I lie in bed. It is dark outside, and cold. Gusts of wintry winds rush down from the mountains that surround our house in a loose embrace. Mountains that during the day are shrouded in mysterious mist, but during the night disappear into the darkness.
I lie in bed, feel my hands. The same hands that days before had been cupped around my dad's hands. How warm they were then, how soothing that felt, how very comforting, as I knelt beside dad's hospital bed. The coldness of the floor did not touch me, the sobbing around me entered my ears but had little effect on me. I found such strange source of strength in caressing dad's fingers, cheeks, forehead and eyebrows. My finger tips filled with warmth, my palms sensed sensations never before felt, as I became closer to dad than ever before.
In dad's ear, I softly whispered, "Do not worry, dad. It will be alright. It will be alright, dad. Just relax, and let nature take its course. Let nature be." So softly, so gently, I wondered whether dad heard me at all. But of course he did, because he was right there, right there beside me.
Butterfly kisses spread across his face... kisses that on my lips was so endearing, so necessary, and so natural. In life I probably would have never dared to touch and feel my dad like this, but I knew he needed it then, was was glad I was there to give him the comfort and the peace that I hoped he could receive.
The cardiograph no longer oscilated, and his heartbeat gradually slowed and slowed, like a machine coming to a halt. Then all was still... the gasping stopped, the wheezing ceased, the heaving of dad's chest underneath a thin, thin layer of hospital cloth smoothed and could no longer be seen. Sobbing started, deep and painful, heartfelt and mournful. But I held dad's hand and there and then felt such inner stillness and tranquility that I had never felt before. The feel of dad's fingers, the strokes along his frail, thin arms, the softness of his cheeks which had caved in a little because in those final days he could no longer eat or drink... I was connected with dad, and the connection calmed me, cooled me, and wooed me into a place of solace, a place of peace. A place I could see in dad's lightly closed eyes, half-open mouth dad had been able to find.
"Do not think of the past, just let it all go. Have no fear, have no remorse. Just let it all go, dad, let it all go."
There was no struggle, no pain. Dad passed away so silently, so softly that I did not realise it. Only when the doctor came and pronounced it officially did it register. 2.21pm, New Year's Eve (6 February 2008). Taipei Veteran's General Hospital, Room 12, Ward 121. I was there. Mum was there. Brother was there. And so were the nurses, who tended to dad's final needs in their angel-white uniforms in those final few days.
I held onto dad, dressed him and washed him. No fear, no remorse, no deep hurt. Just this tranquility, this unexplainable sense of tranquility that overcame me and soothed me like a warm, silent drizzel on a hot summer's day, that felt like romantic kisses on my face and, deep down inside. I helped dress dad in a blue sweater, the one with 'Atlanta 1996' bearing the Olympic Flame. Brother wore it, and like many a times with his old clothes, they became mine. I wore it, and left it at home. Then dad took it, like he would do with my old clothes, and he wore it too. I patted his chest, in encouragement, in comforting dad, and no longer felt the rising or falling of his chest. But through the fabric, I could feel the warmth, the sacrifices, the emotions dad never dared expressed out loud.
"May you have no fear, no pain, no regrets. Relax, dad, relax and let go."
I sit in dad's room, close my eyes, and feel his presence. I open my eyes again, and see the clutter he left behind and had no time to tidy before the rush to the hospital. A razor, crumpled up pieces of papers, receipts, bank statements, an empty 'A-Bian' mug that I used to use all the time, rubber bands, packets of medicine, insulin needles, a black leather-skinned notebook bearing his handwriting, pens and an empty plate. On his pillow were strands of hair, which fell and remained as a reminder to the chemo sessions he underwent. The chemo sessions that meant his end.
I stroked dad's douvet, felt the soothness of the fabric, and buried my nose to smell dad... Memories flooded. And for the first time after dad's death, the tears too.
In those final moments, I held onto dad, hugged him, and gently rocked him as I whispered into his ears. As a child, dad would put his arms around me, rock me to sleep as he whispered stories into my ears. Stories of made-up characters, of myths and legends, stories that sometimes did not even make sense, but nonetheless would lead me to snooze in his warm embrace under the warm blanket we shared. But often, very often, dad would fall asleep first, while he had his hand on my cheek and as he gently stroked my forehead. Those final moments, in the hospital, I stroked dad in return, caressed his cheeks and his forehead, and like so often, so very often before, he too fell asleep first...
Two books lay on his bedside table. I picked it up, and flipped through the pages. Dad had taken them out from the hospital, even though he was so sickly in those final days. He never finished reading them, but now I placed them in front of his shrine and offer it for him to read. Together with his glasses, for he was near-sighted and would have to squint in order to read the little words on the pages. And the squiting would always make his thick brows look like he was puzzled, when he actually was not. Dad loved to read. Newspapers, novels, current event journals... and perhaps my letters too, letters that I had painstakingly taken hours and hours to type in Mandarin. Letters the paper of which had yellowed with age, but were neatly arranged in a drawyer next to his bed inside his room. And next to them, pictures, carrying memories of me as a child, of mum, of our trips to the mountains, of our wanderings in nature, of his colleagues and friends, of relatives and far away places. All brought together, all captured and now treasured and remembered as a dear man passed silently away.
"Why did I not cry? Why did I not cry as he passed away in my hands?" I asked mum.
"Because the dearest and closest one has no need to cry."
I smiled, while little pearls wallowed in the corners of my eyes. I smiled, just as I had smiled at dad moments after I had travelled and rushed thousands of kilometers to enter his hospital room. I remember it clearly, how it was pouring with rain, how I could see my own breath in weak clouds in front of my face, how I and my suitcase were dripping with water. But that did not matter... not compared to seeing dad in front of me. All the tiredness of travel, all the cold and dampness disappeared seeing dad.
There were tubes everywhere... some red, some green, some connceted to his chest, others burried deep inside his nostrils. And there was a respirator too, that covered his face like a mask, through which dad breathed, each time the clear plastic would cloud a little whenever his breath touched the surface. I immediately knelt beside him, found his hand and placed it in between mine.
"Dad, I am here. I am home now. I am right here beside you, dad. Have no worries, have no fear. It will be alright, dad." It would not be many hours later until he opened his eyes, and watched me. His eyes were a little yellowish, with red strands at the side. And they were moist too. He watched me, and I watched him.
I do not know what made me smile. But seeing dad again, made me smile. A comforting smile, a smile with behind it, pure joy and stillness. I am sure that if dad could, he would smile too. That dazzling smile, that beautiful, cheerful smile that did not appear often, but when it did, would brighten even the darkest of my days. That smile, that smile which is now so beautifully captured in a portrait of him which hangs above his shrine in our living room...
"May you be blessed, may you be peaceful, may you have happiness forever more. May you move on, without fear, without remorse, without pain, without regret. May you find peace, may you find wisdom, and may you let go, let go of everything in this worldly life, and prepare for the next."
I knelt before dad's shrine, the smell of incense fill the air, the sound of a Buddhist chant echo on and on and on. Before his table, different dishes I had prepared, and a bowl of rice, next to that chopsticks. A pile of paper money, a bowl of fresh fruits. And beneath the shrine, his favourite pajamas, his slippers, toothbrush and toothpaste, his razor. And there is his mobile phone too, and his watch, his books, and the pack of unfinished cigarettes that he could not smoke any longer in those final days, because he was so fragile and frail... I knelt before dad, before his smiling portrait, before the food and books and cigarettes, and kowtowed. In deep reverence, in deep, deep gratitude, in deep affection and warmth towards my dad... my dear, dear dad.
He could no longer eat in the last ten days. Returning from chemo, he was so weak, he lay in bed at home. He threw up many times, and his hair began to fall. The poison, the toxic poison that numbs your body and spirit aimed to killed those cancer cells, but which kills all other cells too. Dad could not handle it... he could endear toil and misery and hardship in life, as he worked hard to provide us with a good and prosperous life, but dad could not handle the toxins. He was so frail he would spill water as he drank, and he could not even go to the bathroom, so ended up wearing diapers. Diapers I had helped change in that final moment of passing.
And dad groaned. As he lay in bed in the days before he was hospitalised, he would groan now and then. But he never wanted to bother my mum, and stubbornly refused to go to the hospital, stubbornly refused to have a maid hired to take care of his daily needs, needs like bathing, eating, drinking that we all take for granted, but for my dear, dear dad must have been such a struggle for life.
When he was rushed to the hospital, he was in shock. And later, slipping in and out of unconsciousness. I was on my way, sitting on that plane, my heart pounding and my eyes wet from worry that it might be too late... In those few moments of sleep as the plane roared and turbulently soared towards Taiwan, I saw dad in my dream, saw him suffering, saw him waiting, and groaning in pain and crying in longing. That made me cry even more as I woke, and made me wish I could be beside him right then and right there...
But he was peaceful, he was still. Though he tried to cough a couple of times to get the phlemn out, as I knelt beside his bed, he was still and peaceful. And I did not cry, not when I whispered soft words into his ears, not when I caressed his hands. Instead, I smiled seeing him, and hoped he would smile back too.
I thought of his pain, his misery, his suffering and unspoken emotions that were all kept inside all this time. As I felt his forehead, lightly and slightly stroked the lines on his cheeks, the crusty dust in the corners of his eyes, I felt closer to him than ever before. It was as if I took away his pain, took away his emotions and unspoken words that he did not dare speak because he did not want others to worry... I understood. I understood how and why he was always so hard on himself and so thrifty, because he wanted us to have a good life and good education.
"May you be peaceful..."
I understood. I understood how he held on till those final moments, because he wanted nothing less than to see the whole family reunited on New Year's Eve, and spend those precious little moments together, altogether, as one family.
"May you be free..."
I understood. I understood how dad would have liked us to live happily, to live healthily, to treasure every living and loving moment, even though it would be without him.
"Dad, rest well. Dad, rest well now."
I understood why... why I did not cry. I did not cry, not because I would not miss dad's breath on me whenever in my childhood he held me close and told me little tall-tales as he tried to get me to sleep... I did not cry, not because I would not remember dad's sacrifices and devotion, dad's toil and pain. I did not cry because I wanted dad not to see me cry.
Dad's final sight of me was me smiling, was me at peace, was a vision that would allow him to go, and would allow him to let go. This is what I, having been away from dad for so long, could offer dad in his final moments. But dad, I hope, dad would understand...
I hope that dad would understood that my prayers, my smile, my soft stroking and caressing of dad's hands and forehead, together with the soft brushing of my cheeks against dad's cheeks would be able to give dad timeless tranquility and peace, forever, forever more.
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