment with loved ones and friends. It tells me to (try and) be the best person I can be, to (try and) give the best I can in all I do, and to everyone I meet. Which is why, even if others mock me for it, whenever I say goodbye to someone, even strangers I come across on the street sometimes, I silently wish them well, and openly tell them to take good care. "Contemplate death... contemplate that all things will come and go..." as the Buddha taught. Know that all things, all beings, are mortal and subject to change, subject to disappear.
Of course, I am afraid of losing mum, and I cannot imagine how I will react when that moment comes, however much I try to picture it sometimes. Fortunately, we have been frank about death, talked about it in many ways and many times. Of course I will hurt, and that sense of longing and loss will linger on and on, if not for as long as I live. But those feelings will come and go, come and go, just as people and things around me will come and go...
There are many people who do not know, do not want to know about death. They do not want to hear about it, they do not want to talk about, they do not want to read about it. And they are shocked and hurt beyond consolation when it suddenly strikes them. It is only natural, especially in a world where so much emphasis is placed on health, youth and beauty.
But part of life, part of living, is death and dying. Open your eyes, open your ears, open your mouth, and open your mind...
There are three different kinds of ads, with similar messages. The setting for each ad is set in an airport, with the main character sitting and symbolically waiting with a packed suitcase. "Facing death, [you] should listen, talk, read". Listen to the advice of the medical care specialists, listen to your friends and relatives... Talk about your health, talk about death, about leaving this world, express your love, your regrets, your dreams before it is too late... Read about how to prepare for death, about the experience of falling ill, about the difficulty of dying, about the difficulties of letting go...
I have seen the ad numerous times, and every time I stop to watch it. "What is my attitude to death?" I find myself asking. I am not sure yet, but I would like to think I am not afraid. If I were to go now, I have little or nothing to regret about. I have said and written everything there is about myself and about my life, here or elsewhere. I just hope to leave this world quietly, as quietly as I came. I do hope to be able to leave something behind to this world and to some of its people. Which is partly why I feel compelled to write and to take pictures, in attempts to capture precious little moments and share them, lest they are gone and forgotten forever.
I know that death will come. Come to take my friends, my family away... I have see and experienced it first hand. I held onto dad's hand, as death took him by the other. And at times, when mum is hurting, or even when mum is smiling and laughing, I tell myself that death is always lurking around, waiting. In no way is this a morbid way of thinking, I do not think. It tells me to be vigilant, and to treasure every waking moment with loved ones and friends. It tells me to (try and) be the best person I can be, to (try and) give the best I can in all I do, and to everyone I meet. Which is why, even if others mock me for it, whenever I say goodbye to someone, even strangers I come across on the street sometimes, I silently wish them well, and openly tell them to take good care. "Contemplate death... contemplate that all things will come and go..." as the Buddha taught. Know that all things, all beings, are mortal and subject to change, subject to disappear.
Of course, I am afraid of losing mum, and I cannot imagine how I will react when that moment comes, however much I try to picture it sometimes. Fortunately, we have been frank about death, talked about it in many ways and many times. Of course I will hurt, and that sense of longing and loss will linger on and on, if not for as long as I live. But those feelings will come and go, come and go, just as people and things around me will come and go...
There are many people who do not know, do not want to know about death. They do not want to hear about it, they do not want to talk about, they do not want to read about it. And they are shocked and hurt beyond consolation when it suddenly strikes them. It is only natural, especially in a world where so much emphasis is placed on health, youth and beauty.
But part of life, part of living, is death and dying. Open your eyes, open your ears, open your mouth, and open your mind...
Facing death
There is an ad in the Taipei Metro recently featuring three people, all famous celebrities. One man has his hands cupped around his ears... a woman has her hands covering her mouth... another man has his hands covering his eyes. "Regarding death," the caption reads, as three voices read out, "What is your attitude?"
There are three different kinds of ads, with similar messages. The setting for each ad is set in an airport, with the main character sitting and symbolically waiting with a packed suitcase. "Facing death, [you] should listen, talk, read". Listen to the advice of the medical care specialists, listen to your friends and relatives... Talk about your health, talk about death, about leaving this world, express your love, your regrets, your dreams before it is too late... Read about how to prepare for death, about the experience of falling ill, about the difficulty of dying, about the difficulties of letting go...
I have seen the ad numerous times, and every time I stop to watch it carefully again and again. "Facing death, what is my attitude?" I would stop and ask myself. Death will come, one day or another. It will come to me, as it has numerous times before, to take my loved ones, to take my friends away.
And it will come to me, one day or another, and take me away. What is my attitude? I am not afraid, I have nothing to regret about if I were to leave this world today. I just hope my leaving one day will not leave behind too many broken hearts and people aching. I want to go quietly, as quietly as I came, and hopefully leave something to this world and some of its people. Which is part of the reason I feel compelled to write and take pictures, in attempts to capture moments when I am on this world still and to share them, lest those precious little moments go away and are forever forgotten.
What is my attitude toward death of a loved one? I have seen it before, I have experienced it first hand. I held onto dad's hand, while death took him by the other. And I see it now, lurking around mum, at moments when she is hurting, and even at moments when she is smiling and laughing.
"Contemplate death... remind yourself everything will come and go... remind yourself that everything you have will one day go away" as the Buddha taught. Am I afraid of losing people dear to my heart? Yes, I am. I am only human. I hurt, I cry, I feel. But in a way I have already lost them, because despite their physical presence, despite them lying next to me, one day they will no longer be there.
There are many people who don't want to see death, who don't want to hear about death, who don't want to read about death. There is such a deep seated fear and taboo surrounding the topic, and they are lost and unprepared when it suddenly comes. Of course, I won't know if it were to suddenly come again how I would react, especially with my mum. But at least we have been frank about it and talked it through many times before. Of course, the ache and the deep sense of loss will be there, I am sure, but in the end there is nothing to fear, nothing to cling onto.
There are three different kinds of ads, with similar messages. The setting for each ad is set in an airport, with the main character sitting and symbolically waiting with a packed suitcase. "Facing death, [you] should listen, talk, read". Listen to the advice of the medical care specialists, listen to your friends and relatives... Talk about your health, talk about death, about leaving this world, express your love, your regrets, your dreams before it is too late... Read about how to prepare for death, about the experience of falling ill, about the difficulty of dying, about the difficulties of letting go...
I have seen the ad numerous times, and every time I stop to watch it carefully again and again. "Facing death, what is my attitude?" I would stop and ask myself. Death will come, one day or another. It will come to me, as it has numerous times before, to take my loved ones, to take my friends away.
And it will come to me, one day or another, and take me away. What is my attitude? I am not afraid, I have nothing to regret about if I were to leave this world today. I just hope my leaving one day will not leave behind too many broken hearts and people aching. I want to go quietly, as quietly as I came, and hopefully leave something to this world and some of its people. Which is part of the reason I feel compelled to write and take pictures, in attempts to capture moments when I am on this world still and to share them, lest those precious little moments go away and are forever forgotten.
What is my attitude toward death of a loved one? I have seen it before, I have experienced it first hand. I held onto dad's hand, while death took him by the other. And I see it now, lurking around mum, at moments when she is hurting, and even at moments when she is smiling and laughing.
"Contemplate death... remind yourself everything will come and go... remind yourself that everything you have will one day go away" as the Buddha taught. Am I afraid of losing people dear to my heart? Yes, I am. I am only human. I hurt, I cry, I feel. But in a way I have already lost them, because despite their physical presence, despite them lying next to me, one day they will no longer be there.
There are many people who don't want to see death, who don't want to hear about death, who don't want to read about death. There is such a deep seated fear and taboo surrounding the topic, and they are lost and unprepared when it suddenly comes. Of course, I won't know if it were to suddenly come again how I would react, especially with my mum. But at least we have been frank about it and talked it through many times before. Of course, the ache and the deep sense of loss will be there, I am sure, but in the end there is nothing to fear, nothing to cling onto.
02 June 2011
Needle
Mum's tongue looks burnt. Black and burnt, partly from the combination of chemo and radiotherapy. I see it every night and day, because her friend gave her a solution which will help soothe her throat inflammation. So just after waking up, and just before bed, I must inject the reddish-brown liquid onto her tongue, on the walls of her mouth and into her throat.
How do I do that? With a syringe. It's the first time I've ever come so close to administering medicine with a syringe, and the sharp needle head always looks menacing. 0.5ml each time, not more not less. I must slowly, slowly press the syringe, and the solution will squirt into her mouth. There are areas I should target, places on the walls of her oral cavity where it looks bruised, and also deep into her throat where the flesh is redder and more inflamed. I feel like a nurse every time I squirt the medicine with the syringe, even though I am ever so careful not to stick the needle into her flesh... or into my own flesh!
Mum says her throat aches a little less after the medicine is administered. A little less doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt any more, because it still does. And since the radiotherapy, she has been producing more phloem, and her saliva is more 'bubbly' in texture than before, and bitter tasting, she says.
Hopefully, with time, her inflammation with die down and disappear, and she will no longer feel any discomfort when eating or drinking...
How do I do that? With a syringe. It's the first time I've ever come so close to administering medicine with a syringe, and the sharp needle head always looks menacing. 0.5ml each time, not more not less. I must slowly, slowly press the syringe, and the solution will squirt into her mouth. There are areas I should target, places on the walls of her oral cavity where it looks bruised, and also deep into her throat where the flesh is redder and more inflamed. I feel like a nurse every time I squirt the medicine with the syringe, even though I am ever so careful not to stick the needle into her flesh... or into my own flesh!
Mum says her throat aches a little less after the medicine is administered. A little less doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt any more, because it still does. And since the radiotherapy, she has been producing more phloem, and her saliva is more 'bubbly' in texture than before, and bitter tasting, she says.
Hopefully, with time, her inflammation with die down and disappear, and she will no longer feel any discomfort when eating or drinking...
Ice cream
For the last two weeks, the best moment of every meal for mum comes at the end. "I want ice cream," she would say, and joke that she has become a big kid whining for cold ice cream. It's soothing for her throat, and because of the coldness, she somehow does not feel any much pain when swallowing.
So, after every meal, mum gets her treat. Almond milk, chocolate and vanilla, green tea, red bean, sesame, coconut. All kinds of different flavours, and even if she cannot finish everything on her plate, she always manages to finish her bowl or cone of ice cream. She doesn't care about calories any more, she said, as long as she can eat, anything that she enjoys or would suddenly have a craving for, she just eats it.
The past two days, my sister-in-law came to stay over, and every night we would go out for ice cream and sit around and chat. We get along fine together, and get very excited talking about life in Europe, and plans to meet up there later in the Summer. With the baby expected at the end of August, much of the talk hovers around what to be aware of before and after giving birth. On both their faces, I can see the wonderful joy and hopes. It soothes mum's pain and frustrations, as much as eating ice cream does.
So, after every meal, mum gets her treat. Almond milk, chocolate and vanilla, green tea, red bean, sesame, coconut. All kinds of different flavours, and even if she cannot finish everything on her plate, she always manages to finish her bowl or cone of ice cream. She doesn't care about calories any more, she said, as long as she can eat, anything that she enjoys or would suddenly have a craving for, she just eats it.
The past two days, my sister-in-law came to stay over, and every night we would go out for ice cream and sit around and chat. We get along fine together, and get very excited talking about life in Europe, and plans to meet up there later in the Summer. With the baby expected at the end of August, much of the talk hovers around what to be aware of before and after giving birth. On both their faces, I can see the wonderful joy and hopes. It soothes mum's pain and frustrations, as much as eating ice cream does.
Visit
The sky was heavy with rain, dripping incessantly and instantly soaking anything that was not sheltered. The sea disappeared, the mountains disappeared, hidden behind thick, thick fog that drifted in from the cold and rough North Sea. A waft of clouds, resembling the shape of an outstretched dragon, climbed up the face of the mountain and gathered at the gates of the temple.
Every time I go visit dad, it seems to rain. Sometimes heavy, sometimes light, and sometimes it would rain and then suddenly clear again. I wonder often whether the rain is a confirmation of receipt, for traditionally on visits like these, the living would burn lots of paper money and material goods to offer to the deceased. Perhaps the more that is offered, the more the heavens give back in return.
Together with mum and my sister-in-law, we went to pay dad and our ancestor's a visit. A few days ahead of the official day of the Dragon Boat Festival, one of a number of important days to remember the dead, in order to avoid the crowds and rush. Since yesterday, we have been busy preparing, not as elaborately as other days, but still, I bought tonnes of fresh fruits and some balls of glutinous rice wrapped in lotus leaves (zongzi), which is a traditional food that is offered and eaten around this time of the year. Among the bags of food and fruits, I placed maple syrup cookies I had brought all the way from Canada.
The food we placed on a table in front of the ancestral plaque. I lit incense sticks, and quietly we stood in front of the little piece of wood that bears our family name. I closed my eyes, and 'spoke' to my grandma, my grandpa, the two people from another generation I still have memory of. And I 'spoke' also to my dad, who left three years ago already...
I told them that I had returned, and that as promised, I have come to see them. I hoped they have been well, and thanked them for watching over the family. I asked them for a few simple things, perhaps after all these visits they already know what I was going to ask for... to take care of mum's health condition, to let her be happy and free from pain, to watch over brother, my sister-in-law, and the first grandson of our generation, to bless them and protect them from harm... I asked for nothing else.
Together we walked into a chamber containing individual 'lockers' for storing urns. Quickly I found dad's, and gave his name a soft stroke. We stood before it for a moment or two, and spoke to him. I stayed behind a little longer, and when mum and my sister-in-law had turned the corner, I pressed my forehead against dad's locker... "Please protect mum and let her not feel more pain... please, dad, please... Watch over her health and her body, and make sure she is well. I have long dreamed of taking her on this trip with me to Canada, and please protect us on this long, long journey."
At that point I could not contain my tears. As my lips met the cold steel face of dad's locker, I cringed and my eyes became moist. Memories of dad came back...
...his smile, his scent, his kindness, all those years of hardwork and toil to provide us with a better life, free from worry, free from material needs... And today, he is already gone. He cannot see for himself how I am doing in my new home. How I wish he could be there with me, with mum as we tour Canada, as I show them around my home and my friends...
"Rest well, dad, and please take good care of yourself..." My fingers brushed against his name again, and I closed my eyes to steady myself, to steady my emotions. There is so much I would like to say, so much frustration and uncertainty in my life I would like to share with dad. I would like to tell him how very afraid and lonely I feel at night... how lacking in confidence I feel at times, despite that brave face and smile I put on... how much I long for stability and companionship... But I held myself back, even though from where he is, dad probably knows...
On the way home, we were all quiet, unlike on the way up to the mountain, when we were all chatting away excitedly about my sister-in-law's beginning her new life with my brother in Europe. I stared into the distance, at the blue, blue rough ocean, and drifted away.
Sleep came over me, sleep and dreams that offered a temporary escape from all those thoughts, fears and that gnawing sense of loss and uncertainty...
"Rest well..." I heard myself say... "Rest well..."
Every time I go visit dad, it seems to rain. Sometimes heavy, sometimes light, and sometimes it would rain and then suddenly clear again. I wonder often whether the rain is a confirmation of receipt, for traditionally on visits like these, the living would burn lots of paper money and material goods to offer to the deceased. Perhaps the more that is offered, the more the heavens give back in return.
Together with mum and my sister-in-law, we went to pay dad and our ancestor's a visit. A few days ahead of the official day of the Dragon Boat Festival, one of a number of important days to remember the dead, in order to avoid the crowds and rush. Since yesterday, we have been busy preparing, not as elaborately as other days, but still, I bought tonnes of fresh fruits and some balls of glutinous rice wrapped in lotus leaves (zongzi), which is a traditional food that is offered and eaten around this time of the year. Among the bags of food and fruits, I placed maple syrup cookies I had brought all the way from Canada.
The food we placed on a table in front of the ancestral plaque. I lit incense sticks, and quietly we stood in front of the little piece of wood that bears our family name. I closed my eyes, and 'spoke' to my grandma, my grandpa, the two people from another generation I still have memory of. And I 'spoke' also to my dad, who left three years ago already...
I told them that I had returned, and that as promised, I have come to see them. I hoped they have been well, and thanked them for watching over the family. I asked them for a few simple things, perhaps after all these visits they already know what I was going to ask for... to take care of mum's health condition, to let her be happy and free from pain, to watch over brother, my sister-in-law, and the first grandson of our generation, to bless them and protect them from harm... I asked for nothing else.
Together we walked into a chamber containing individual 'lockers' for storing urns. Quickly I found dad's, and gave his name a soft stroke. We stood before it for a moment or two, and spoke to him. I stayed behind a little longer, and when mum and my sister-in-law had turned the corner, I pressed my forehead against dad's locker... "Please protect mum and let her not feel more pain... please, dad, please... Watch over her health and her body, and make sure she is well. I have long dreamed of taking her on this trip with me to Canada, and please protect us on this long, long journey."
At that point I could not contain my tears. As my lips met the cold steel face of dad's locker, I cringed and my eyes became moist. Memories of dad came back...
...his smile, his scent, his kindness, all those years of hardwork and toil to provide us with a better life, free from worry, free from material needs... And today, he is already gone. He cannot see for himself how I am doing in my new home. How I wish he could be there with me, with mum as we tour Canada, as I show them around my home and my friends...
"Rest well, dad, and please take good care of yourself..." My fingers brushed against his name again, and I closed my eyes to steady myself, to steady my emotions. There is so much I would like to say, so much frustration and uncertainty in my life I would like to share with dad. I would like to tell him how very afraid and lonely I feel at night... how lacking in confidence I feel at times, despite that brave face and smile I put on... how much I long for stability and companionship... But I held myself back, even though from where he is, dad probably knows...
On the way home, we were all quiet, unlike on the way up to the mountain, when we were all chatting away excitedly about my sister-in-law's beginning her new life with my brother in Europe. I stared into the distance, at the blue, blue rough ocean, and drifted away.
Sleep came over me, sleep and dreams that offered a temporary escape from all those thoughts, fears and that gnawing sense of loss and uncertainty...
"Rest well..." I heard myself say... "Rest well..."
01 June 2011
Final treatment
Sirens warning radiation is in progress. In my mind, I picture red laser lights penetrating mum's clothes, skin and bones, reaching deep into the body to the target area in intense bursts, intense enough to 'burn' away the tumourous cells. At least that's how I imagine it works, because even before the radiation specialists exit the radiation chamber, I am always ushered away by the nurse.
Somehow, today's treatment seemed to last longer, or perhaps it was all in my mind. I could not wait for it to end, and I imagine mum could not either. Just before she went in, I patted her on the back and told her, "It's the last one, it's the last one. Hang on there..."
As we waited for her turn, I counted back, and realised I have been to the hospital with her eleven times already in the last two weeks. Eleven times, back and forth, back and forth. Eleven times through the gates of the hospital, past the freshly planted shrubs and floral arrangements, into the cold, spacious lobby that always seems to bask in that very recognisable scent of chlorine and medicine, down the stairs into the basement, down the corridor into the oncology ward, past dozens of patients and into the waiting area. Eleven times, and this is just for the radiotherapy, and does not include appointments with her physicians.
I always stand just a few steps away from that thick metallic door while I wait, and deep inside my heart counts down the seconds till the door opens. My mind drifts to mum lying in there, in that cold air-conditioned room all by herself with a huge machine looming large over her entire body. My thoughts are with her, as are my prayers and wellwishes. "May she be not afraid... may she be at ease... may she be calm in her mind... may she have no fear..." I try to imagine myself lying there, on that elevated platform as the a massive scanner rotates around my head and entire body. I imagine my head being constrained by a white mask which only has two holes around the nose for breathing. I imagine having to lie very still, even when my arm is aching, even if my throat were so painful as if someone were cutting it with a knife. I wonder whether I would be afraid, whether I am brave enough to face all this alone. Mum does, and what does it take to go through with this all?
"Family members, the patient is ready..." The nurse's words brought me back to reality, and I opened my eyes to see the thick metallic doors inch open little by little. The radiation specialists went in first, but I could not wait and hurried in after them. The whirring and wheezing of the platform on which mum was lying on signaled that she was being lowered gradually. The darkened room became suddenly very bright again as the machine that had been radiating mum retreated slowly, bit by bit. I saw mum lie there, on that platform very, under a thick heated blanket. She lay there, immobile and did not stir. One day, she will lie before me, and will no longer stir. But today is not that day.
As soon as the nurse removed her mask, her upper body rushed to climb up, even though the platofrm was still a great height from the floor. I could see her smile, I could see her joy. "It is all over," I said, smiling too. I turned to the radiation specialists and to the nurse and thanked them. "Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your hard work..." At that point I could feel my eyes fill with tears.
I took mum by the arm, and slowly we walked out of that chamber. The old couple whom I see every day at around the same time were still hanging around, waiting for the man to recover from his treatment a few minutes earlier. I nodded to the wife and smiled, and for the first time, just as I was leaving I said: "Goodbye. Take care." To all the patients and relatives I met in the corridor, I silently told them to "take care", to be well.
It feels like liberation, mum said as we walked home. I grabbed mum's arm, which felt dry, flabby and soft, another symptom of exposure to radiation. I looked at her face, noticed more wrinkles around her eyes, noticed also that little sprinklings of new hairlets are growing on her scalp. The experience has aged her, tired her, but she has come out of this all, relieved that her condition is stable.
Finally, after all the agonising treatments, waiting and prayers, it is over. For good? For now? Who knows, who can tell. But it is over. And time to recover...
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