21 Oct
At the breakfast place
I enjoy talking strangers, especially in the countryside. It's something rarely done in big cities, where I've grown up and live. And if I had the opportunity, I wouldn't hesitate too much about moving to the countryside.
As I was buying food at a breakfast place, the owner began to engage in conversation, asking me where I'm from, what I do.
"Oh, Taipei! It's so busy there..." she commented, "I can't keep up with the pace of walking there. Why is everyone always in a hurry?"
I wonder that myself sometimes, and being in the city, I find myself also quickening my pace and losing patience easier.
It is never a conversation if the topic of whether I'm married or have a girlfriend is not mentioned. I smiled and said I'm single.
"How's that possible? You're so handsome!" she wasn't trying to hit on me. She was probably in her late forties. "You know, girls here are probably not as sophisticated as in the city, but they're simple and pure at heart."
I smiled at the description. I too look for a simple things in life, and kindness and genuineness in a person. I don't need to be impressed by the latest fashion or trends, gadgets or luxury. Just as long as there is love and kindness, mutual respect and trust, that is enough. People may look at me, look at my life till now and how I seem to be living the glamourously "high" life flying around so much, but really I'd be more settled when I'm settled and in one place, doing what I enjoy and being with someone I could open up to and be intimate with. Someone simple and pure at heart.
And who's a guy.
21 October 2011
20 October 2011
Delivering a dream
The elderly man limped with his cane with great effort to the opening of the narrow alleyway. He smiled, revealing the few crooked teeth he had, and waved us goodbye. I waved back and smiled. He said something in Taiwanese (or so it seemed), but his speech was slurred so I couldn't quite catch what he said. Even so, his gratitude needed no words. One bento box safely delivered, and many more to go...
Together with mum and a social worker, we shadowed a food delivery van for a good hour and a half around the eastern city of Hualien. Down narrow, windy lanes we navigated, into little communities of war veterans and aboriginals we ventured. Dogs sunbathing in the middle of the road and wandering stray cats lazily got out of the as we drove through isolated villages and run-down boroughs with slum-like and tiny housing units made of crumbling cement and brick.
The van in front of us would suddenly stop on the side, and the delivery lady would reach for the back of the van. There, stacks of bento boxes and bowls of soup are kept warm at a temperature of around 70C. The warmth of the food satisfies many hungry stomachs, and also warms the hearts of many elderly people who live by themselves and rarely have contact with the outside.
Every day, for lunch and dinner, over five hundred meals are delivered into the homes of elderly people in the region. Each bento box is special prepared to cater to specific needs. Some are vegetarian, others are made with special dietary requirements suitable for those with a variety of chronic illnesses, ranging from diabetes to cancer. Some simply have difficulty chewing or swallowing, so the food is blended or in liquid form. But each is meticulously prepared at a central kitchen and supervised by nutritionists.
Began over a decade ago, the "meal delivery service" of the Mennonite Christian Foundation targets hundreds of elderly people who live by themselves. For most, the children have moved away to other places for employment and their other half have already passed away. Many have financial difficulties, while others have physical impairments that prevent them from having a balanced and healthy diet. The programme not only aims to improve the diet of this often neglected segment of society, it also functions as a sort of "buddy" programme so that everyday (except Sundays, as the workers are Christians and don't work on Sabbath...) the elderly will have some kind of human contact and also have someone to regularly keep an eye on their well being.
The "meal delivery service" is partly subsidised by the government, but much of the funding comes from the generosity of the public, from people like my mum who would like to give what they can to help. "My husband is already gone, my children are away. I'm like a solitary elderly person," mum joked and explained to the social worker why their work appeals to her so.
Charity begins at home, as they say, and this kind really goes into the homes of the elderly and those in need to ensure that, whatever hardships they are facing, at the very least they do not have to worry about filling their stomachs. And for my mum, finally seeing and experiencing first hand what it is that the charity does, and how her little donations help contribute to making this world a better and warmer place, I can only imagine, brings her much joy and comfort. And it brings me much joy and satisfaction to know I have helped her achieve the wish of seeing one of her charities at work before she goes...
I peered into the doors of the homes of those we delivered food to. I only managed to see the faces of one or two beneficiaries of the programme, but behind every closed door, behind every cracked window of a run-down home, is a person, though old and aging, who needs as much support and care as everyone else, and who needs to be reminded that they have not been forgotten. As we ended our tour, my mum reminded me: "When you have the means, don't forget those less fortunate than you and those in need..."
I will always remember that, and try to live up to mum's example. Always, for as long as I live, even long after she is gone...
The van in front of us would suddenly stop on the side, and the delivery lady would reach for the back of the van. There, stacks of bento boxes and bowls of soup are kept warm at a temperature of around 70C. The warmth of the food satisfies many hungry stomachs, and also warms the hearts of many elderly people who live by themselves and rarely have contact with the outside.
Every day, for lunch and dinner, over five hundred meals are delivered into the homes of elderly people in the region. Each bento box is special prepared to cater to specific needs. Some are vegetarian, others are made with special dietary requirements suitable for those with a variety of chronic illnesses, ranging from diabetes to cancer. Some simply have difficulty chewing or swallowing, so the food is blended or in liquid form. But each is meticulously prepared at a central kitchen and supervised by nutritionists.
Began over a decade ago, the "meal delivery service" of the Mennonite Christian Foundation targets hundreds of elderly people who live by themselves. For most, the children have moved away to other places for employment and their other half have already passed away. Many have financial difficulties, while others have physical impairments that prevent them from having a balanced and healthy diet. The programme not only aims to improve the diet of this often neglected segment of society, it also functions as a sort of "buddy" programme so that everyday (except Sundays, as the workers are Christians and don't work on Sabbath...) the elderly will have some kind of human contact and also have someone to regularly keep an eye on their well being.
The "meal delivery service" is partly subsidised by the government, but much of the funding comes from the generosity of the public, from people like my mum who would like to give what they can to help. "My husband is already gone, my children are away. I'm like a solitary elderly person," mum joked and explained to the social worker why their work appeals to her so.
Charity begins at home, as they say, and this kind really goes into the homes of the elderly and those in need to ensure that, whatever hardships they are facing, at the very least they do not have to worry about filling their stomachs. And for my mum, finally seeing and experiencing first hand what it is that the charity does, and how her little donations help contribute to making this world a better and warmer place, I can only imagine, brings her much joy and comfort. And it brings me much joy and satisfaction to know I have helped her achieve the wish of seeing one of her charities at work before she goes...
I peered into the doors of the homes of those we delivered food to. I only managed to see the faces of one or two beneficiaries of the programme, but behind every closed door, behind every cracked window of a run-down home, is a person, though old and aging, who needs as much support and care as everyone else, and who needs to be reminded that they have not been forgotten. As we ended our tour, my mum reminded me: "When you have the means, don't forget those less fortunate than you and those in need..."
I will always remember that, and try to live up to mum's example. Always, for as long as I live, even long after she is gone...
Following a dream
Over the two years or so, mum often spoke of visiting the east coast of the island. In the city of Hualien is a Christian Mennonite charity which, among other things, delivers food daily to less elderly people in need who live in remote areas. Mum has regularly donated to this charity, and I remember one day she said to me she'd very much like to see what it is that they do. "I want to leave something behind when I leave..." she said.
So the other day I called te charity and made arrangements to go on a "food round" with them in the afternoon. "It's a wish from my mum's heart," I said to the gentleman on the other side of the phone. He understood what I meant, and said he'd do everything to accommodate us.
There are somethings I know mum will not do when I'm not around. Partly because she doesn't want to travel alone, partly because of her condition now and the reoccurring pains. And somethings, if not done, will probably never ever be done. How sad and unfortunate is that?Now it seems, mum and I are going to do something together she's been wanting to do, but didnt have the opportunity to do yet.
How beautiful this is...
19 October 2011
Uncle
"Take care," I said, "Take good care of yourself. Be happy, and live every single day to the fullest. That's what I tell my mum..." I gave him a pat on the shoulder. I would a hug, but it is simply too strange in the culture I grew up in, and in the situation I found myself in at that moment.
He was quiet, my uncle, quiet but visibly touched. "Every day lived is a day earned," he finally said. Since he was diagnosed with cancer, since he began treatment some eight months ago, I have written him twice. Little cards of encouragement and care, little boosts of confidence and life. As I've always believed, a few scribbles of ink on a piece of paper can say, can portray so much...
Last time I saw him in a picture my cousin sent to me, he was completely bald. But now, two months later, the hair, though still on the thin side, has more or less grown back. He looks "normal", but my aunt said he has lost considerable weight, and often has diarrhea. The doctor says he needs more treatment, as he is not completely "clean" of the cancer. But my uncle doesn't want to go through it again. "He feels it's too painful," my cousin told me.
I went to see him, and unlike before, this time I didn't bring much in terms of gifts. Having just come out of the monastery, I did take two books to give him. Both about the Dhamma (Buddha's teachings), and both contain some wisdom about dealing with illness, and death. They are a good read, and really help someone who is nearing the end of his life better prepare for the unknown and to better handle the inevitable fear and possible lingering regrets.
Most of my time while in the south of the country this time I spent with my uncle and my aunt. They have always been the ones with whom I stay whenever I visit that part of the country, and their home is like a second home for me. I remember playing with little plastic toy trains on their living room floor. I remember flipping through same old comic books in my older cousin's bedroom. And the room on the top floor is where I have memories of sleeping next to mum and dad every year around new year's time when the whole family gets together.
My uncle and aunt have seen me grow up and grow older, seen me me transform from that scrawny little kid to the evenly scrawnier and confused boy searching for his way in the world I am today. And I have watched them age, grow old and retire, grow white hair and shrink in size over the years. We have had hours and hours of talk about family and it was from my aunt, who is my dad's older sister and the oldest in the family, that I got to know more about my dad's childhood and the struggles of my parents to raise six children.
It is difficult to see them now, older, more fragile, and slowly becoming weakened and weakened by illness. Extremely difficult, and a few times, as I sat in their home, I had to hold back the tears.
"Take good care," I said again, as I turned around to wave goodbye again at my uncle. He stood by the front door of their home, slouching a little. In his eyes was a lost, forlorn look. I wish I could have said more, but was lost as to what more I could have said. Deep down inside, I wished that his health would remain stable,and that he can live happily, and be free from fear, free from remorse or agony about falling ill and dying. Perhaps this is the greatest gift I can offer him, and I gave that to him quietly, sincerely.
"I'll come see you whenever I come back..." I said as the car slowly pulled away.
I will, as I always do.
He was quiet, my uncle, quiet but visibly touched. "Every day lived is a day earned," he finally said. Since he was diagnosed with cancer, since he began treatment some eight months ago, I have written him twice. Little cards of encouragement and care, little boosts of confidence and life. As I've always believed, a few scribbles of ink on a piece of paper can say, can portray so much...
Last time I saw him in a picture my cousin sent to me, he was completely bald. But now, two months later, the hair, though still on the thin side, has more or less grown back. He looks "normal", but my aunt said he has lost considerable weight, and often has diarrhea. The doctor says he needs more treatment, as he is not completely "clean" of the cancer. But my uncle doesn't want to go through it again. "He feels it's too painful," my cousin told me.
I went to see him, and unlike before, this time I didn't bring much in terms of gifts. Having just come out of the monastery, I did take two books to give him. Both about the Dhamma (Buddha's teachings), and both contain some wisdom about dealing with illness, and death. They are a good read, and really help someone who is nearing the end of his life better prepare for the unknown and to better handle the inevitable fear and possible lingering regrets.
Most of my time while in the south of the country this time I spent with my uncle and my aunt. They have always been the ones with whom I stay whenever I visit that part of the country, and their home is like a second home for me. I remember playing with little plastic toy trains on their living room floor. I remember flipping through same old comic books in my older cousin's bedroom. And the room on the top floor is where I have memories of sleeping next to mum and dad every year around new year's time when the whole family gets together.
My uncle and aunt have seen me grow up and grow older, seen me me transform from that scrawny little kid to the evenly scrawnier and confused boy searching for his way in the world I am today. And I have watched them age, grow old and retire, grow white hair and shrink in size over the years. We have had hours and hours of talk about family and it was from my aunt, who is my dad's older sister and the oldest in the family, that I got to know more about my dad's childhood and the struggles of my parents to raise six children.
It is difficult to see them now, older, more fragile, and slowly becoming weakened and weakened by illness. Extremely difficult, and a few times, as I sat in their home, I had to hold back the tears.
"Take good care," I said again, as I turned around to wave goodbye again at my uncle. He stood by the front door of their home, slouching a little. In his eyes was a lost, forlorn look. I wish I could have said more, but was lost as to what more I could have said. Deep down inside, I wished that his health would remain stable,and that he can live happily, and be free from fear, free from remorse or agony about falling ill and dying. Perhaps this is the greatest gift I can offer him, and I gave that to him quietly, sincerely.
"I'll come see you whenever I come back..." I said as the car slowly pulled away.
I will, as I always do.
From here
"What?! You live abroad?"
I get that reaction a lot. If I don't say anything, nobody knows. And I never say it, unless people ask. And in many ways, I don't like being asked. Worst is when I'm being introduced by my relatives to strangers, because they like to add "...oh, and he lives abroad." As if I'm a trophy to be shown off, as if I add to the impression of being superior and more well off.
If unsaid, nobody can ever tell from the way I speak, the way I dress, and the way I behave, that I've lived most of my life outside of Taiwan.
I seem to be no different than the rest. Some may even say I'm more Taiwanese than most people, because I seem to know so much about local customs and traditions. Some probably think I'm a country-boy from the deep south, from farm country or from so remote mountain village, because of the way I speak. And in a way I am proud of that. So many years, the vast majority of my life, spent outside the country of my birth, and yet my cultural roots and identification with this little island are still so strong, and I hope will never be severed.
It's not that I dress or talk just to fit in. I just am the way I am, and I see no reason to change that when I'm in a different country (of course, social ettiquettes and how people interact with one another changes across borders, and I do adapt myself to those subtle differences.
But I've seen enough Taiwanese kids my age who (have) live(d) abroad, and who come here and simply stand out just by the way they are. And people who have lived abroad or who study abroad are treated differently, are often perceived as 'superior' beings somehow. They are looked at with envy, and are supposed to have it so much better than everyone else who has not studied or lived abroad. And I don't like that.
Perhaps it comes down to the mentally that the "grass is greener on the other side", and I live on the other side. But honestly, how different am I really from anyone else here, except that I live elsewhere?
I get that reaction a lot. If I don't say anything, nobody knows. And I never say it, unless people ask. And in many ways, I don't like being asked. Worst is when I'm being introduced by my relatives to strangers, because they like to add "...oh, and he lives abroad." As if I'm a trophy to be shown off, as if I add to the impression of being superior and more well off.
If unsaid, nobody can ever tell from the way I speak, the way I dress, and the way I behave, that I've lived most of my life outside of Taiwan.
I seem to be no different than the rest. Some may even say I'm more Taiwanese than most people, because I seem to know so much about local customs and traditions. Some probably think I'm a country-boy from the deep south, from farm country or from so remote mountain village, because of the way I speak. And in a way I am proud of that. So many years, the vast majority of my life, spent outside the country of my birth, and yet my cultural roots and identification with this little island are still so strong, and I hope will never be severed.
It's not that I dress or talk just to fit in. I just am the way I am, and I see no reason to change that when I'm in a different country (of course, social ettiquettes and how people interact with one another changes across borders, and I do adapt myself to those subtle differences.
But I've seen enough Taiwanese kids my age who (have) live(d) abroad, and who come here and simply stand out just by the way they are. And people who have lived abroad or who study abroad are treated differently, are often perceived as 'superior' beings somehow. They are looked at with envy, and are supposed to have it so much better than everyone else who has not studied or lived abroad. And I don't like that.
Perhaps it comes down to the mentally that the "grass is greener on the other side", and I live on the other side. But honestly, how different am I really from anyone else here, except that I live elsewhere?
18 October 2011
Cute little second cousin
I played with her, tickled her, made her laugh and jump around me. My cousin's daughter is three, and such a cute little girl. Happy, jumpy, smiley and free. As soon as she saw me, she stayed around me. Shy at first, she observed me a little, and as if she recognised who I was, she warmed up quickly, and soon we seem to have become best of friends.
Everytime I see her, she grows more active and cuter. Big beady eyes, short soft hair, dimples and laughter that can easily make you smile after a long day. I remember when she was still a little baby, I slept with her one night, and that night she woke up many times crying, wanting milk or her nappies changed.
Now, she bounced around my feet, pushed and played with the pram she used to sit in (which now belongs to her two month old baby brother!), and jumps up and down screaming she wants to be hugged. And at dinner, she wanted me to feed her, even though her parents were both right there.
When I lift her up, she burst out in laughter, swings her arms around freely when I throw her lightly into the air. She likes to play head-butting, how I love it when she uses her little fingers and little hand to touch my face, touch my cheeks and play with the rim of my glasses.
At one point I closed my eyes, held her close, gave her a sniff and dreamed that she was mine. My little girl, my little angel.... How I would protect her, cherish her and love her. How I would give her everything in te world, how I would care for her and nurture her so dearly... Maybe one day that day will come when I could hold my own child close, feel its warmth, listen to its cries and laughter, and give it unconditional, boundless love and affection... Maybe one day I would have someone next to me, with whom I could grow old together and raise a family. This wish, perhaps with age, perhaps with each day closer to the day I lose my mother, is growing stronger and more intense...
"You have to be nice to your brother," I told her at one point, "Play with him, and take care of him..." I spoke from experience, from being a younger brother who, growing up, so yearned for an older sibling who would take care of me, protect me and not hurt me. She looked at me and smiled and she nodded. I rubbed her head gently, and I hoped she understood.
At the door, I said "See you again soon," I said quietly as I waved goodbye.
She unexpectedly kissed me on the cheeks. I was surprised, but the kiss made me smile warmly.
Everytime I see her, she grows more active and cuter. Big beady eyes, short soft hair, dimples and laughter that can easily make you smile after a long day. I remember when she was still a little baby, I slept with her one night, and that night she woke up many times crying, wanting milk or her nappies changed.
Now, she bounced around my feet, pushed and played with the pram she used to sit in (which now belongs to her two month old baby brother!), and jumps up and down screaming she wants to be hugged. And at dinner, she wanted me to feed her, even though her parents were both right there.
When I lift her up, she burst out in laughter, swings her arms around freely when I throw her lightly into the air. She likes to play head-butting, how I love it when she uses her little fingers and little hand to touch my face, touch my cheeks and play with the rim of my glasses.
At one point I closed my eyes, held her close, gave her a sniff and dreamed that she was mine. My little girl, my little angel.... How I would protect her, cherish her and love her. How I would give her everything in te world, how I would care for her and nurture her so dearly... Maybe one day that day will come when I could hold my own child close, feel its warmth, listen to its cries and laughter, and give it unconditional, boundless love and affection... Maybe one day I would have someone next to me, with whom I could grow old together and raise a family. This wish, perhaps with age, perhaps with each day closer to the day I lose my mother, is growing stronger and more intense...
"You have to be nice to your brother," I told her at one point, "Play with him, and take care of him..." I spoke from experience, from being a younger brother who, growing up, so yearned for an older sibling who would take care of me, protect me and not hurt me. She looked at me and smiled and she nodded. I rubbed her head gently, and I hoped she understood.
At the door, I said "See you again soon," I said quietly as I waved goodbye.
She unexpectedly kissed me on the cheeks. I was surprised, but the kiss made me smile warmly.
Child weeping
For the first time since I arrived in Taiwan, I wept.
Warm, warm tears flowed and flowed and I could not stop them. Uncontrollably, the sadness, frustrations, hopes and prayers culminated in streams of tears that flooded my eyes and trickled down my cheeks.
It was embarrassing, and i tried so hard to restrain myself. How saddened, how heart-ached dad must feel to see me weep like that! But there being no one I can cry in front of now, and having nobody I can really turn to, I wept before my ancestors, against my attempts to put on a brave, brave face.
What caused this outburst of emotions? Pent up pain and hurt having to witness mum in pain and suffering. The helplessness, the feelings of being so torn and so unsure what more I could do. But there was also a feeling of completion to be the first to personally deliver pictures of my nephew, the first child of my generation, to the memorial plaque of my ancestors and my dad for them to see.
I was alright the whole day, even meeting my uncle who is undergoing chemotherapy, and seeing my aunt who has liver disease and who has a lot of problems walking due to an ever weakening knee. But the moment I knelt before my ancestors, the moment I "spoke" to them and told them my wishes and prayers, I broke down.
I began by presenting them with pictures of my nephew. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, I asked the ancestors to watch over the child, to protect him as he grows and develops, to guide him in his life and give him happiness and good health. It was a moving prayer, for I can imagine they must be so proud that for the first time in two decades, an immediate offspring of the family was born and that the family line will continue. I can just imagine ny grandparents, my dad, smiling an filled with such joy! I also asked the ancestors to safeguard the happiness and good health of my brother and his wife, and to give them the wisdom and patience in bringing up and educating the first child of this generation.
Already then, my eyes were moist from the sentiments of it all. As soon I moved onto prayers for my mum, the tears burst out.
Images of her in pain, echoes of her groans from great discomfort, the heartwrenching feeling seeing her suffer and suffer crossed my mind as I asked the ancestors and dad to watch over her. They would not let a member of the family suffer unnecessarily, right?
"Please protect mum," I prayed, "Please take away her pains, please may she be free from mental anguish and physical pain..." The tears streamed like a river, and I could barely see. In my mind, more images of mum lying there, writhing in pain, her face contorted in a posture that betrayed her great, great despair and fear of having fallen victim to this terrible and debilitating illness with no cure. "Please, may she be free from suffering and be happy..."
Desperate I must have looked, desperate I must have "sounded" in my prayers. But i was (and forever am) sincere and pure when I asked for the guardianship and blessings of the ancestors and my dad. What else can I do? Who else can I turn to for help, compassion and understanding but the very people- even though they are long gone- who are the reason why I exist today?
"Grandma, grandpa, dad... Please lift up mum's spirits, please give her courage and protection as she undergoes many more gruelling weeks of treatment..." In my mind, I saw mum sitting alone there, in the chemotherapy ward, with closed eyes and many tubes connected to her arm...
I stopped crying, for I had cried enough, and my ancestors had seen enough of me cry. I collected myself, wiped the tears dry with the short sleeve of my Tshirt, and rubbed my eyes. The sun was quickly setting, and the world was awash with a hint of majestic and melancholic orange. No one, no one but my ancestors, would know how I wept this afternoon.
Bowing humbly and respectfully, I slowly stood up and placed the incense before the memorial. For a few moments, I watched the lit end of the stick burn as a thin thread of white smoke escaped and delivered my messages to heavens above.
"Dad, hear my prayers... Hear my wishes..." I stood up and prepared to leave. A waft of incense filled my nostrils and I breathed in deep.
"Let go, let go... Whatever will be, will be..."
Warm, warm tears flowed and flowed and I could not stop them. Uncontrollably, the sadness, frustrations, hopes and prayers culminated in streams of tears that flooded my eyes and trickled down my cheeks.
It was embarrassing, and i tried so hard to restrain myself. How saddened, how heart-ached dad must feel to see me weep like that! But there being no one I can cry in front of now, and having nobody I can really turn to, I wept before my ancestors, against my attempts to put on a brave, brave face.
What caused this outburst of emotions? Pent up pain and hurt having to witness mum in pain and suffering. The helplessness, the feelings of being so torn and so unsure what more I could do. But there was also a feeling of completion to be the first to personally deliver pictures of my nephew, the first child of my generation, to the memorial plaque of my ancestors and my dad for them to see.
I was alright the whole day, even meeting my uncle who is undergoing chemotherapy, and seeing my aunt who has liver disease and who has a lot of problems walking due to an ever weakening knee. But the moment I knelt before my ancestors, the moment I "spoke" to them and told them my wishes and prayers, I broke down.
I began by presenting them with pictures of my nephew. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, I asked the ancestors to watch over the child, to protect him as he grows and develops, to guide him in his life and give him happiness and good health. It was a moving prayer, for I can imagine they must be so proud that for the first time in two decades, an immediate offspring of the family was born and that the family line will continue. I can just imagine ny grandparents, my dad, smiling an filled with such joy! I also asked the ancestors to safeguard the happiness and good health of my brother and his wife, and to give them the wisdom and patience in bringing up and educating the first child of this generation.
Images of her in pain, echoes of her groans from great discomfort, the heartwrenching feeling seeing her suffer and suffer crossed my mind as I asked the ancestors and dad to watch over her. They would not let a member of the family suffer unnecessarily, right?
"Please protect mum," I prayed, "Please take away her pains, please may she be free from mental anguish and physical pain..." The tears streamed like a river, and I could barely see. In my mind, more images of mum lying there, writhing in pain, her face contorted in a posture that betrayed her great, great despair and fear of having fallen victim to this terrible and debilitating illness with no cure. "Please, may she be free from suffering and be happy..."
Desperate I must have looked, desperate I must have "sounded" in my prayers. But i was (and forever am) sincere and pure when I asked for the guardianship and blessings of the ancestors and my dad. What else can I do? Who else can I turn to for help, compassion and understanding but the very people- even though they are long gone- who are the reason why I exist today?
"Grandma, grandpa, dad... Please lift up mum's spirits, please give her courage and protection as she undergoes many more gruelling weeks of treatment..." In my mind, I saw mum sitting alone there, in the chemotherapy ward, with closed eyes and many tubes connected to her arm...
I stopped crying, for I had cried enough, and my ancestors had seen enough of me cry. I collected myself, wiped the tears dry with the short sleeve of my Tshirt, and rubbed my eyes. The sun was quickly setting, and the world was awash with a hint of majestic and melancholic orange. No one, no one but my ancestors, would know how I wept this afternoon.
Bowing humbly and respectfully, I slowly stood up and placed the incense before the memorial. For a few moments, I watched the lit end of the stick burn as a thin thread of white smoke escaped and delivered my messages to heavens above.
"Dad, hear my prayers... Hear my wishes..." I stood up and prepared to leave. A waft of incense filled my nostrils and I breathed in deep.
"Let go, let go... Whatever will be, will be..."
Three ladies
I could not understand what they were saying, and that fascinated me. It wasn't Mandarin, wasn't Taiwanese, even though there were Taiwanese words here and there that I could pick out. And it wasn't Hakka, the other major language that is spoken in Taiwan.
Three elderly ladies, dressed in "modern" day clothes, and radiating with such spirit and laughter. I wouldn't be surprise if they were over seventy, or more. They were joking around, laughing and smiling freely. Their skin complexion was more toned, and they seem to have aged naturally without the cover of cosmetics.
Then I noticed one of them had a marking on her lower lip. A dark, grayish blue marking etched into the skin. It wasn't a skin discolouration. Looking again made me realise it was the remnants of a tattoo of some sort.
They continued to chat, in a foreign language with strong sounds and pitches, melodic and flowing like a river. A language I could not understand, yet was fascinated by.
There are officially fourteen separate aboriginal tribes on this tiny little island, each with their own distinct culture and language. Most tribes live in the highlands or mountainous areas, often a result of forced relocation as the settlers long ago began to claim more fertile lands in the valleys and plains.
Where I was waiting for a bus is known to have a high concentration of Formosan aboriginals. And the distinct bluish gray markings have become more known by the movie hit Seediq Bale, about the fate of an entire aboriginal tribe during the Japanese colonisation period.
I looked at the elderly ladies with such fascination, and wondered about their lives, their names, where they lived and where they have come from. A part of me wondered whether their children, and their children's children still speak the language, and how much of the ancient ways have been passed down or erased by successive colonial experiences and the strong wave of sinicisation since the arrival of the Chinese nationalist regime.
I admire the lines on their faces, their naturalness, and how they have managed to survive and preserve their language and identities despite in the face of marginalization, suppression, and modernity. Nowadays, aboriginals have been integrated into mainstream society, many of them becoming talented and famous singers. Schools in aboriginal areas teach the children the culture and language of their ancestors. Protected areas have been established by the government to preserve the tribes' autonomy and cultural heritage, and a movement begun in the nineties saw many people reclaim their rights and aboriginal names. But still, much is unknown about their origins, about their history, even though many Taiwanese, me included, have aboriginal blood in them. And on the anniversary of the regime's centennial anniversary recently, a group of protesters voiced concern that aboriginals are becoming photo ops for tourist brochures, but meaningful protection of their rights and culture are sadly still lacking.
I looked at the elderly women. What will become of them and their tribe in the future?
Three elderly ladies, dressed in "modern" day clothes, and radiating with such spirit and laughter. I wouldn't be surprise if they were over seventy, or more. They were joking around, laughing and smiling freely. Their skin complexion was more toned, and they seem to have aged naturally without the cover of cosmetics.
Then I noticed one of them had a marking on her lower lip. A dark, grayish blue marking etched into the skin. It wasn't a skin discolouration. Looking again made me realise it was the remnants of a tattoo of some sort.
They continued to chat, in a foreign language with strong sounds and pitches, melodic and flowing like a river. A language I could not understand, yet was fascinated by.
There are officially fourteen separate aboriginal tribes on this tiny little island, each with their own distinct culture and language. Most tribes live in the highlands or mountainous areas, often a result of forced relocation as the settlers long ago began to claim more fertile lands in the valleys and plains.
Where I was waiting for a bus is known to have a high concentration of Formosan aboriginals. And the distinct bluish gray markings have become more known by the movie hit Seediq Bale, about the fate of an entire aboriginal tribe during the Japanese colonisation period.
I looked at the elderly ladies with such fascination, and wondered about their lives, their names, where they lived and where they have come from. A part of me wondered whether their children, and their children's children still speak the language, and how much of the ancient ways have been passed down or erased by successive colonial experiences and the strong wave of sinicisation since the arrival of the Chinese nationalist regime.
I admire the lines on their faces, their naturalness, and how they have managed to survive and preserve their language and identities despite in the face of marginalization, suppression, and modernity. Nowadays, aboriginals have been integrated into mainstream society, many of them becoming talented and famous singers. Schools in aboriginal areas teach the children the culture and language of their ancestors. Protected areas have been established by the government to preserve the tribes' autonomy and cultural heritage, and a movement begun in the nineties saw many people reclaim their rights and aboriginal names. But still, much is unknown about their origins, about their history, even though many Taiwanese, me included, have aboriginal blood in them. And on the anniversary of the regime's centennial anniversary recently, a group of protesters voiced concern that aboriginals are becoming photo ops for tourist brochures, but meaningful protection of their rights and culture are sadly still lacking.
I looked at the elderly women. What will become of them and their tribe in the future?
17 October 2011
Be patient
Be patient with yourself, with the circumstances you cannot change, with the conditions of the world as they are now, right now.
Things are just the way they are, people are just the way they are. Your feelings and reactions are just the way they are.
Why get frustrated that things seem not to move forward? Why get angry at a situation you cannot improve on, however much you would like to? Why become so caught up wanting to free yourself from this 'mess' or 'trouble' you feel you are caught up in but cannot escape from?
You are only a prisoner of your own mind, only trapped in the world of your mind's creation. If you imagine a way out, if you just step out, if you want to be free, you will be free.
Being patient means not having expectations or disappointments, not willing things to always go as your heart desires. Being patient means being at ease with yourself and being at ease with where you find yourself, whomever you are with.
Be patient and realise that all negative feelings will pass if you do not let the feelings feed and surface. Anger, frustration, fear, desire... They do not help anyone. Worse than that, this mental imbalance, this negativity harms you and those around you.
And like all things, like all phenomenon, the feelings, good or bad, will all disappear, or at least wane, if only you are patient and give it time. Watch them come, watch them go, and watch and enjoy the moment of relative calm and ease the mind experiences once negative feelings have gone.
You cannot rush time, and you cannot change circumstances or people. You can only accept them and deal with them with wisdom, patience and compassion.
Things are just the way they are, people are just the way they are. Your feelings and reactions are just the way they are.
Why get frustrated that things seem not to move forward? Why get angry at a situation you cannot improve on, however much you would like to? Why become so caught up wanting to free yourself from this 'mess' or 'trouble' you feel you are caught up in but cannot escape from?
You are only a prisoner of your own mind, only trapped in the world of your mind's creation. If you imagine a way out, if you just step out, if you want to be free, you will be free.
Being patient means not having expectations or disappointments, not willing things to always go as your heart desires. Being patient means being at ease with yourself and being at ease with where you find yourself, whomever you are with.
Be patient and realise that all negative feelings will pass if you do not let the feelings feed and surface. Anger, frustration, fear, desire... They do not help anyone. Worse than that, this mental imbalance, this negativity harms you and those around you.
And like all things, like all phenomenon, the feelings, good or bad, will all disappear, or at least wane, if only you are patient and give it time. Watch them come, watch them go, and watch and enjoy the moment of relative calm and ease the mind experiences once negative feelings have gone.
You cannot rush time, and you cannot change circumstances or people. You can only accept them and deal with them with wisdom, patience and compassion.
Just let it go...
Almost immediately, and resolutely "No."
"It's not?" I was still insure, but deep down, it was the answer I expected, because deep down, I think I knew the answer already. In a way, I was simply looking for a confirmation, especially from someone whose opinion I respect, whose life experiences and wisdom I hold in high esteem.
"Nothing is worth it if it causes you much suffering." Life is complicated enough as it is, with so much suffering. Why add on to that? Why not simplify life and your emotional state of mind? The monk told me about the parable of a man who went to see the Buddha. He had hot, burning coal in his hand, and was obviously hurting, and he went to seek advice.
"You know you are already suffering, but you still cling on, you still let the coal burn and hurt you. Just let it go! Be wise and determined, don't cling on and attach. Just let it go!"
And once more, I am even more determined to let go and to move on.
I love him
But every day I'm learning
All my life I've only been pretending
Without me
His world would go on turning
A world that's full of happiness
That I have never known
I love him
I love him
I love him
But only on my own
Shaken
I shuddered and stirred from that state of half sleep. The shaking made
me think it was an earthquake, and I was filled almost immediately with
dread and fear. But fresh in my mind was the dream, so intense and so
seemingly real...
Moments before regaining consciousness, I saw myself in bed, lying there sleeping, or falling asleep. Next to me was my friend, who had his hands around me.
"Stop!" I called out, "stop shaking me!" I was in a foetal position, legs curled, and body folded together as tightly as possible, with both my arms folded before my chest. It was a defensive posture.
My friend had one hand down my chest, and it looked like he was grabbing at something. But I protested, quietly at first, then louder and more insistently.
"Stop, stop shaking me," I called out, but he would not stop. I can't recall what kind of mood I was in, maybe playful, maybe serious, but my body was being shaken uncontrollably, and I confined to protest. Was it just playing, or was I really afraid and had no control over how my friend was shaking me? I don't know. I only k know he continued to shake me, and seemed deaf to my calls to stop.
And I was shaken awake...
Moments before regaining consciousness, I saw myself in bed, lying there sleeping, or falling asleep. Next to me was my friend, who had his hands around me.
"Stop!" I called out, "stop shaking me!" I was in a foetal position, legs curled, and body folded together as tightly as possible, with both my arms folded before my chest. It was a defensive posture.
My friend had one hand down my chest, and it looked like he was grabbing at something. But I protested, quietly at first, then louder and more insistently.
"Stop, stop shaking me," I called out, but he would not stop. I can't recall what kind of mood I was in, maybe playful, maybe serious, but my body was being shaken uncontrollably, and I confined to protest. Was it just playing, or was I really afraid and had no control over how my friend was shaking me? I don't know. I only k know he continued to shake me, and seemed deaf to my calls to stop.
And I was shaken awake...
16 October 2011
Helping yourself, helping another
Just as a doctor must study and train before he can go out and help
others, a practitioner, however well intentioned he may be to want to
help those around him, must train and deepen his understanding and
practice of the ways of the world before he can truly help others.
Sitting there and meditating may seem selfish, as you're focusing on training your own mind and learning to see the world as it really is. But before you train your mind, before you train and learn to master your own emotions, how do you expect to be a support to others and to help others who need comfort and compassion?
There was a story of a man trapped in a well crying out for help. A passerby hears the cries and well intentioned though without thinking he jumped into the well. Now two people are stuck in a well...
If you does not attempt to liberate yourself from suffering, how can you liberate another from his or her pain and suffering? If you are not able to step back and stop yourself becoming caught up in confusion and chaos, how do you expect to free another from the same?
Sitting there and meditating may seem selfish, as you're focusing on training your own mind and learning to see the world as it really is. But before you train your mind, before you train and learn to master your own emotions, how do you expect to be a support to others and to help others who need comfort and compassion?
There was a story of a man trapped in a well crying out for help. A passerby hears the cries and well intentioned though without thinking he jumped into the well. Now two people are stuck in a well...
If you does not attempt to liberate yourself from suffering, how can you liberate another from his or her pain and suffering? If you are not able to step back and stop yourself becoming caught up in confusion and chaos, how do you expect to free another from the same?
Pain
"It's unbearable," mum said, as her body writhed in the chair from the
discomfort and pain. I looked at her, the same helpless but
compassionate and frustrated look I give her every time I notice that
she is hurting, suffering.
How do I notice? From the muffled groans, from the way she raises her arm above her head, from the way she begins to sweat and close her eyes tightly (and I imagine tightly gritting her teeth). And at times, if I'm in the next room, i notice she's in pain from the sound of pills rattling against the canister.
I took her arm in my hand, and held it, stroked it softly. With every stroke, deep down I send her love, send her compassion. And I imagine, that the pain or whatever monster is causing my dear mum pain is tamed or soothed. Of course, i dream that the monster living inside mum's body can eventually be exorcised so it will soon go away, and hopefully never return...
"Your hand is so warm," mum said. With that, I held onto mum's hand, and our fingers locked. It felt awkward, because the last person I held hands with was my ex, and holding hands has that associated feeling of warmth and intimacy. But honestly, awkwardness disappears in the face of pain and illness.
All that remains, all that matters, is being able to hold mum's hand and knowing that for those few and rare moments, she does not feel so much pain, she does not suffer so much.
All that matters is that the monster is temporarily tamed... and, hopefully, will one day go away.
How do I notice? From the muffled groans, from the way she raises her arm above her head, from the way she begins to sweat and close her eyes tightly (and I imagine tightly gritting her teeth). And at times, if I'm in the next room, i notice she's in pain from the sound of pills rattling against the canister.
I took her arm in my hand, and held it, stroked it softly. With every stroke, deep down I send her love, send her compassion. And I imagine, that the pain or whatever monster is causing my dear mum pain is tamed or soothed. Of course, i dream that the monster living inside mum's body can eventually be exorcised so it will soon go away, and hopefully never return...
"Your hand is so warm," mum said. With that, I held onto mum's hand, and our fingers locked. It felt awkward, because the last person I held hands with was my ex, and holding hands has that associated feeling of warmth and intimacy. But honestly, awkwardness disappears in the face of pain and illness.
All that remains, all that matters, is being able to hold mum's hand and knowing that for those few and rare moments, she does not feel so much pain, she does not suffer so much.
All that matters is that the monster is temporarily tamed... and, hopefully, will one day go away.
Sharing
After over a week at home, I took some time out today to meet a friend. She used to be in my class back in Montreal, and perhaps it's the fact we are both Taiwanese, we have always had this ease and natural connection with one another.
We spoke about various things, compared notes and pages of our lives since we last met (which was only four months ago...). Of course, we spoke about my mum's condition, and of all the people I know, she could really understand what I am going through (not to say that I do not appreciate all the support and comfort my friends, especially one person, have given me, and continually give me).
My friend also lost her father when she was around my age, and similarly, within a short time after the father's passing, her mother was diagnosed with cancer. In the final two years, she and her sister took turns to take care of their mother.
As I spoke of my frustrations and, at times, anger being with mum, to my great surprise, she nodded and nodded. "It is very normal," she said, especially when your parent begins to talk about and repeatedly talks about "arrangements" after passing away... where this or that is, what is left behind. Worse of all is listening to talk of wanting to die, listening to talk of your parent feeling so helpless, useless and being a "waste of life".
As much as it is not good to react that way, especially toward someone who is already in a fragile state of mind and health, my friend too said she got angry and frustrated. What really helped her was taking turns with her sister to take care of her mother. That "break" in between was what saved her from going insane, because when you are constantly surrounded by that kind of negative talk, when you are constantly seeing a loved one suffer pain and are not able to do anything about it, a person's patience and compassion is tested and eroded day by day, moment by moment. It is simply too much for anyone to take, and simply unhealthy for the way taking care, and for the one who is taken care of.
I was relieved when I heard my friend echo that she had similar feelings. Of course, it does not excuse myself for getting angry or frustrated, because those emotions can be placed in check if I just try not to give in to them. But at least I know now that it is only "human" to react in certain ways and under certain conditions, because the mind (or at least the unenlightened mind) simply does not know else to respond other than with anger and frustration...
"Hang on there," she said, and told me that I have already done a lot, more than what most people would do. Keeping her company, visiting her, taking care of daily things, like cooking and cleaning... they may all see so trivial, so insignificant compared to the scale of the seriousness of the condition mum is facing, but they help. They help soothe her pain, just as much as I sometimes hold her hand and hope that the sores and pain in her hand will quickly go away. They help to make her feel loved and cared for, just as much as I call her almost every day when I am not around to ask how she is feeling and what she is doing.
I hugged my friend goodbye, very moved, moved almost to tears, by her sharing what I can only imagine is a very intimate and very sensitive topic to talk about. I thanked her, and thanked her again for sharing, for being there, for listening, and for making me feel lighter, and better about myself, and what I am facing...
We spoke about various things, compared notes and pages of our lives since we last met (which was only four months ago...). Of course, we spoke about my mum's condition, and of all the people I know, she could really understand what I am going through (not to say that I do not appreciate all the support and comfort my friends, especially one person, have given me, and continually give me).
My friend also lost her father when she was around my age, and similarly, within a short time after the father's passing, her mother was diagnosed with cancer. In the final two years, she and her sister took turns to take care of their mother.
As I spoke of my frustrations and, at times, anger being with mum, to my great surprise, she nodded and nodded. "It is very normal," she said, especially when your parent begins to talk about and repeatedly talks about "arrangements" after passing away... where this or that is, what is left behind. Worse of all is listening to talk of wanting to die, listening to talk of your parent feeling so helpless, useless and being a "waste of life".
As much as it is not good to react that way, especially toward someone who is already in a fragile state of mind and health, my friend too said she got angry and frustrated. What really helped her was taking turns with her sister to take care of her mother. That "break" in between was what saved her from going insane, because when you are constantly surrounded by that kind of negative talk, when you are constantly seeing a loved one suffer pain and are not able to do anything about it, a person's patience and compassion is tested and eroded day by day, moment by moment. It is simply too much for anyone to take, and simply unhealthy for the way taking care, and for the one who is taken care of.
I was relieved when I heard my friend echo that she had similar feelings. Of course, it does not excuse myself for getting angry or frustrated, because those emotions can be placed in check if I just try not to give in to them. But at least I know now that it is only "human" to react in certain ways and under certain conditions, because the mind (or at least the unenlightened mind) simply does not know else to respond other than with anger and frustration...
"Hang on there," she said, and told me that I have already done a lot, more than what most people would do. Keeping her company, visiting her, taking care of daily things, like cooking and cleaning... they may all see so trivial, so insignificant compared to the scale of the seriousness of the condition mum is facing, but they help. They help soothe her pain, just as much as I sometimes hold her hand and hope that the sores and pain in her hand will quickly go away. They help to make her feel loved and cared for, just as much as I call her almost every day when I am not around to ask how she is feeling and what she is doing.
I hugged my friend goodbye, very moved, moved almost to tears, by her sharing what I can only imagine is a very intimate and very sensitive topic to talk about. I thanked her, and thanked her again for sharing, for being there, for listening, and for making me feel lighter, and better about myself, and what I am facing...
14 October 2011
Working life
Tax officer, she said. After she graduated, the first in her family, she was lucky to that the government was recruiting civil servants, and she managed to get through the difficult exam. And within a month or so, she began her career. She wanted to interact with taxpayers and educate people about the importance of paying taxes, because back then people were (and are even now) very resistant to the government taking money away from them. But little did people understand that raising taxes is necessary for a country to develop, to provide public goods and services that we take for granted.
Throughout her career, she said she advised many people, many low income people and families, how to reduce their taxable amounts and get reductions. It's all part of her job, she said, part of serving the public, and doing so within confines of the law.
The most memorable day was about thirty year ago. I wasn't even born yet, and my brother was only one or so. A middle aged man walked into her office, sat down and began to cry. He didn't make much money, and he complained the government was taking a lot of it away. "I don't even have money to pay my son's tuition..." (at the time, education was not free).
Mum, seeing the poor man cry, and moved by his story, took out whatever she had in her purse at the time and gave it to the man. "Not really thinking much", mum said. Not really because she consciously wanted to do "good", but because it was and felt like the right thing to do. She was purely driven by a sense of compassion and charity.
"I don't know if that man just made up a story to get sympathy, but it doesn't matter..."
No, it didn't matter. But the story revealed to me a side of my mum that I am grateful for having inherited.
13 October 2011
Friends of Cancer
"The most painful thing about oral cancer is... I can't even clearly say "I love you"
I stepped into the meeting room, and already a dozen or so people were seated and listening to the enthusiastic talk of the social worker. Quietly I sat down, and was in the midst of a "Friends of Cancer" group meeting.
Yes, as frightening as cancer is, you can be a "friend" to it, as long as you accept that it is there, and try to coexist with it, instead of fear and dread what it will do to you and your body. And the meeting was for patients and their relatives, for them to get to know about their condition, understand about nutrition and post-treatment care, as well as get support, whether psychological or financial.
When I inadvertently saw the flyer at the chemotherapy ward, I though it would be about head-and-neck cancer in general. But the one-hour lecture was focused more on oral cancer, which is but a subgroup. Mum did not come with me, as much as I would have liked her to, as she returned home after a few hours of treatment at the hospital.
Around the room were mostly middle aged males sitting next to (what I presume are) their wives. The vast majority (a staggering 88%!) of cases of oral cancer in Taiwan is caused by the chewing of betel nuts (penang). Smoking and alcoholism are other causes. It is most common among the lower and working classes and in the countryside, where the chewing of betel nuts is more prevalent, and primarily it strikes the male segment of the population.
Most of the patients in the room had a cough mask on, thus hiding most of their faces. Other than chemotherapy and radiotherapy, the most effective treatment for oral cancer is the surgical removal of the infected area, which often involves the complete removal of parts of the mouth and the lower jaw area. And after the procedure, the patient often resembles someone who has been seriously defaced after a terrible blow to the face. Truth be told, and as judgmental as it may be, some of the faces look frightening, like a deformation, and I avoided looking at the faces for too long...
But this is exactly the kind of stigma and ostracisation that patients of oral cancer face. People shun them, and employers are afraid to hire them, because they are not "presentable enough. It is bad enough to have cancer, and to deal with the debilitating effects of the treatment, but after the treatment, most have to live as social outcasts, and many dare only go out wearing a mask of some sort.
I was extremely moved by the talk of the social worker, who shared information on getting support. Two people came up on stage, and despite inhibited ability to speak after the surgical removal of much of their mouth, they had such enthusiasm anead optimism for life. Just because you have a life-threatening illness, one that in some cases will almost definitely kill you, does not mean you cannot live and live life to the max. They were depressed and isolated themselves from everyone, but it takes just a change of heart to finally go out and face the sunshine, to realise that the illness does not mean the end of everything, but a new beginning and a new perspective on life. They shared how their relationship with their families have changed, how they have learned to appreciate life and the world much more. "Living day by day, moment to moment..." It is almost Buddhist in the approach to the world and everything in it. No use beating yourself up about a condition you cannot change, so just accept it, embrace it, and take everything as it comes and goes. And the foundation has done invaluable work to support patients and their families, with work programmes, holidays, counseling services and much more. One such working programme is training oral cancer patients, most of whom have never touched a needle or thread, to work as tailors in the comfort of their own home, making textile carrier bags for sale. I was extremely touched by their spirit, and at various moments moved to tears by their ability to accept fate, and to continue living despite the physical and mental pain they have had to, and most likely continue to, endure on a daily basis. At the end of the meeting, we were all given a carrier bag, the very kind sewn by a survivor of oral cancer.
The fabric felt especially soft, especially precious, and so very humbling. As I left the room, I looked the people with whom I shared an informative and touching hour with. I walked slowly away, and the corridor of the oral cancer ward filled with the chatter and rare laughter of patients and their relatives.
Testing the limit
The day after chemo is always the hardest. Countless good and bad cells have been killed off, leaving mum weak and lethargic, more than normal. Seeing her like that pains me, and this time it seems to be worse than ever before.
She apologises... for sleeping so much, for being so 'lazy', for being at home all day, for making me feel anxious and worried. I tell her that it's not her fault, that she cannot control how she feels and all the pain that she has. I try to comfort her, to reassure her by stroking her hand once in a while... but nothing seems to placate her mood and her mind.
More and more, I myself feel like I am being tested to the limit. My patience, my compassion, my ability to care, my ability to be strong for someone else's sake... tested and eroded with each passing moment, each passing day, which seem to pass so slowly.
I know that we are only ever constrained and imprisoned by our own minds and perceptions. But being here with mum, the helplessness, is killing me deep inside, really exhausting my body and mind. I try to control my emotions, not let the frustrations and the boredom get to me or show. But at times, my short temper, my raised and anxious voice show how terribly impatient and uncaring I may have become.
How have I become like this? When did I become so concerned about my own wellbeing and happiness that I find it harder and harder to empathise what mum is going through? More and more I find myself wondering how much easier life would be if I did not have to deal with all this. Why can't I be out there having "fun", enjoying my youth, going out, doing what I want to do with my life, instead of being here taking care of mum and being faced with illness and death every day...? Have many opportunities have I had to pass up because I had (or actually, wanted) to come home?
I know, I know it myself it is such a terrible thought to have, and I feel guilty for thinking that way. Mum could never know I have these thoughts, for it would devastate her and make her feel more like she has been a burden to my life throughout these years.
Sometime ago a friend of mine commented that nobody but me has the ability to give up my youth and so much of my time over the years just to be with mum. I still do not regret ever coming back here to be with her, to encourage and support her at critical moments... It was always a decision I made, and I stand by them, and I am in a way glad that I can place mum first above all else and rush back here whenever she needs me (even though she never asked me to). But being back here, with every extended period of time I spend here, and with every passing day, I find myself more and more wanting to get away, wanting to go back to my own life.
Why is that? Perhaps being 'stuck' is my fate, and if I can't get out of it, I should try to 'enjoy' the feelings of confinement and frustration of having to live with mum and live with her condition day in and day out.
If I just tell myself, again and again, that so many others have it so much worse... if I just look at mum and see her frown from pain or groan from her uncontrollable discomfort, I ask myself: how can you even think of yourself or think that you have the worse situation to deal with in life?
She apologises... for sleeping so much, for being so 'lazy', for being at home all day, for making me feel anxious and worried. I tell her that it's not her fault, that she cannot control how she feels and all the pain that she has. I try to comfort her, to reassure her by stroking her hand once in a while... but nothing seems to placate her mood and her mind.
More and more, I myself feel like I am being tested to the limit. My patience, my compassion, my ability to care, my ability to be strong for someone else's sake... tested and eroded with each passing moment, each passing day, which seem to pass so slowly.
I know that we are only ever constrained and imprisoned by our own minds and perceptions. But being here with mum, the helplessness, is killing me deep inside, really exhausting my body and mind. I try to control my emotions, not let the frustrations and the boredom get to me or show. But at times, my short temper, my raised and anxious voice show how terribly impatient and uncaring I may have become.
How have I become like this? When did I become so concerned about my own wellbeing and happiness that I find it harder and harder to empathise what mum is going through? More and more I find myself wondering how much easier life would be if I did not have to deal with all this. Why can't I be out there having "fun", enjoying my youth, going out, doing what I want to do with my life, instead of being here taking care of mum and being faced with illness and death every day...? Have many opportunities have I had to pass up because I had (or actually, wanted) to come home?
I know, I know it myself it is such a terrible thought to have, and I feel guilty for thinking that way. Mum could never know I have these thoughts, for it would devastate her and make her feel more like she has been a burden to my life throughout these years.
Sometime ago a friend of mine commented that nobody but me has the ability to give up my youth and so much of my time over the years just to be with mum. I still do not regret ever coming back here to be with her, to encourage and support her at critical moments... It was always a decision I made, and I stand by them, and I am in a way glad that I can place mum first above all else and rush back here whenever she needs me (even though she never asked me to). But being back here, with every extended period of time I spend here, and with every passing day, I find myself more and more wanting to get away, wanting to go back to my own life.
Why is that? Perhaps being 'stuck' is my fate, and if I can't get out of it, I should try to 'enjoy' the feelings of confinement and frustration of having to live with mum and live with her condition day in and day out.
If I just tell myself, again and again, that so many others have it so much worse... if I just look at mum and see her frown from pain or groan from her uncontrollable discomfort, I ask myself: how can you even think of yourself or think that you have the worse situation to deal with in life?
12 October 2011
Dream
Everyone has dreams. Sometimes we never get to realise them or live them, because we keep on telling ourselves there will be tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. And then we die, and the dreams die with us.
And there are times when you know your time on this world may be limited, so you are prompted to accomplish your dreams soon, or as soon as possible. Facing death can be terrifying, or it can be a refresher course on living, living to not just dream, but living to realise your dreams.
Mum has been sharing some of her dreams with me. A dream of my is to help mum realise her dreams. If I can in any way help her get closer to seeing her dream realised, I'll do it. Many have already been reaslised, especially in the past year or so... travel to Canada, see brother get married, have a grandchild... All of these have given her hope, given her a reason to continue living and go through all the excruciating pain and treatments.
One dream is simple and obvious, and it is to meet and hold her own grandchild. I have been encouraging her to visit Europe again at the end of December, so she can spend the very magical Christmas period with my brother and his family. Most important of all, so she can share that miraculous feeling of Christmas with loved ones and a newborn baby. My fingers are crossed on that one, and I'm working to make that happen...
And tonight, as we went for a stroll after dinner, she told me another dream of hers. "I'd like to see you settled down, get married and have children..." I was a bit lost for words.
"There is nothing more beautiful than building a family together with the one person who can support you and be your best friend and partner for the rest of your life..." At one point mum joked I shouldn't rush into marriage so I can please her before she "goes"!
"It's hard to find a soul mate, but when you do keep that..." I smiled, and didn't say anything. I've told her on several occasions how I'd love to settle down, to be with someone who is compatible and whom I can give to and receive love in return from.
Truth be told, I'm very envious of my brother and his family, envious of the joys of holding his own child, and having someone to come home to every day (but of course, I know even family and marriage bring different kinds of worries...). But how beautiful it is to see him, his wife and son together... how happy, how very, very beautiful and touching...
"What about with [my friend]?" mum asked. She has met him on a few occasions, and mum has a good impression of him. She was disappointed when I told her back in May that we broke up. I wasn't sure where to begin, how to explain where we were now. I just said he's a very good friend, but no more. We are... I don't know what we are, where we are headed. "He seems to be very caring, and you're both outstanding boys," mum said "You seem to be good together".
There are a number of dreams I can help mum fulfill... make sure she is fit enough to travel to see her grandson, make sure she is well enough and accompany her to a number of places she would like to. I look forward to that sense of 'achievement' when I help her realise that dream. I look forward to seeing her smile, to seeing the calm on her face when she has fulfilled one of her dreams.
But getting finding someone, getting married, settling down... As much as it is also a dream of mine, I'm not sure if I can fulfill it. And I'm not sure if I can fulfill it in time for mum to see me, with tears in her eyes, exchange vows with my one true love...
And there are times when you know your time on this world may be limited, so you are prompted to accomplish your dreams soon, or as soon as possible. Facing death can be terrifying, or it can be a refresher course on living, living to not just dream, but living to realise your dreams.
Mum has been sharing some of her dreams with me. A dream of my is to help mum realise her dreams. If I can in any way help her get closer to seeing her dream realised, I'll do it. Many have already been reaslised, especially in the past year or so... travel to Canada, see brother get married, have a grandchild... All of these have given her hope, given her a reason to continue living and go through all the excruciating pain and treatments.
One dream is simple and obvious, and it is to meet and hold her own grandchild. I have been encouraging her to visit Europe again at the end of December, so she can spend the very magical Christmas period with my brother and his family. Most important of all, so she can share that miraculous feeling of Christmas with loved ones and a newborn baby. My fingers are crossed on that one, and I'm working to make that happen...
And tonight, as we went for a stroll after dinner, she told me another dream of hers. "I'd like to see you settled down, get married and have children..." I was a bit lost for words.
"There is nothing more beautiful than building a family together with the one person who can support you and be your best friend and partner for the rest of your life..." At one point mum joked I shouldn't rush into marriage so I can please her before she "goes"!
"It's hard to find a soul mate, but when you do keep that..." I smiled, and didn't say anything. I've told her on several occasions how I'd love to settle down, to be with someone who is compatible and whom I can give to and receive love in return from.
Truth be told, I'm very envious of my brother and his family, envious of the joys of holding his own child, and having someone to come home to every day (but of course, I know even family and marriage bring different kinds of worries...). But how beautiful it is to see him, his wife and son together... how happy, how very, very beautiful and touching...
"What about with [my friend]?" mum asked. She has met him on a few occasions, and mum has a good impression of him. She was disappointed when I told her back in May that we broke up. I wasn't sure where to begin, how to explain where we were now. I just said he's a very good friend, but no more. We are... I don't know what we are, where we are headed. "He seems to be very caring, and you're both outstanding boys," mum said "You seem to be good together".
There are a number of dreams I can help mum fulfill... make sure she is fit enough to travel to see her grandson, make sure she is well enough and accompany her to a number of places she would like to. I look forward to that sense of 'achievement' when I help her realise that dream. I look forward to seeing her smile, to seeing the calm on her face when she has fulfilled one of her dreams.
But getting finding someone, getting married, settling down... As much as it is also a dream of mine, I'm not sure if I can fulfill it. And I'm not sure if I can fulfill it in time for mum to see me, with tears in her eyes, exchange vows with my one true love...
Laughing and crying
She was talking about whom I should call after she "returns". "To return" being a euphemism for dying, for passing. She was telling me about her colleagues at work and arrangements she's made with regards to her pension plan.
"Return? Where are you going to return to?" I asked cheekily.
"To become a deity! To become a finance officer up there!" At her last post, one she held for many years before retirement, she was in charge of finances and accounts at the branch of the revenue bureau she was working at.
Somehow that was very amusing, and it was beautiful to see mum laugh, to hear her laugh out loud. However brief that lightness felt, it was felt and distracted from all else.
In the face of death, you must be able to make fun of it, to poke and prod at it. How can you fully realise life without joking about death? Humour is a way to deal with and accept the unchangeable, the unacceptable. And I'm glad we still have the ability, though rare, to laugh out loud.
Fast forward an hour, and that laughter was long gone. I could see a tear in the corner of mum's. Was she tearing because of the pain, the excruciating pain that had come back as the painkillers wore off? Or was she crying because I insisted on accompanying her to the hospital? She kept on telling me to leave, leave the chemotherapy ward. "Go! Go, I don't want you hanging around here, the air is stale here and there are many sick people here..." but she is there, and has no choice but to be there.
I did as I was told, and left. I looked back though, looked back and saw mum sitting in the armchair in her personal "pod" as the nurse kept busy preparing the doses of drugs to be injected intravenously.
The last image before I left was mum with her eyes closed tightly. Her forehead was crumpled in grief, her face contorted in pain... Immense, indescribable, immeasurable pain.
Again, the sense of helplessness and deep deep compassion overwhelmed me and caused me to cry as I quickly stepped outside.
But like the laughter and lightness that disappeared so quickly, so will my pain... Everything will pass...
Everything will fade away and pass.
Phone call
Why do I want to distance myself from him? Why am I no longer telling him what is happening in my life and how I'm feeling? Because I feel terribly ashamed and troubled that I've been burdening him with my life and problems almost ever since we met. And somehow, ever since we broke up, I have slowly come to realise (or believe) that we I cannot keep on depending on him for emotional support and comfort.
He began crying, almost unstoppably for a while. Was he hurt by my lack of news, by my silence? Was he hurt by my brief and curt responses when he asks me how I'm doing? I never mean to hurt him or to punish him, but I just felt I could no longer talk frankly to him about my life anymore without delaying or impeding his, and his pursuit of happiness and love.
He cried because he was so worried about me, and imagining the worst when for a day or so I didn't reply to his messages, and for a number of days didn't talk to him on the phone. He said he felt so helpless unable to do anything for me, to be fully there for me as I'm going through perhaps the most challenging period of my life so far... He would fly here to see me, to just comfort me, if I would only say the word. I was touched, and I softened somewhat.
For a while now, I wanted there to be distance between us, to keep him at bay. In a way, i want to cut myself out of his life so he can finally move on and not have to carry all this mess I seem to bring him with him as he goes on with his life and pursues his dreams of happiness and love with one person. I have for too long been the reason he felt so torn, I have broken up two of his relationships and made him feel so rejected and uncertain about himself.
And I want to free myself from his care and support so I don't feel so torn when I'm here with my mum. Because since a year or so, since we became romantically involved, and I feel even before that, he has been the one major reason I feel so comfortable and safe in Canada. He has been that solid rock and confidante I can pour out my deepest and darkest feelings to. But I feel I've lost that since we broke up...
Yet, he still cannot stop caring, cannot stop thinking about me and having such compassion for what I'm going through. In whatever capacity, he said he feels responsible and that he will always care and be there if I want him to be.
On and off he cried and sobbed. We are no where closer to where we were a month or so ago. We are no more closer together, and no more distant from one another despite my efforts to change that. Where are we now? Who are we to each other? Why do I want to know...?
It is comforting to be so cared for, to be so loved in a way that transcends friendship, that softens me to the core because it is something I have never ever encountered or been given from anyone.
But it is also confusing, distracting and even fills me with guilt to always turn to one person, to the object of my deep, deep affection, to pour out my feelings, when we are "just friends".
My mum's ailing condition has so dominated my mind, and yet on the side is this personal matter with my friend I must learn to handle and balance.
How I wish time and distance could give me some perspective and free me from these two things that are testing me and tearing me apart from the inside.
10 October 2011
Out of control
I was numb when she told me. "it's more or less the same as in September."
I pressed her for a number, and it took a while till she said "Thirty something." it's the Cancer index, a measure of the number of cancerous cell in the body, and an indication of how advanced the cancer is.
Though she said thirty something, on a print out of her latest medical record I saw for 8 September, the index stood at 45. I tried to imagine what that meant, but my lack of knowledge of medicine meant I didn't really know what it implied. I only know it's bad, terribly, terribly bad. A look at her historic cancer index level, the highest it has been is somewhere in the mid twenties. Back in 2007, when mum was first diagnosed with cancer it was hovering around 15, and that I thought at the time was bad. The index always came down, and at one point was "normal" as low as that of a smoker. But now, it's at an unprecedented level. Ad it's scary...
I was surprised, but was I sad? Was I mad? I went quiet, I know I went quiet. But that is all. Can I cry now? Maybe if I'm pushed, I will burst put crying. But what will that bring me, what will that bring my mum?
Maybe soon I will break down and cry, maybe I'll quietly cry in bed later tonight...
But for now, I'm just floating and my feelings are just the way they are, a strange, and fragile calm bouyed by the devastating revelation.
I pressed her for a number, and it took a while till she said "Thirty something." it's the Cancer index, a measure of the number of cancerous cell in the body, and an indication of how advanced the cancer is.
I was surprised, but was I sad? Was I mad? I went quiet, I know I went quiet. But that is all. Can I cry now? Maybe if I'm pushed, I will burst put crying. But what will that bring me, what will that bring my mum?
Maybe soon I will break down and cry, maybe I'll quietly cry in bed later tonight...
But for now, I'm just floating and my feelings are just the way they are, a strange, and fragile calm bouyed by the devastating revelation.
Thirsty
"I get very thirsty," she said, "You have to give me water at the end..."
Why did her word hurt so much? Why did her words immediately cause me to cry ( even though I quickly blinked away the tears so she did not notice). Mum was talking about the "end" again, about the moment she dies.
My heart wrenched so painfully, I could have burst out crying in the middle of the pavement. I could have tore at my hair because it hurt so much to hear her speak like this. Can you imagine what it feels like to hear a loved one talk like that...?
She recounted how when dad entered the hospital, he had been so thirsty. Mum clandestinely got him some water, and he gulped down half a small plastic bottle, even though the nurse told her that it's dangerous to give dad water, as he might choke lying down. "But he was thirsty... You get very thirty toward the end..."
I listened in silence, swallowing my emotions, swallowing my tears , as mum continued. "Your auntie's mother had cancer of the lymph gland, and toward the end, the pain was so much she would cower in the corner of the room and sweat cold sweat..."
I imagined the scene, and tried to blink away the image of mum in the corner of the room, groaning in pain, shaking from the uncontrollable torture of physical pain and discomfort...
I swallowed more, and felt my stomach churn from the pent up emotions.
This will pass, I told myself, this feeling will all pass...
Why did her word hurt so much? Why did her words immediately cause me to cry ( even though I quickly blinked away the tears so she did not notice). Mum was talking about the "end" again, about the moment she dies.
My heart wrenched so painfully, I could have burst out crying in the middle of the pavement. I could have tore at my hair because it hurt so much to hear her speak like this. Can you imagine what it feels like to hear a loved one talk like that...?
She recounted how when dad entered the hospital, he had been so thirsty. Mum clandestinely got him some water, and he gulped down half a small plastic bottle, even though the nurse told her that it's dangerous to give dad water, as he might choke lying down. "But he was thirsty... You get very thirty toward the end..."
I listened in silence, swallowing my emotions, swallowing my tears , as mum continued. "Your auntie's mother had cancer of the lymph gland, and toward the end, the pain was so much she would cower in the corner of the room and sweat cold sweat..."
I imagined the scene, and tried to blink away the image of mum in the corner of the room, groaning in pain, shaking from the uncontrollable torture of physical pain and discomfort...
I swallowed more, and felt my stomach churn from the pent up emotions.
This will pass, I told myself, this feeling will all pass...
Suicidal note
It is already very difficult and painful when a loved one is dying... But what does it feel like when a loved one wants to die...?
"I'm just waiting to die," mum said. Not the first time. She has said similar things in the past, but within less than a week of being here, she has said something alone those lines a couple of times.
"I hate myself for being ill...".
"I feel so extreme and feel life is so meaningless...".
"I'm just waiting to die..."
It hurts. It really really hurts to hear that. And I 'retaliate'... I know it's not the proper reaction, but hearing mum talk like that makes me so very angry I hit back. "what if I said that?! Do you know what it feels like to hear your own mother say something like that??" I know it doesn't do anything to diffuse the situation, and I should be more compassionate and understanding, but more and more I feel I'm losing patience and getting frustrated again...
Do I make mum feel depressed and suicidal, I wonder. Is it because I push her too hard when I tell her I'd like to see her do things, go learn something or so something constructive? I really mean well, and hope only that she can step out of the house more and meet new people, instead of wallowing in her own pain and misery at home.
But instead, being told that she should go out more has had the opposite effect. It has made her realise how lethargic and depressed she has become, which fills her with regret and guilt, especially as she realises how difficult it is to get out of the vicious cycle of sleep, eating, watching tv and surfing the internet...
She knows she should do more with her life and live it to the max, but she feels she cannot because of her sores and pains. and because she feels she cannot, mum feels double the guilt of being so down and lethargic all the time.
I keep on telling her, I'd like her to be happy and live a fulfilling and happy life. " what does that mean?" she asked me. And it struck me.
Maybe she is happy the way she is, maybe she is happy just staying home and surfing the net and looking at pictures of her grandson and looking at what other people are doing on Facebook. Am I being too harsh on her, wanting her to do things that I feel would make her happy, even though I don't know what she is really going through and what pain she has to endure everyday? Maybe she is happy being left alone to do her own things instead of having someone else (ie me...) watch over and scrutinise her every move.
I feel my mind is going dizzy with the frustration and fear of hurting mum instead of helping her. My stomach is getting upset again, and I cannot do much for mum.
Really, all I can do and all I can give her is the assurance that I'll be happy and trouble free, In the hope she'll do and be the same.
"I'm just waiting to die," mum said. Not the first time. She has said similar things in the past, but within less than a week of being here, she has said something alone those lines a couple of times.
"I hate myself for being ill...".
"I feel so extreme and feel life is so meaningless...".
"I'm just waiting to die..."
It hurts. It really really hurts to hear that. And I 'retaliate'... I know it's not the proper reaction, but hearing mum talk like that makes me so very angry I hit back. "what if I said that?! Do you know what it feels like to hear your own mother say something like that??" I know it doesn't do anything to diffuse the situation, and I should be more compassionate and understanding, but more and more I feel I'm losing patience and getting frustrated again...
Do I make mum feel depressed and suicidal, I wonder. Is it because I push her too hard when I tell her I'd like to see her do things, go learn something or so something constructive? I really mean well, and hope only that she can step out of the house more and meet new people, instead of wallowing in her own pain and misery at home.
But instead, being told that she should go out more has had the opposite effect. It has made her realise how lethargic and depressed she has become, which fills her with regret and guilt, especially as she realises how difficult it is to get out of the vicious cycle of sleep, eating, watching tv and surfing the internet...
She knows she should do more with her life and live it to the max, but she feels she cannot because of her sores and pains. and because she feels she cannot, mum feels double the guilt of being so down and lethargic all the time.
I keep on telling her, I'd like her to be happy and live a fulfilling and happy life. " what does that mean?" she asked me. And it struck me.
Maybe she is happy the way she is, maybe she is happy just staying home and surfing the net and looking at pictures of her grandson and looking at what other people are doing on Facebook. Am I being too harsh on her, wanting her to do things that I feel would make her happy, even though I don't know what she is really going through and what pain she has to endure everyday? Maybe she is happy being left alone to do her own things instead of having someone else (ie me...) watch over and scrutinise her every move.
I feel my mind is going dizzy with the frustration and fear of hurting mum instead of helping her. My stomach is getting upset again, and I cannot do much for mum.
Really, all I can do and all I can give her is the assurance that I'll be happy and trouble free, In the hope she'll do and be the same.
Helplessness
I feel the helplessness and frustrations creeping in, I feel the tears build up and threatening to fall...
But who can I turn to? Swallow, swallow all that helplessness, swallow all that hurt. Mum is hurting more, I cannot cry, I cannot vent my frustrations and anger on her... I need to give her love, give her affection and compassion.
But I feel the negative emotions again overwhelming my heart and drowning the sense of lightness and clarity of mind I was buoyed by in the immediate days after my retreat.
Swallow, swallow the tears...
Swallow the pain...
Swallow the terrible agony that is eating me inside...
These feelings will pass....
Hug yourself, comfort yourself and tell yourself it will be ok.
Even if it is not, it will be ok.
But who can I turn to? Swallow, swallow all that helplessness, swallow all that hurt. Mum is hurting more, I cannot cry, I cannot vent my frustrations and anger on her... I need to give her love, give her affection and compassion.
But I feel the negative emotions again overwhelming my heart and drowning the sense of lightness and clarity of mind I was buoyed by in the immediate days after my retreat.
Swallow, swallow the tears...
Swallow the pain...
Swallow the terrible agony that is eating me inside...
These feelings will pass....
Hug yourself, comfort yourself and tell yourself it will be ok.
Even if it is not, it will be ok.
09 October 2011
Grandson
"Call grandma! Go on, say "gradma"", my brother joked as he held his baby in his arms and occasionally leaned in to kiss him, while his wife sat and smiled in the background. What an extremely touching sight, and I was moved to tears. It is so beautiful to hold your own child in your arms... Am I going to have that precious privilege one day too...? Am I going to have a partner by my side as well?
Mum laughed out loud many tines for the next hour or so as she chatted with my brother and sister-in-law. From a distance, i took in the scene. Mum lay in her armchair, resting her sore arm over her head, while with the other arm she held onto the phone. With deep concentration, she looked at what her grandson was doing. Every little move, every little kick or punch or noise he made made mum laugh and squint from smiling. Seeing that made me smile too, and smiling makes you forget everything else.
I noticed one of the first things she does after breakfast is to switch on the computer and check her Facebook account to see if new pictures or videos of her grandson have been posted. If not, then she'd review the already uploaded pictures again and again. And again.
Doing so gives her hope, gives her a reason to live, a reason to take care of herself, even thought it is so hard on her own. All in the hope of one day holding her grandson in her arms...
A few days at home
When things are difficult, it is best to remind yourself of what you have already gone through. In comparing what you have already experienced, you realise you can face whatever life has to throw at you. In knowing what hurdles you have already overcome, you know if you put on a brave face, breathe, the tears will stop. And you can force a smile and struggle on, for another moment, for another minute.
I noticed more and more strands of hair on mum's clothes and on the floor of the apartment. And this is only within a few days of arriving here. One of the first things I noticed when I walked through the door was how much hair had grown since I last saw her in July. Much of her hair is young, healthy looking and dark in colour. But the treatment she is currently undergoing, and the chemo pills that she has to take on a daily basis, will cause her hair to fall again. And that is already starting to happen.
Two more days, and mum will be doing her second invitro treatment. I will be here, next to her, to see her through what always is a painful and grueling process of being weakened and attempting at recovering her strength and energy.
I have had many opportunities to speak to her since my return. Many times I told her how much I wish she could go out and 'do something', anything, to make full use of her life, to make herself feel alive again. Whether it's going to classes and learning a new craft or arts or going to lectures and talks about traveling and healthy living, anything is better than her staying at home and languishing on the couch in front of the tv or the computer.
She says she'd like to, but her recurring sores and pains are preventing her from doing things she would like to. "It's not like before," she said, meaning her sores have gotten worse over the past few weeks. It comes and goes, and the medication keeps it in check, but not necessarily all the time. There are days when the medication have no effect, and she could feel such pain and sores that makes her want to cut off her arm... "There will come a point when the meds lose their effect completely". What then?
"Morphine," she said quietly. The doctor said she will probably need to start taking morphine. Invitro or pills, she is unsure. But the thought of it scares her. It scares me. I closed my eyes, blink away the tears and breathed deeply...
We have gone through so much... Mum has gone through so much... from the first ever chemotherapy just after dad passed away to the severe diagnosis of the tumour on the spine back in January, so much has happened. Every treatment, every few months I thought I was close to losing her. Every time I feared she might enter the hospital and, like dad, never return. But mum has bravely gone through it all. Most of the time alone all by herself, with her own courage and determination. And she is still standing, still fighting.
But this time around I notice a difference. I sense a certain degree of fear and hesitation... I notice a sense of resignation, and sense of guilt surrounding her own failing health and mortality. "You can't imagine what it feels like," she said to me many times. She said she sometimes hates herself for being like this, for being ill, for being unable to do what she would like to. Whatever happened to her health, she lamented a few times. Whatever happened to being able to just get up and go wherever she would like, without needing to worrying about how she will be feeling or whether the pain will come and steal away all the pleasure and fun she is having?
I try to comfort her, try to find reassurance and that semblance of wisdom and clarity of the mind I managed to recover during my retreat last week. Think positively, I tell her, think of this moment. Nothing else matters, not fear of the uncertain future, not regrets about your own health and the conditions you find yourself in. Whatever it is anyone is facing, it is never our choosing. We can accept it and face it, or live with dread and fear and remorse why we are in the situation we don't want to be.
If we are prisoners of the circumstances, why not make the most of the circumstance and at least try to "enjoy" where we find ourselves? "Laugh," I told mum, "Laugh everyday, laugh at everything..." She joked people will probably look at her funny and wonder whether she's insane. That may be so, but difficulties can make you insane and confused, or you can try to see the humour and lightness in it all. It is there if you want to see and feel it.
Of course, I could never ever feel the same pain, feel the same fear that mum feels about her own body and close brush with mortality, but I tell her again and again as I hold her hand, as I pat her on the shoulder "Be strong... be happy, and let things be."
I don't know how much those words help her, because sometimes those words sound so empty and so meaningless in a situation of such despair and hopelessness.
But keep on saying it, keep on telling it to mum, I tell myself, and she will be a bit stronger, a bit calmer.
Or at least I want to believe that...
I noticed more and more strands of hair on mum's clothes and on the floor of the apartment. And this is only within a few days of arriving here. One of the first things I noticed when I walked through the door was how much hair had grown since I last saw her in July. Much of her hair is young, healthy looking and dark in colour. But the treatment she is currently undergoing, and the chemo pills that she has to take on a daily basis, will cause her hair to fall again. And that is already starting to happen.
Two more days, and mum will be doing her second invitro treatment. I will be here, next to her, to see her through what always is a painful and grueling process of being weakened and attempting at recovering her strength and energy.
I have had many opportunities to speak to her since my return. Many times I told her how much I wish she could go out and 'do something', anything, to make full use of her life, to make herself feel alive again. Whether it's going to classes and learning a new craft or arts or going to lectures and talks about traveling and healthy living, anything is better than her staying at home and languishing on the couch in front of the tv or the computer.
She says she'd like to, but her recurring sores and pains are preventing her from doing things she would like to. "It's not like before," she said, meaning her sores have gotten worse over the past few weeks. It comes and goes, and the medication keeps it in check, but not necessarily all the time. There are days when the medication have no effect, and she could feel such pain and sores that makes her want to cut off her arm... "There will come a point when the meds lose their effect completely". What then?
"Morphine," she said quietly. The doctor said she will probably need to start taking morphine. Invitro or pills, she is unsure. But the thought of it scares her. It scares me. I closed my eyes, blink away the tears and breathed deeply...
We have gone through so much... Mum has gone through so much... from the first ever chemotherapy just after dad passed away to the severe diagnosis of the tumour on the spine back in January, so much has happened. Every treatment, every few months I thought I was close to losing her. Every time I feared she might enter the hospital and, like dad, never return. But mum has bravely gone through it all. Most of the time alone all by herself, with her own courage and determination. And she is still standing, still fighting.
But this time around I notice a difference. I sense a certain degree of fear and hesitation... I notice a sense of resignation, and sense of guilt surrounding her own failing health and mortality. "You can't imagine what it feels like," she said to me many times. She said she sometimes hates herself for being like this, for being ill, for being unable to do what she would like to. Whatever happened to her health, she lamented a few times. Whatever happened to being able to just get up and go wherever she would like, without needing to worrying about how she will be feeling or whether the pain will come and steal away all the pleasure and fun she is having?
I try to comfort her, try to find reassurance and that semblance of wisdom and clarity of the mind I managed to recover during my retreat last week. Think positively, I tell her, think of this moment. Nothing else matters, not fear of the uncertain future, not regrets about your own health and the conditions you find yourself in. Whatever it is anyone is facing, it is never our choosing. We can accept it and face it, or live with dread and fear and remorse why we are in the situation we don't want to be.
If we are prisoners of the circumstances, why not make the most of the circumstance and at least try to "enjoy" where we find ourselves? "Laugh," I told mum, "Laugh everyday, laugh at everything..." She joked people will probably look at her funny and wonder whether she's insane. That may be so, but difficulties can make you insane and confused, or you can try to see the humour and lightness in it all. It is there if you want to see and feel it.
Of course, I could never ever feel the same pain, feel the same fear that mum feels about her own body and close brush with mortality, but I tell her again and again as I hold her hand, as I pat her on the shoulder "Be strong... be happy, and let things be."
I don't know how much those words help her, because sometimes those words sound so empty and so meaningless in a situation of such despair and hopelessness.
But keep on saying it, keep on telling it to mum, I tell myself, and she will be a bit stronger, a bit calmer.
Or at least I want to believe that...
Poor sleep
Sleep was so disturbed. I lay there, the wind was howling outside the window. And images of my friend kept entering my mind... And he was not alone. He was intimate with someone, and it was not with me...
I kept walking around the house in the dream, fully knowing they are there together, wanting to interrupt them. But I held myself back, however difficult and painful it is, I held back. There was a deep deep void on the inside of me, and I broke down...
I stirred from my sleep and the nightmare. Let go, let go, I told myself. What I do not know never happened, what I cannot see does not exist. The mind is merely making up fantasies, frightening fantasies based on my fears, the mind is playing with me... And even if the dream were real, so what? What can I do? Why should I do anything?
Over the last few days, I have kept communication between my friend and I to a bare minimum. And it will stay that way. No more long talks on the phone, no more video chatting. Just a few exchanges of messages here and there. Friendly, cute messages, nothing deep or personal.
He does not know what is happening here with me, and I do not know what is happening with him. He does not know about the pending hospital visits, about my feelings of longing, and my feelings of becoming bored and frustrated with my self-imposed exile here. And I don't know what he is feeling, how he is doing, despite a few pictures of him I've seen, smiling, or forcing a smile.
However much I'd like to speak to him, I cannot. Last time I was here he said I called a lot. And that was just after our breakup, and I had a feeling all the calling and keeping in touch for a long time afterward was an impediment to his pursuit of happiness and to him finding out where his heart lies. So I'll stop all that. Our friendship has ground to a bare minimum of contact, and I'm scared all that magic between us might just fizzle out and die... What a shame that would be... And what is if all for? Something worth it I hope, something, some uncertain day when there will be more clarity and a healthier (or no) interaction between us.
I tell myself it is all for the best, perhaps, if it will help us free ourselves from this entangled web of mess we have caught ourselves in for almost a year now. I want to be free, an I am sure he wants to be too. And if the solution is free me from this picture, then I am already away and out of the picture.
With those images still lingering on my mind, I heard the rattling of pills in a bottle.
Mum had woken up, been woken up by her sores.
This is far more important... Far more important than any fantasy or fear or anything I cannot change, cannot control...
I kept walking around the house in the dream, fully knowing they are there together, wanting to interrupt them. But I held myself back, however difficult and painful it is, I held back. There was a deep deep void on the inside of me, and I broke down...
I stirred from my sleep and the nightmare. Let go, let go, I told myself. What I do not know never happened, what I cannot see does not exist. The mind is merely making up fantasies, frightening fantasies based on my fears, the mind is playing with me... And even if the dream were real, so what? What can I do? Why should I do anything?
Over the last few days, I have kept communication between my friend and I to a bare minimum. And it will stay that way. No more long talks on the phone, no more video chatting. Just a few exchanges of messages here and there. Friendly, cute messages, nothing deep or personal.
He does not know what is happening here with me, and I do not know what is happening with him. He does not know about the pending hospital visits, about my feelings of longing, and my feelings of becoming bored and frustrated with my self-imposed exile here. And I don't know what he is feeling, how he is doing, despite a few pictures of him I've seen, smiling, or forcing a smile.
However much I'd like to speak to him, I cannot. Last time I was here he said I called a lot. And that was just after our breakup, and I had a feeling all the calling and keeping in touch for a long time afterward was an impediment to his pursuit of happiness and to him finding out where his heart lies. So I'll stop all that. Our friendship has ground to a bare minimum of contact, and I'm scared all that magic between us might just fizzle out and die... What a shame that would be... And what is if all for? Something worth it I hope, something, some uncertain day when there will be more clarity and a healthier (or no) interaction between us.
I tell myself it is all for the best, perhaps, if it will help us free ourselves from this entangled web of mess we have caught ourselves in for almost a year now. I want to be free, an I am sure he wants to be too. And if the solution is free me from this picture, then I am already away and out of the picture.
With those images still lingering on my mind, I heard the rattling of pills in a bottle.
Mum had woken up, been woken up by her sores.
This is far more important... Far more important than any fantasy or fear or anything I cannot change, cannot control...
08 October 2011
Soothing pain
I took mum's left hand, and stroked it gently. It was very wrinkled, and very soft. An abnormal kind of soft. compared to the right hand, it looked and felt different. I noticed that the left hand was a little curled, and the skin dented between the thumb and index finger.
Later, at the massage parlour, mum's masseuse said that the abnormal softness was due to the constant pressure on her nerves, causing the left arm and left hand to contract. "Chemo kills good and bad cells!" the masseuse said. Mum lay on the massage table and groaned a little from the pain. But at least afterwards she would feel better, at least for a little while, and on rare occasions, a day or two.
The first morning I woke up at six or so in the morning to the sound of mum groaning. It was a groan from pain, and I immediately rushed to her bedside. Mum lay there, her face contorted in pain.
She said the pain killer had lost its effect, and she was feeling pain again. It happens, as the drug lasts only six hours or so, after that the pain can be felt returns, with a vengeance.
The soreness and pain in her arm seems to be getting worse. Relying on medicine is the only way to keep the pain at bay, and massages are an added bonus to make her body feel less sore all over.
Sometimes I steal glances at mum when she's not looking. And I notice how her face twitches in pain, how she frowns from pain...
I wish deep down how I could do something to remove that pain. But I know I can't. The only thing I can give her is to hold her hand, to smile at her, and hope my touch, my smile is enough to soothe her pain...
Later, at the massage parlour, mum's masseuse said that the abnormal softness was due to the constant pressure on her nerves, causing the left arm and left hand to contract. "Chemo kills good and bad cells!" the masseuse said. Mum lay on the massage table and groaned a little from the pain. But at least afterwards she would feel better, at least for a little while, and on rare occasions, a day or two.
The first morning I woke up at six or so in the morning to the sound of mum groaning. It was a groan from pain, and I immediately rushed to her bedside. Mum lay there, her face contorted in pain.
She said the pain killer had lost its effect, and she was feeling pain again. It happens, as the drug lasts only six hours or so, after that the pain can be felt returns, with a vengeance.
The soreness and pain in her arm seems to be getting worse. Relying on medicine is the only way to keep the pain at bay, and massages are an added bonus to make her body feel less sore all over.
Sometimes I steal glances at mum when she's not looking. And I notice how her face twitches in pain, how she frowns from pain...
I wish deep down how I could do something to remove that pain. But I know I can't. The only thing I can give her is to hold her hand, to smile at her, and hope my touch, my smile is enough to soothe her pain...
Cleaning lady
She is a lovely, warm lady, and as soon as she came in the house, she put on her rubber gloves and got to work. Scrubbing, wiping, vacuuming, cleaning, and all of it with a smile on her face and jovial laughter.
Mum had been introduced to a cleaning lady, and today was the first day. It's reached a point that mum can't do simple chores like bending down or changing her bed sheets without feeling exhausted or is overwhelmed. I've been telling her for a while to get someone, and finally she did.
I smiled at her, and thanked her many times for coming by. At one point she turned to me and said, "You care about your mother so well..."
I almost cried on the spot. I don't know how she saw that. I wasn't doing anything in particular... Just made something simple for lunch, and asked mum to come eat. But the lady saw something. And she said: "There's only one mother, take good care of her..."
Mum looked at me and smiled. She was looking at me with pride, and quietly thanked me for being with her.
But I am only doing what I can, with whatever time I have. Nothing more, nothing less.
Mum had been introduced to a cleaning lady, and today was the first day. It's reached a point that mum can't do simple chores like bending down or changing her bed sheets without feeling exhausted or is overwhelmed. I've been telling her for a while to get someone, and finally she did.
I smiled at her, and thanked her many times for coming by. At one point she turned to me and said, "You care about your mother so well..."
I almost cried on the spot. I don't know how she saw that. I wasn't doing anything in particular... Just made something simple for lunch, and asked mum to come eat. But the lady saw something. And she said: "There's only one mother, take good care of her..."
Mum looked at me and smiled. She was looking at me with pride, and quietly thanked me for being with her.
But I am only doing what I can, with whatever time I have. Nothing more, nothing less.
07 October 2011
An apple fell
No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true. Steve Jobs
But he knew that his time would come, as the words above attest. And that knowledge must have given him much less fear, and more hope, given him the strength, even on days when he was feeling weak and frail, to continue breathing and living for another day.
That is true courage, true spirit: to live despite knowing you are at the mercy of death.
Too few people do that, and yet Jobs not only did that, but even in his final years he continued to surprise and lead the world with products that show there is no limit to continual development and improvement.
And it is the same with people: we can always improve ourselves, develop our potentials and human spirit, and invest fully in what we do with however much time we have in this world.
An apple fell, but so many are still remaining.
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