Night before departure

Suitcases are packed, and just about to go to sleep. This 12 day trip to Europe is almost over. What began with a sad, depressing note eventually turned out to be a rather relaxing visit. I remember dreading coming back here, I remember trembling and feeling so painfully anxious as I boarded the plane across the Atlantic, as if somehow I knew I was coming back to a sad, sad event. But as with so many things one dreads and avoids facing, things did not turn out as terribly as I had imagined.

I lost someone dear, someone who I would ritualistically visit and call whenever I am in the Netherlands... someone I will really miss talking to and seeing whenever I am home here, because she is one of the very few things that still make this place feel "home". But despite that loss, most important of all, I got to meet and say goodbye to Carmen one last time, and she wanted me to be one of the coffin bearers, which was a great honour. She considered me her family, alongside her brothers, her own son, and alongside my brother and a friend of his. We were all dear to her heart, because of all the people she knew and met throughout her life, she chose her to carry her on that final journey into the crematorium... I somehow felt a sense of pride, belonging, pain and being emotionally touched all at once.

Other than that, things with my brother are pretty smooth, and we have been enjoying dinners together almost daily, and talking more than before. I think in difficult times, it is good to be there for one another, as support, as sibling, as family. And today being his 30th birthday, we went out to a nice Thai restaurant and enjoyed a good meal. We talked, and I can feel he is especially concerned about mum's wellbeing, especially after what happened to Carmen. He admitted that Carmen felt like a second mother to him, who was there whenever he needed advice and help, and who even travelled to attend his graduation ceremony. He said he was touched by the many acts of kindness and care she has shown him throughout the years, and for the last week or so has been lying awake at night, unable to sleep, and thinking about her... Coupled with mum's health and the fact that she's doing chemo, it's a heavy burden to carry. I know it well...

And again, at the end of this trip, I can look back at the things I have done, the people I have visited and spoken with, the places I have passed by and that have left an impression on me and feel like there is a good closure. No regrets, no sadness or confusion about leaving. Perhaps because I know I may be back here soon.

But it may be because I know I did the best I could in the circumstances, and there is nothing to be sad about when I board that plane tomorrow.

Hair

"Is hair more important than health?", the doctor said to my mum earlier today, while telling her that hair will always grow back, whereas health, once lost, is lost forever. Mum knew this, and she joked that while she went to meditate at the monastery, there were a row of nuns in front of her who had no hair.

I was glad that she managed to see the light side of things, and to see through the hair as something that people attach so much importance to. She sounded joyous and energetic on the phone, and I chatted with her for almost an hour till the battery died. Mostly just random chitchat, talking about what I've been doing, what she's been doing.

In a way, to distract her from the fact that she is, as we were talking, undergoing chemo.

Brother's friend

My brother met this friend back in February, and they have been in touch with one another almost daily. She's quite a nice person, and when she found out that mum's doing chemo, she offered to go see her and take her out to the countryside. And today she even went to see my mum after working, which I think is really caring and kind.

Mum's been doing ok since she came out of meditation a few days ago. She said she felt much better, at least her mind is calmer and she is more at peace with herself. Even so, she said her hair has really begun to fall, and it looks pretty bad now. What makes her feel worse is the fact that whenever she gently grabs her hair, more hair comes off. So much so that the ground is littered with hair that she has to vacuum often. I can't imagine what that must feel like... what an injury to personal dignity it must be to lose the hair that you take for granted every single day, for often it is the hair that makes and defines the person. And I am no longer there to secretly hide or sweep the hair away...

So yesterday mum finally went to get herself a wig to wear. I'm not sure what kind of wig she got, or whether it was from the shop I went to together with her. She said it takes some getting used to, so she's trying it on before she does lose everything. "It feels like putting on a hat", she said on the phone. And later my brother's friend who had gone to see my mum said that mum looked "cute" with the new hairdo.

Tomorrow mum will continue with the chemo again... the unbearable treatment and sickening aftereffects start again...

It's good to talk

I rode the train to Leiden today, the city where I used to study. Only a ten minute train ride, and it felt like I was commuting to school again. I walked around, and nothing much has changed. The same canals, shops (though some have closed down...), same sort of people walking around in the streets and alleyways.

I had meant to go to the library and get some work done, but I met up with a friend for lunch, and library went unvisited. There is always tomorrow.

This is a special friend, who first was my boss, and then became a mentor and guide. She paved my path to Canada, to the study that I'm currently doing, and now and then I see her at conferences and events. I'm forever grateful to have met her, for it was because of her that I managed to go as far as I am now, to get the scholarships I enjoy now.

A week ago she suddenly sent me an email. In it she told me about her sister, who was very close to her, and who had suddenly passed away. I was shocked when I read that, partly because my friend Carmen had just passed away, but also partly because only a few years earlier, my friend had lost her dear brother. It must been such a terrible blow to her and to her family, I thought...

We met at a restaurant, and by the time we stood up again it was some three hours later. She shared with me stories of her sister, her childhood, and we bonded over our feelings of losing people dear. It's good to talk (to borrow from the slogan of a BT ad), to share human experiences and emotions of mourning, of picking up the pieces again, and of moving on with life and work.

I told her about my life in the past few months, the life of moving around, travelling from country to country in attempts to spend time with precious people in my life. I admitted to her that I felt ashamed about not being productive, that my thesis and work had stalled because of unfortunate circumstances. And she threw a piece of sugar cube at me.

Nonesense, she said, it takes time to deal with all the emotional baggage you had to deal with so early in your life. It takes the right frame of mind to write, to be inspired. Family is important, and mum especially so.

I felt much better after we goodbye, and made my way home.

Balloons

I watched the colourful balloons rise, rise, rise into the sky. Some had messages attached to the end of strings, other balloons rose only so far before being caught in the bare branches of nearby trees. All were gently released from little hands crowded along the pavement. Magical bubbles drifted around the procession in random, free motions. To everyone’s surprise it looked and felt like a street celebration.

Children of all sizes, faces of all tones and colours, had come out, in the tens, in the dozens, in the scores, to watch the black limousines drive by. A mother rested her hand on the shoulders of her child as moist streams trailed down her cheeks. Other parents and teachers joined the children as they wildly and happily blew bubbles at us and clapped their hands.

They had all come out for Carmen to send her off on her final journey. For Carmen was their teacher, their friend and confidante; their rock, their shoulder to cry on, and they pal to play with. She loved children, and made educating them, understanding them, seeing the positive potential in every each and one of them she came across her life and career. Especially those who need more patience and help, those who sumbled in the cultural and social divides of this often segregated society, she paid attention to. She devoted her time and energies to making ever child feel special and cared about. And my brother and I were fortunate to have been among these children.

Later, at the funeral home, a boy came up to pay tribute to her but choked on the very first word and could no longer continue. What could one say about a warm, kind, selfless human being who made time for everyone, who saw the goodness in everyone, and who made you feel like you were the centre of the world as she sat and listened? She did not judge, she did not see problems, even in the direst of circumstances. Her connection with fellow beings radiated through her smiles and words of empathy, her connectedness with nature manifested itself in her love of meditation and things beyond the material world.

Music played, and Springsteen’s soulful voice and words penetrated the walls of the crowded room, and of my heart. For the first time since her passing, warm tears escaped the corner of my eye, and I felt the realisation of loss creep up and consume me:

…When they built you, brother, they turned dust into gold
When they built you, brother, they broke the mold.

They say you can't take it with you, but I think that they're wrong
'Cause all I know is I woke up this morning, and something big was gone
Gone into that dark ether where you're still young and hard and cold
Just like when they built you, brother,
They broke the mold.

A little boy suddenly pointed up to the ceiling, and kept talking. She must have been watching us in that crowded room. Where there were no more seats, a host of people willingly stood throughout the ceremony at the back. All to catch a last glimpse of this wonderful woman, to thank her for her being, for her presence and her impact on each of us in separate but equally unique ways. She must be touched by fact that we were there to share our love and memories of her. A projector image of Carmen smiled back at all of us, smiled back at the arrangements of fresh flowers. She must have thought how beautiful, how full of life it all was. Even if the reason we all gathered together was death.

Now your death is upon us and we'll return your ashes to the earth
And I know you'll take comfort in knowing you've been roundly blessed and cursed
But love is a power greater than death, just like the songs and stories told
And when she built you, brother, she broke the mold

That attitude's a power stronger than death, alive and burning her stone cold
When they built you, brother

Plane vs Train

I spent the whole morning scouring the internet in search of cheap and fast ways to get to France. Strasbourg is only around 750km from here, and back in the day when I first regularly visited my friend and godson, I would take the train. It's a long 7hr journey, with a transfer in Brussels, but nonetheless journey that takes you through some beautiful regions of the Ardennen, Luxembourg and Northern France.

Then I was still under 25, but this year for the first time I must buy an "adult" ticket :( And since I last went to Strasbourg in 2008, a 'new' high speed rail network has come into being in this part of Europe, which is supposed to connect all the major cities within hours.

So I checked the price and train connections. What used to take 7hrs and only two connections will now take 6.5hrs and have three connections on this so-called high-speed network, routing me through Brussels and Paris as well. Whatsmore, what used to cost EUR130 for a return (which I found expensive then), will now cost EUR180 for a single journey on the high speed network! Sure, you get to ride some of the fastest and slickest trains in Europe (the Thalys, TGV-Est), but why is it so expensive? What about people who can't afford to travel or limited means to do so? And I thought the European high speed network was all about ease of travel and connectivity.

So I turned my search to planes, and as expected, flying is not only cheaper but much faster, taking only about 1hr20min from airport to airport, costing around EUR180. I managed to find a connection from Amsterdam to Basel on Swiss, and so avoiding the horrible and unfriendly airline that is KLM altogether. (though, on Easyjet, I found a ticket for the same journey for only EUR120, but the travel times are not flexible).

Being environmentally concerned, as I clicked "book" online, I thought to myself what world have we come to if flying is cheaper than training? I'm sure the economic costs, including externalities like pollution, fuel etc of flying cannot be cheaper than riding the electrified train.

And yet in terms of price it actually is... I'll have to offset some of my carbon footprints sometime soon...

Trip

After the somber events of the past week since I got back to Europe, yesterday I decided to do a trip I've been meaning to make for a while. To Strasbourg, to visit my godson and her mum, who I've not seen for almost a year already. What's more exciting is that my friend got married and gave birth to a baby girl within that same period, so a lot has changed since we last met. In her life and in mine.

I went around buying all these cookies and sweets and cheeses that I know they like, and from Canada I had brought with me special Vancouver Olympics backpacks for kids. I know the gifts probably don't mean much, but not being in Europe has made it difficult to be in touch with them, and I guess the gifts are supposed to 'make up' for lost time. On my friend's blog, where she documents their daily life in words and pictures, I can see that my godson, now almost four, has really grown big and cute over the past year. I wonder if he stills remembers me, and the Christmases and birthdays that we spent together, and the hand-in-hand walks along the river that we made when he was still a toddler.

This visit to Strasbourg I'm going with a good friend, with whom I've travelled to various places, and she's never been to the beautiful region around Strasbourg (and also it'll be cheaper to share rooms too!). I think she'll mostly be on her own as I bond with my friend and her family, but Sunday we actually plan to rent a car and visit the one and only Nazi concentration and extermination camp in France, Stuthof Natzwiller. I have a feeling it will be very depressing and moving, but it's something I've always been meaning to experience, so in a way I'm looking forward to it (if such a place, with such a place is something one can look forward to seeing........)

So an exciting and full few days ahead!

Ride home

After seeing Carmen, we sat down together with the family and some of my brother's friends who knew her. It was a quiet dinner, Indonesian food, and at various points people didn't really know what to say, so there was an awkward silence that hung around and returned to the room. And I for one was not comfortable enough to start talking about random things in a room full of strangers. Some people asked me about my studies and life in Canada, and I answered briefly and quietly, not wanting to distract from the real reason we were all gathered there.

Carmen's daughter sat directly opposite me, smiling weakly when it was necessary. Perhaps I was imagining it, but it was as if I could feel her pain behind those smiles. I wanted to speak to her in person away from all these people, but there was never the chance. I did give her a big, long hug when I saw her and when I left. Perhaps through my embrace, through my gentle pats on her back, she understood or could feel that I can imagine what she is going through. "At least you got to see her and say goodbye", she said to me at one point. I agreed, and when we said goodbye it seemed like a flood of tears were about to burst through her eyes...

Brother and I walked slowly to the car, perhaps both of us reflecting on the night that had just passed us by. Perhaps both feeling lost as what to feel, perhaps unsure how to make sense of it all or put words to our lips. Eventually he asked me how it was. "Alright," I said, "It's only so much..."

Maybe those were unfeeling words, but at that point I really did not feel particular sadness or hurt. Carmen had gone, her remains lie in the bed she lay in for the past week or so, where she had struggled with life and death, but as always the latter won. It is only so much...

The car rode silently across town, and brother wanted to go somewhere, somewhere to freshen the mind, but was not sure where at that time of night. "We are growing up," he said, as gradually we will have to face more and more these kinds of occurrences. Friends, family, they will all slowly go as we age, he said, and stopped short right there.

Perhaps I was one step ahead, but perhaps at the end of that sentence was something that is all too raw and sensitive to both of us.

Friends, family will all pass gradually.

As will our mum.

Visiting Carmen

We were hesitant to ring the bell, let alone enter the house at first. We eyed one another, in attempts to let the other person go first. I gave brother the big bouquet of white, unblossomed lilies, and perhaps he knew that it was a gesture that, as the oldest and also closest to the family, he should be the first to go in.

In the first room, I knew that she lay there. That was where I last spoke to her. Where I last held hands and kissed her on the cheeks. That was where I last said that I would come back to see her. And here I was, back to see her, yet she had already left.

We entered the room, dark except for the flickering dim tea light candles placed around the room. A scent, floral, fragrant, yet with a hint of medicine, the same one that lingered on the fingers which had held on to Carmen’s a few days earlier, entered my nostrils. And I saw her, lying there with her hands holding an arrangement of orchids on her chest, her eyes, face and posture resting and at ease. On her head a hat, and in the background was the low sound of machinery, which I imagined kept her remains cool. Beautiful and elegant bouquets of white and light shades of flowers surrounded her bed. I heard a sniff, and felt brother gently place his hand close to my shoulder.

We were silent as we stood and watched… the lady who so kindly looked out for us over the years, who selflessly cared and was genuinely concerned about our wellbeing, who invited us to Christmas and New Years celebrations because we had no close relatives here. Her carefree laughter echoed in my memories, her big grin and warm embrace still fresh in my mind. I closed my eyes and wished her peace, sent her good thoughts, and hoped that she finally found liberation from the suffering and pain of this world. And I thanked her… for being there for us whenever we needed advice or help, for the encouragements and hugs she gave to my mum, for attending my high school graduation when my parents could not be there, for the great talks and philosophising we had over coffee and tea…

Rest in peace, Carmen.

Traditions surrounding death

In the olden days, neighbours were important as part of the rituals after someone's passing. The neighbours would be the ones who help with the cleaning of the remains and carrying the coffin down to the graveyard. Whatsmore, the neighbours would be the messengers who went around the village and told others of the news that someone had passed away. Probably that was the case in a largely rural and agricultural society, as I doubt this is still done...

Then the mirrors had to be covered, and curtains pulled closed to show that the household is in mourning. Normally, most Dutch households have big open windows and have their curtains open all the time. This is in line with the Calvist tradition, for open windows allow the outside world to see that this is a 'pure' and devout household, for there is nothing to hide. As for the mirrors, they are thought to be windows to the soul, and people believed that the soul of the deceased may drag the soul of a living person with it if the mirrors are not covered over. Another reason is because mirrors are a symbol of vanity, and there is no place for such thoughts in the sombre setting of mourning.

As part of the dowry, there is usually a piece of white clothing that is given to the bride . This is what they call a "deathcloth" (doodskleed), and it is first worn ont he wedding night, and then put into the closet to be washed once a year. There are no buttons on this piece of clothing, for buttons are believed to hold back the spirit when someone passes on, and the clothing must be tailored to the exact size as the deceased. When a death occurs in the family, the first name of the deceased is sown onto the deathcloth (and the needle thrown into an open fire to be destroyed...).

The term "stinking rich" (stinkend rijk) actually comes from the tradition of burrying the deceased around the local church. As time past, the churchyards were filling with corpses, which resulted in a pepetual stench that lingered. Being able to be burried in the churchyard meant that you were rich enough to pay for a space in the stinking final resting place.

Meeting with a friend

I cycled slowly towards my house, and suddenly saw a figure stand before the doorsteps. Curious, for the person had long blond hair, and none of my neighbours look like that. As the wheels inched closer, I realised who it was and smiled. We gave each other a long, big embrace.

It was a dear friend, with whom I had a bit of a confrontation few months before. But seeing her again, everything seemed to back to normal, and I was really glad that she dropped by like that. She followed her intuition, she said, and sort of knew that I would be there. Indeed, no sooner did she get off her bike I was arriving from a trip to downtown.

She bought lots of cakes and pastry, as well as a big bouquet of white-yellowish roses and lilies. Attached was a lovely card expressing condolences and wishing me strength. The card reminded me of something that I had not realised... within two years, I had lost a number of dear people in my life. First my dad, then a friend I met at the monastery, and now Carmen... and yes, almost on a constant basis I am living with the possibility of receiving a phone call with bad news of mum...

My friend and I sat down, on the kitchen floor no less, and bonded as the cat walked around rubbed herself against us. I confided in her, as I used to when we studied together, exchange notes and mused about emotions and dealing with death and dying. It's been two days since Carmen's passing, and yet I have not shed tears (only moistening at the corner of my eyes from time to time...)... have I become so desensitised to death, have I become numb, I asked?

Numb is when you don't care, when you don't feel, my friend reassured me. But the truth is that I do care... I do care about the pain and suffering of dying, about the hurt and emptiness of the remaining family. I do care about it enough to suddenly pick up my bags and rush back here.
No, I have not become desensitised nor numb. I have just learned to cope by becoming stronger. For there is nothing more painful to someone on the brink of death to see tears flowing down the face of the people left behind... I have learned to cope, to find strength from within so that I will not break down, and not burst out in emotions. How else can I be there to take my mother's hand, to assure her that there is hope yet? How else can I whisper in my dad's ears and tell him to let go and to go peacefully? How else can I sit by Carmen's side and calmly meditate and send her positive thoughts and wellwishes on her final journey of life? It takes courage and self discipline to do that, my friend said as she looked at me intensely in the eyes.

In a mail she later wrote to me, she described me and the circumstances I have been in in such strong words:

Your pain and sense of loss is great, but not greater than the love and happiness that these people have brought to your life. You are strong to carry the weight of so much distress over the last two years and this strength persuades others to live life to its fullest and to daily appreciate the happiness that loved ones bring to our lives; in good times, in bad times and in times when they have passed.

Death... dying... in the end it is only so much. In the end it is the only thing that is certain that will happen to each and every one of us. No prayers, however pious, no words, however eloquent and moving, can cheat or delay death should it approach. Most people only realise or feel it when faced with it...

I am not saying that I know it all already, or that I am ready for the next onslaught of death, or that I am prepared to face my own. But little by little, I am learning, I am feeling and experiencing death, and realising that it is only so much.

Morning jog

The sun shone, bright and dazzling through my windows. Gone was the storm from last night, gone were the heavy drops of rain that pounded the ceiling and insides of my heart.

I got out my jogging shoes, and sprinted towards the forest to try to cleanse my body. My head was still dizzy from not having slept much last night. My mind was troubled, flighty, and distracted by thoughts of Carmen and her family.

I had actually gotten up at midnight and started to write a letter to her daughter. The other day when I saw her, she seemed calm, but then her brother told me aside that she is reacting terribly to the whole situation. And her mum's death must be a climax to top off the brooding pain and hurt inside.

It's not a long letter, just one sharing my experience of death and losing someone dear. Every death is different, and everyone reacts differently to it, I wrote, but important is to let the raw emotions out. Let the tears out, let the mourning begin, let the memories flood out with the tears and longing. The smile, words and scent of the person we loose are all within us, are all part of us, in our deeds and thoughts. Write, draw, paint, scream, talk... get the feelings out somehow, and eventually, as with all things in this universe, it will all pass.

I have not yet sent the letter.

In a way I am afraid of sending it, for fear of hurting the daughter even more. As I was writing, I thought to myself: "Who am I to imagine what she is feeling? Who am I to tell her what she should do with the loss of the most important person in her life?" Mourning is so personal, so unique in every sense...

Bike ride

I cycled down to the sea, to watch the sea play with the winds. From heaven, giant rays of light beamed down through the clouds. Like stairwells, ascending.

When I went to see Carmen two days ago, funnily she had asked about where my bike was. It was on the balcony, I said.

And today, after hearing news of her passing, I dusted the bike and took it out for a ride. I cycled towards the beach, past the cafe where we once drank and ate gelato in, past the parks and woodlands where we walked around in so many times before... And I cycled past her home. The streets was the same as I last left them, the frontdoor was closed, and I did not want to disturb them.

See Carmen, I still have my bike. It's a little rusty, and makes noises when I pedal. But it works just fine...

May you rest in peace....

I had wanted to go see her this morning. That was my plan. To go see her, to comfort her, to hold her hands again. To tell her that it's alright, to tell her to let go, not to cling on.

But she left already.

May you rest in peace, Carmen. I am thinking of you...

Sleepless in The Hague

I suddenly woke up, from a dream. Dream of me queing at the airport counter, queing to buy a ticket home, a ticket to here. I eventually did manage to get one at a good rate, and it was then that I woke up.

It was completetly dark outside, just past 1am. It is not because of jetlag, I don't think, as I've been busy almost all day helping brother clean and set up the newly renovated house, and was tired when I went to bed. In fact, I had slept right through the night last night, and woke up close to noon.

I lay in bed, and my thoughts seemed to naturally drift to Carmen... I can picture her lying on her bed, her eyes, her face, her thin hands hanging over the bed side...

Is she asleep, or feeling pain and restlessness? Has she been able to eat since I last saw her? Does she still have the strength to speak?

Is she feeling angry, regret... is she fearing death?

I wish I could know, but these are difficult things to ask someone, especially someone who is already so weak and thin...

I wish I could see her, and know that she is alright...

I wish there was something I could do, something I could write to her, something I could give her that would comfort her mind and put her perhaps very agitated and suffering mind at ease...

Visit

Within two hours of landing, I was at her bedside. She stretched out her arm, and extended her fingers, now long and bony. She has much changed, her cheeks sunken and dark from the chemo, and her head visibly bald with a few meager strands of gray hair.

I held onto her hand, and smiled. She saw me, and smiled back. What a surprise it is, she said, and thanked me for coming all this way to see her. Her voice weak and coarse. “I want to,” I said simply. If my presence, however brief, however futile in the grand scheme of things, can make her feel a little more warmth and cared about, then the long trip was more than worth it.

She was there, but also not fully there. Whenever she closes her eyes, she seems to drift off. She looked peaceful in her sleep, though now and then I could feel her twitch. Nightmares? Flashbacks? Memories? Did she feel the slight trembling of my hands?

And when she opens her kind eyes again, she was right there before me again, if only temporarily. Unable to eat and bed-stricken for a few days now, she still asked about my mum, and said that she thinks of my mum often. “A far away relative,” she said, meaning that she and my mum both share feelings and emotions that only they can comprehend.

I sat in silence as she slept, listening to her light, raspy breathing. I sat next to her, at times holding her hand in mine, sometimes stroking her thin, veiny fingers, and I meditated.

”Peace be with you… may you be free from suffering… may you be free from pain… may you let go…”

"A woman goes to the doctor"

Again I cannot avoid watching sad or sensitive movies on long flights.

So out of the dozens of movies and series I could have watched, I chose this Dutch movie about a husband and wife whose lives and marriage are radically affected by cancer. “Komt een vrouw bij de dokter” (“A woman goes to the doctor”) portrays (at times graphically) how a life-threatening illness can change people, can change lives. First the chemo, then the radiation, the hair loss, the puking, the tears, the fears… the pain, suffering, prayers and desperation rolled into a roller coaster ride of up and down emotions.

Of everything, this one line put it best: “Cancer humiliates us all”.

En route to AMS

Brother called as I was busy packing the last few items into my suitcase. At first I could not hear him properly, then I could hear his muffled voice, mixed with tears and emotions. The last time I heard him cry was just after dad passed away.

“I just saw Carmen,” he began, “And it’s not good.” He was clearly distraught, and I was lost looking for words of comfort to offer, but could not find any. He said what he was feeling must be like when I experienced my friend become weaker and weaker until life slipped away. I was silent as he continued. This really could be it, and he asked if it were possible to extend my stay in the Netherlands, just in case it is necessary. I was unsure, but I will see. Later through a text message he said that he was so sad because he cannot imagine if it were our mum lying there… he cannot imagine what he would do, how he would cope. Silently I understood and felt his pain. A numbing pain, one that is perhaps so intense you do not feel anything anymore.

I closed the door, and saw my cat watching me through the glass window. Moments earlier she sat in my suitcase, as if she knew that I was again about to leave her. I stroked her again and again, unwilling to abandon her for so many days again so soon after I had returned.

With a heavy heart I made my way to the airport, the whole journey like a blur to me now that I think back. I tried to capture my mind, hold it down, but again it was racing rapidly through random thoughts and images. Now and then, I could see her face, her eyes, her body. I could hear her laughter, hear her voice, hear the echoes of the long talks she and I shared at cafes, in the park, by the beach… As I journeyed closer and closer to home, it seemed like the memories came back and pieces of the puzzle of the past joined together.

The sun was setting, and through the massive windows at the end of the terminal building I could see a red-orange sun slowly become swallowed by low-lying clouds. Cast on the bodies of planes and faces of passengers apart to depart was a bright, almost sacred reddish glow.

The day was dying, and each moment as precious as the previous.

Last call

Just spoke to mum, what will really be a last call for the next ten days. She sounded cheerful, and said she slept well. The lecture she went to was a mind-opener, as there were so many things she learned she cannot eat, or at least must eat in limited quantities. Sugar being one, as sugary substances will cause cancerous cells to multiply. The only thing that really brought her down was the fact that her hair has been falling again. A dozen on her pillow when she woke up. She is again afraid that she will loose all her hair, and said she might just have to go get a wig after all.

Mum sounded so cheerful and hopeful that I did not tell her about going back to the Netherlands tomorrow to see my friend, Carmen. I don't think it's lying, as mum does know that I'm going back, just not that it's suddenly become so soon. It's just not necessary to give her extra worry or anxieties to know that Carmen, also a friend of hers, is not doing well. Once mum invited her to visit Taiwan, and they were really planning it and getting excited about it. Now that trip seems so far away...

I just hope that mum will be able to do the meditation retreat and come out refreshed and with ease of mind. That will give her a real boost of confidence and give her the strength needed to wear the chemo sessions ahead. Metta....

One call

One call, and I'm on the move again. Not immediately, but very soon and very unexpected.

Brother called and said that things have taken a turn for the worst for my friend in the Netherlands. He said that it is best that I return as soon as possible. News is scarce, and the son of the friend has not given much details; only that my friend would like to see my brother (and me).

I put down the phone, burried my face in my hands and could not stop shaking.

Scenes, emotions, and the shock remniscent of that one moment some two years ago just before dad passed away.

Hurriedly I searched online for the quickest and cheapest connection. My original departure date was supposed to be next Tuesday, and to change my flight will cost me a ridiculous amount of money. Luckily, again, a friend came to the rescue and offered me miles to fly. I was reluctant at first, reluctant to accept help again and again. But it really was the cheapest option...

So this time tomorrow, I'll be on my way again.

Out of contact

Just spoke to mum, and she's on her way to the south to attend a lecture today. About cancer patients and diet, which a friend in her morning exercise group recommended. She said she'll stay in the city of Tainan for a day, and then head to the centre of the country to take part in a meditation course.

Ten days it will last, and all taking place in a monastery in Puli (where I often go to). It's been a long time since she last took part in such a long meditation retreat, but I think she needs it, and she has also been very eager to enroll herself, despite having just ended her latest chemo treatment. While I was with her, I encouraged her to go, for a retreat can really help to calm the mind, and allow a person to discover that inner world that is often so disturbed by the outside influences, noises and distractions. And a calm mind is what she needs if she is to respond well to the heavy treatment that she is undergoing, especially as meditation can help ease her anxieties and fears, and help her confront the inevitables of illness and death.

So mum will be out of reach for over a week... I deeply hope that she will go in and be able to find inner peace of mind and discover a clarity of thought that will give her the strength and will to go on... this I really wish...

Somewhere only I knew...

One week to the day since I arrived back in Montreal. Slowly, slowly I am getting back to the local time. The first few days I could hardly keep my eyes-- let alone mind-- awake by eight in the evening. Now I can bear it and drag out till 'normal' sleeping hours. But still, some 'biological' clock within wakes me up automatically at around six every morning. In a way it's good, because it means I have more of the day to spend.

One week to the day since I arrived back, and already I am counting down to the day I leave again. Which is six days from now. And this time back to Europe. This friend ( more like a sort of surrogate mother while my own was absent) in the Netherlands is not doing too well, and brother mailed me to say that she is not responding to the chemo therapy. So within a day or two of arriving back here I decided to make an unplanned trip to go see her. I do not wish to say it, let alone think it, but part of me is afraid that if I don't make this trip, it might be too late...
First my mum, and now a friend. One by one, cancer seems to be ruthlessly bringing down people close to me. And I am left running (more like flying) around the world in the hope that my presence, my touch however insignificant can make a little difference to their lives.

Going to Europe will be a short trip, only a week, give or take. And luckily, a friend offered me some airmiles to make this sudden trip possible. But after I come back from Europe at the end of this month, I have only four weeks till I fly back to Asia to be with mum...

Though I am glad that I am able to make this trip, that I have the time and money to spare to make all these journeys to see family and friends, I am truly very tired. Tired of travelling, tired of living from week to week, month to month unsure whether I can settle down in one place and when I can get back to my routines.

With all this flying around, someone jokingly commented that at least in April I will break the "record" of staying put for a whole month. I cannot explain why it hurt to hear that... why those words so abruptly made me feel like crying... why all the travelling and living out a suitcase simply is not what I wish in my life. I said little back, but deep down I felt so misunderstood.

If I had a choice, do I not wish for stability and predictability, at least for a period of time, instead of the uncertainty of flying and moving around from place to place, from people to people? Do I not long to get back to my studies and long for the feeling that I am working toward something tangible? I can fly off and offer comfort and consolation to those dear in my life, yet who will offer me the same?

Sure, it might seem glorious and luxurious to shuttle between world continents to all these exciting countries and cities... but how I long for comfort, for certainty.

For being in a place of familiarity and love without needing to every so often hurriedly come and hurriedly bid farewells.

Back in Montreal

First full day back in Montreal. The weather's been mild, topping well above zero Celcius, with the remnants of the last snowfall already melted away. I met up with some friends for lunch in town, after which we strolled through the city centre.

The city seemed much more lively than how I remember it, with people filling the streets and sidewalks, enjoying the warm spell of weather that's unsual for this time of year. Beautiful people, bizarre people, people in miniskirts even though there was still a chill in the air, and this one girl who wandered about in a black Gothic outfit, constantly repeating "I'm special" to herself. I walked around, the shop windows were full with goods and shoppers, and here and there were signs of St Patrick's just around the corner.

It's good to be back in Montreal, but already the countdown begins till the next time I leave again.

太巴朗民謠 Tai-Ba-Lang Folksong

From the musical, On the Road (Haven't toasted me for a long time, you!)! Tai-ba-lang (meaning "crab", because of the abundance of crabs in the nearby creek) is a mountain region on the eastern part of Hualian, rumoured to be the birthplace of the Amis tribe.

"Hohaiyan" means "roar, ocean" in the Amis language. You can almost feel the majesty of the mountains and the sea, and the purity of the aboriginals singing and dancing in the plains of their homeland...

"Where are you coming back from?"

I approached secondary cautiously. I was honest at primary, and had declared that I have food with me. Not fish, meat products, dead penguins or birds. Just some cookies, dried plums, pastry, as well as two (stuffed) bears and a white space monkey named Yuri, who was still recovering from the traumatic experience of being patted down by a large TSA officer.

The secondary officer eyed me and my two suitcases. One black, one white; one big, one small, with the markings of AirWei on the top. He took my customs declaration form, dyed red with scribbles of what I had declared, and blurted out: "Where are you coming back from? China?"

"Taipei," I said, to which he replied with a puzzled look. "Taiwan. From Taiwan," quickly I added.

"OK. Thank you, goodbye."

And I strolled through the airport to the exit.

Goodbye, mum

It was a quick goodbye, and perhaps therefore less sad than expected.

I walked around the house again, silently blessing each and every room, corner, hoping that the house will take care of mum, and of itself, until I return. Mum’s help, Ms. Hsu was there too, and as I hugged mum tightly the first time, she looked up from doing the laundry, and jokingly said “No tears! No sad goodbyes!” Again, she promised to take good care of mum, told me not to worry, and said that I should call home often. Which I do.

Mum was in her pajamas, and a clear tube leading from a pouch around her waist was showing. She apologised for not being able to accompany me to the airport, and she felt bad that I always pick her up, but that she cannot do the same for me. No need, no need, I said. Life’s journey is often traveled alone.

Even though she was in her pajamas, she still wanted to help take my suitcases downstairs. She donned on a thin coat, and wore a simple pair of slippers. In the elevator I patted her back, told her to take care, to exercise everyday, and to eat and rest well. “So attentive and caring,” she said, as she smiled and looked at me.

The wind was blowing, and overnight the temperature had suddenly dropped to below 10C. I could feel it. Through the fragile sun, I could feel the wind, the damp, the cold as I remember it back in Canada. Even so, mum stood by the front door, braved the wind, which blew her hair sideways, and waited with me until a taxi turned the corner.

As I stepped into the taxi, just before I closed the door, I saw a mother, looking tired and frail, yet with all her strength and love accompanying her son, savouring every moment of togetherness, for as long and far as she can.

Goodbye.

Distant world

Everyone seems so busy, so lost in their little worlds on a screen. Everyone typing or clicking away on tiny keyboards, connecting with those in a far away place, or a virtual realm of existence. Who really notices and appreciates the real world around them?

Last night in Taipei

Last night in Taipei for this trip here.

I lie awake next to mum, awakened by her snoring. At least she is asleep, and I try not to disturb her, even though I'm bothered by the noise somewhat. For most of the night, she has been turning and twisting and having difficulty to sleep. It seems to be a reoccuring phenomenon on the first day of the chemo therapy. She would fall asleep for a little while, and then wake up again. As I'm close to her, whenever she stirs and moves, I wake up too. As much as I can, I try to comfort her, to make sure she's alright. So far, she has still be able to eat normally, but it may be different tomorrow, she said. She only threw up once, but that was perhaps because she ate a little too much before sleeping.

This time tomorrow, I should be well into my flight across the Pacific. It may seem like a terrible time to be leaving her, in the middle of her current chemo treatment and all. But we spoke about it again tonight just before bed, and she was confident, hopeful and in bright spirits. Earlier, the doctor said that if her condition improves, she may not need to finish all eight chemo sessions. Which means she does not have to suffer the adverse effects of the treatment longer than necessary, and which also means she will be fit to travel after May, and definitely in June. I encouraged her to keep that healthy spirit alive, to exercise, to continue to believe that it will all be better. And she seemed to really be determined to go on. For the sake of her health, for her own sake, for the hope of being able to travel and go see brother's newly renovated house, for going to stay with me and my little kitty for a while...

No, I do not feel regretful or too sad that I will be gone tomorrow. Perhaps because I know I will be back very soon. But more because I know that I have done the best that I can while I am here. Mum knows it, and she said those deities in heaven know and see it too.

Most importantly, I know it.

At least [I] still have you

I am afraid there is not enough time,

I want to hold you.

Until [I] feel your wrinkles

[Which] hold the traces of the years,

Until [I] can be certain you are real,

Until [I] lose strength,

For you, I am willing.

[I] cannot move

But still want to watch you,

Until [I] feel your hairline,

Holds the traces of white snow.

Until [my] vision becomes blurred,

Until [I] cannot breathe.

Let [our] shadows and reflections never part.

If
I can also let go of the whole world,

At least [I] still have you

Worth me to treasure and cherish,

And you being here

Is precisely life’s miracle.

Maybe

I can also forget the whole world,

Only [I] do not wish

To lose news of you.

The mole in centre of your palm,

I always remember where it is.

I am afraid there is not enough time,

I want to hold you.

Until [I] feel your hairline,

Holds the traces of white snow.

Until [my] vision becomes blurred,

Until [I] cannot breathe.

Let [our] shadows and reflections never part.

With great difficulty,

We have no command over our bodies,

I am afraid time is [passing] too quickly,

Not enough to look at you closely.

I am afraid time is passing too slowly,

[I] worry day and night about losing you.

I want nothing less than to [become] old in one night,

Never to part.

Over there.

Chances

What are the chances that the daughter my mum's new help is the secretary of the head of the oncology department at the hospital she goes to? With one phone call, mum did not have to wait too long to be seen and to begin her third session of chemo therapy.

Again and again, through a pure and innocent smile, an infectious and genuine laughter, the help told me not to worry. "I'll come everyday", she said, "And take good care of your mum. I can guarantee it".

I was deeply, deeply grateful, and repeatedly, said "Thank you, thank you, thank you".
How many is enough to express my heart-felt gratitude to the people who happen to be there and to be of such great help in life?

"Stationary condition"

I noticed the many deep folds in her eyelids, and crow's feet that trailed from the corners of the closed eyes. Mum looked tired, and temporarily rested while the nurse inserted the needle into a button-like valve just under her shoulder blades. I cringed, and felt my knees weaken. But in my mind, I imagined what it must be like for her, for the dozens of other patients around me, and the queasiness disappeared.

Earlier, on the doctor's computer screen I saw the words "stationary condition", and was relieved to read and hear that there has been no abnormal activity since the last CT scan. It helps to have the children around, the doctor said, and commented something about dropping birth rates in Taiwan. Perhaps nobody is as relieved as mum, who for the last couple of hours, or even days, was feeling worried and anxious. The cancer index has even halved, though the doctor suggested that she continue with the chemo treatment, and after a few more times it may not be necessary any more. I could see that mum was encouraged by the news, and I patted her gently, and told her to continue like this, to look forward to good things and future plans. For hope can drive a person, can help heal a little, and help boost the body when the body is weak.

Mum opened her eyes again, and smiled at me. She looked energetic and hopeful as I smiled back. Mum was visibly touched by the attentiveness and care with which the nurse helped ease her into her seat. The nurse replied that in this ward, everyone is a "treasured customer". I looked at the nurses quietly at work, walking to attend the needs of the dozens of people in the ward. Despite the heaviness and constant confrontation with illness and death, they still somehow manage to maintain their warmth, their human-ness, their compassion and understanding for the thousands and thousands of patients who come in day in, day out, day after day after day. I thanked the nurses, and silently wished them the strength and courage to continue to care for, smile at and touch the bodies and hearts of so many who need them.