The past few days have been like a nice dream. Biking, bathing, travelling, sampling wonderful cuisine, seeing beautiful sights, and making valuable memories together... My friend and I have been all over the place, and we've thoroughly enjoyed one another's company. I feel content, happy to be with him, to be lying next to him at night, and to enjoy the warmth of his body, and the feel of his caress... For a few days, I felt like I lived in each moment, and all worries, all sorts of nagging, disturbing thoughts were kept at bay...
Back to the hospital today, and reality strikes. Accompanied mum the MRI ward, and she went in for almost an hour. Results are due in a week, but in the past few days the tingling numbness of her left arm has spread, and it's become an occassional pain. Like bees stinging, she describes it.
We went to her main physician, and his diagnosis is that the cancer has indeed spread. For now, she will continue the chemo therapy (which seems to have lowered the CEA, cancer index)... he recommends radiotherapy to deal with the spreading of cancerous cells in the spine, but if it is severe, if mum feels severe pain or loses ability to move her left arm, then the disease will have advanced, and surgery will be necessary.
For now, she has a few days to rest, and next week she'll resume chemo and get her MRI results. And next week is also the wedding, which means there will be a lot of things to deal with, and I'm a bit worried that mum may be exhausted too much...
After many days travelling, after days and nights of fun and romance with my friend, I am thrust back into that agitated, anxious state of mind again.
18 January 2011
12 January 2011
Visit
I've been looking forward to this day, and it has finally come. It's been around three weeks since we last saw one another, and finally after all this wait, my friend is arriving today to visit me. At times in the past few weeks, the days and minutes seemed to by ever so slowly... All this time, I think we have been missing one another's company and presence, and I think I can say that we are both excited, in a variety of ways, to get together again.
It's a long way for anyone to travel, literally half way around the world, and it 'just so happens' that he had a ticket he needed to use. Whatever the reason he is coming to see me, I feel honoured and grateful that there is someone who is willing to do so much, to go so far to see me. It makes me feel special, and cared for, and I treasure that deeply. At this moment in time, when my life and my feelings are in a state of uncertainty and are prone to emotional setbacks, I think I need the presence and support of a dear friend more than ever.
I'm not sure what will happen during his visit. I have a few things planned, and am looking forward to time alone together. We always have a lot of fun travelling, doing things and exploring together. There's some connection between us that rarely seems to tire, even after knowing one another and being in one another's lives for more or less two years now, and I look forward to rekindling that bond again.
Whatever happens on this trip, I told him, and also told myself, not to have too many expectations. People are often disappointed because of expecting too much... expecting for things to turn out perfectly, expecting the weather to be beautiful, expecting people to be the way they want to be. Not having expectations can be surprising. Surprisingly fun too.
I'll just try to enjoy the moment, every moment, and fully take in what precious time we have together in the coming week.
11 January 2011
Euthanasia
On this damp, chilly morning I took mum up the mountain to nearby Peitou. Famed for its natural hot springs that bubbles from the bowls of the Earth, the area is populated with many spas and hotels. The recent cold front and drizzle made us all the more determined to go for a soak.
As the intense heat mixed with the cold air, shrouds of white mist would rise from the green lake. At times, as the curtains of mist drew closer and closer, the majestic mountains in the background would be shielded from sight. In the air, the pungent scent of sulphur can at times be choking, yet the still silence so soothing to the senses. I sat in the different pools, bare naked and alone for over an hour, soaking in the relaxing atmosphere, and let my tense muscles and mind go. At times I got up and would just stare into the distance, into nothing. Ever since I came home, rarely have I felt such peace and emptiness of my mind...
Mum too enjoyed herself thoroughly, and came out much later than the time we agreed to meet (the spa is separated by gender). I took the time to sit and sip tea as I read the newspaper. One of the headlines, something that has been in the news recently, grabbed my attention. As the first country in Asia, the Taiwanese parliament yesterday passed a law to allow relatives of terminally ill patients to end life support. Though the decision requires the consent of close relatives (eg. spouse, children, and parents ), and requires the approval of two medical doctors and a panel of medical, ethics and legal experts, it does pave the way for ending the unnecessary suffering of patients and of relatives. One of the medical conditions that falls under the new 'euthanasia' law is terminal cancer that metastises throughout the body.
I read the news coverage and social commentary carefully. "One needs not only live well, but also needs to go [die] well", was the remark of a mother who had to watch her young daughter go through painful and unbearable treatment for terminal cancer. "No one should have to watch a loved one suffer..." After months of chemo therapy, of blood transfers, of all sorts of therapies, the daughter eventually passed away in a pool of her own blood, as the doctor repeatedly tried to resuscitate her. That memory, that image will however forever linger in the mother's mind.
"...could I ask you something?" I asked carefully, unsure how mum would respond. I told mum about the latest law, and asked her her opinion of it. "Please, take the time to think about it, and we also need to talk about it with brother too..."
She smiled, and looked calm and at ease. "If there is a more humane way to die, then I would choose it. All that pain, all that pain will erase the beautiful memories of life... I don't want to suffer."
My worst fear, my worst nightmare is having to watch mum suffer unbearable pain, and not being able to do anything about it. It's like what the monk once described, having to watch a loved one burn alive in a house that is ablaze, but being helpless to rescue him/her. I've seen it in my dreams, and at times I see it in my bleak and vivid imaginations. No body has to undergo such pain, pain that cannot be described, cannot be matched, but can only be described as torturing for the body, for the soul, and for all those involved.
"When dad passed away, I was there... I held onto his hand, I whispered in his ear and told him to let go. That was an quiet way to pass [away]," I recounted. We cannot choose when we go, how we go, but we can somewhat influence the way we go, and try to make sure we go peacefully, quietly, with dignity.
It's not come to that day, that moment yet, but it is something that I'm glad mum and I could talk about with a clear mind and without fear or remorse. Perhaps that day may never come... perhaps when that moment does come, I will shiver and be afraid to sign away her life.
But at least for now, mum and I have an understanding. Life needs to be lived, but when the time comes to go, go quietly and go with pride...
UPDATE: 25 March 2012
There is a difference in the terminology and translation. The 'euthanasia' law is actually the provision of palliative care in a patient's final stage of life. It entails the signing of a DNR (do not resuscitate) form and the agreement with the medical team that there will be no attempt at treatment, and all attention will be redirected to making the patient comfortable until the end of life. In Mandarin, euthanasia is 安樂死 (literally: "comfortable and happy death") whereas palliative/hospice care is 自然死 (literally: "natural death").
As the intense heat mixed with the cold air, shrouds of white mist would rise from the green lake. At times, as the curtains of mist drew closer and closer, the majestic mountains in the background would be shielded from sight. In the air, the pungent scent of sulphur can at times be choking, yet the still silence so soothing to the senses. I sat in the different pools, bare naked and alone for over an hour, soaking in the relaxing atmosphere, and let my tense muscles and mind go. At times I got up and would just stare into the distance, into nothing. Ever since I came home, rarely have I felt such peace and emptiness of my mind...
Mum too enjoyed herself thoroughly, and came out much later than the time we agreed to meet (the spa is separated by gender). I took the time to sit and sip tea as I read the newspaper. One of the headlines, something that has been in the news recently, grabbed my attention. As the first country in Asia, the Taiwanese parliament yesterday passed a law to allow relatives of terminally ill patients to end life support. Though the decision requires the consent of close relatives (eg. spouse, children, and parents ), and requires the approval of two medical doctors and a panel of medical, ethics and legal experts, it does pave the way for ending the unnecessary suffering of patients and of relatives. One of the medical conditions that falls under the new 'euthanasia' law is terminal cancer that metastises throughout the body.
I read the news coverage and social commentary carefully. "One needs not only live well, but also needs to go [die] well", was the remark of a mother who had to watch her young daughter go through painful and unbearable treatment for terminal cancer. "No one should have to watch a loved one suffer..." After months of chemo therapy, of blood transfers, of all sorts of therapies, the daughter eventually passed away in a pool of her own blood, as the doctor repeatedly tried to resuscitate her. That memory, that image will however forever linger in the mother's mind.
"...could I ask you something?" I asked carefully, unsure how mum would respond. I told mum about the latest law, and asked her her opinion of it. "Please, take the time to think about it, and we also need to talk about it with brother too..."
She smiled, and looked calm and at ease. "If there is a more humane way to die, then I would choose it. All that pain, all that pain will erase the beautiful memories of life... I don't want to suffer."
My worst fear, my worst nightmare is having to watch mum suffer unbearable pain, and not being able to do anything about it. It's like what the monk once described, having to watch a loved one burn alive in a house that is ablaze, but being helpless to rescue him/her. I've seen it in my dreams, and at times I see it in my bleak and vivid imaginations. No body has to undergo such pain, pain that cannot be described, cannot be matched, but can only be described as torturing for the body, for the soul, and for all those involved.
"When dad passed away, I was there... I held onto his hand, I whispered in his ear and told him to let go. That was an quiet way to pass [away]," I recounted. We cannot choose when we go, how we go, but we can somewhat influence the way we go, and try to make sure we go peacefully, quietly, with dignity.
It's not come to that day, that moment yet, but it is something that I'm glad mum and I could talk about with a clear mind and without fear or remorse. Perhaps that day may never come... perhaps when that moment does come, I will shiver and be afraid to sign away her life.
But at least for now, mum and I have an understanding. Life needs to be lived, but when the time comes to go, go quietly and go with pride...
UPDATE: 25 March 2012
There is a difference in the terminology and translation. The 'euthanasia' law is actually the provision of palliative care in a patient's final stage of life. It entails the signing of a DNR (do not resuscitate) form and the agreement with the medical team that there will be no attempt at treatment, and all attention will be redirected to making the patient comfortable until the end of life. In Mandarin, euthanasia is 安樂死 (literally: "comfortable and happy death") whereas palliative/hospice care is 自然死 (literally: "natural death").
10 January 2011
Family history
I quickly packed a light bag, and hopped on the high speed train. Within three hours of waking up and deciding to go south, I was standing on the platform at Chiayi Station, and breathing in the warmer, fresher air of my parents’ hometown.
It was a last minute decision, as mum had been feeling unwell and thrown up a few times the day before. But this morning, she looked and said she felt better, and encouraged to go. “People are waiting for you…”
Indeed, a whole host of people have been eagerly awaiting my return, ever since they found out that I’ve been in Taiwan
I cycle around Chiayi, on a bike with a basket in the front, sometimes ringing happily the bell as I criss-cross and navigate the narrow lanes and streets of this old city. A city where my parents grew up, where my parents met, where my parents got married, where I used to spend all my summers and long holidays, where the family would always gather on special days and on special occasions. The streets of Chiayi are filled with smells, sights and sounds of my childhood, of my grandparents, of those yesteryears of innocence and play with my cousins.
Having grown older, each time I return to this small town in rural Taiwan
On these visits, I learn a lot about my family, about where I come from. Perhaps being a sentimental someone who attaches a lot of value to the past, learning about the lives and histories of my parents and their parents never ceases to fascinate me. Earlier today, shortly after arriving, my aunt (dad’s older sister) took me on a little tour of where my grandpa came from. It is a backwater and poor village named “Cow Peach Bay” (where according to one story, a village developed where the original settlers used to tie water buffalos around a peach tree), the main source of income was, and still is, from oyster farming.
I wandered through the little alleyways, peeked through holes in rundown and abandoned one-storey red brick houses, and felt like I was going back in time, reliving memories and stories of my grandpa, who passed away when I was only two. Metal shacks and houses no bigger than a few square metres crowded with families of eight or more were the norm those days. Seeing the past makes me appreciate more the present, treasure more what I have and how hard my forefathers (and foremothers) toiled to raise a family and continue the family line. Even though I cannot imagine or know fully what life was like back then, it is intriguing and touching to see with my own eyes the humble and hunger stricken beginnings that my grandparents and their parents worked so they could provide food on the table and education for all their children.
Seeing the past, comparing it to the present, and measuring it against the possibilities future makes a person, a family appreciate life and people more. My grandparents may have already left, my dad may have already departed, but life continues on and on. Life, filled with its sorrows, its joys, its tears and its laughter, continues on and on no matter what, and all the people are mere characters that play temporary (at times too temporary) roles whose paths happen to cross at the same time, sometime for a long time, sometimes for a short time. With the upcoming wedding my brother, who is the oldest and first male of the family, it is as if the story of my family, a story like all stories, complete with birth, marriage, and death, is coming full circle.
For now, with all the attention focused on my brother, I’m able to avoid the questions of when I’m going to get married. But here and there are already voices and whispers: “Oh, with your talents and good looks, you must have lots of girls following you…” “Oh, whoever is your wife will be very lucky…” I just smirk and smile and keep quiet, and maintain my policy of not saying anything unless asked directly. For a number of years at least, I can still stall and say I’m studying, or I’m just beginning to work… but inevitably people will ask, especially in a very family-oriented culture like where I was born and raised in.
Though my personal belongings were just the things I had in my little bag and the clothes I had on me, I pulled a trolley full of goodies and gifts to give.
08 January 2011
What can you do?
"It's like the person is in a burning house, but you can't do anything to rescue him..." the monk said, as he recalled on the phone his experience of having to deal with the slow, gradual death of his disciple. It's true... how hopeless I often feel, how incapable, how tied my hands are to want to remove someone's fear and worry, but feel so utterly useless because I do not know how!
And because I do not know what I can do to help, I feel like I'm failing miserably at being with mum, at taking care of her, at making her feel secure and supported. This sense of worry and sense of failure is multiplying in my mind, which has been racing and restless largely because of this (and partly because of my longings to go home...) for so long I feel so exhausted, physically and emotionally. This mind of ours... it's so perpetually bombarded by worry, fear, and longing! This mind of ours, creator of our moods and the worlds we live in.
I must learn to tame the mind, tame the mind to be in one place, to be focused on one thought at a time, and not to let it wander around like curious little puppies. Be in this place, be in this moment, be with the person you are with, and enjoy every single moment together. That is living fully, that is living without worry, without fear.
"Don't think about how you're going to die, but how you're going to live in this moment," the monk said. Bring her joy, show her love, show her compassion. "I'm sure she appreciates your being."
And she does. She reminds me almost daily by telling me how many of her friends are so impressed by me, how her friends, or even strangers on the street, praise me for being so caring, so loving.
I have to believe that, accept that, and tell myself over and over again, I am doing the best I can in the circumstances. And that is enough!
And because I do not know what I can do to help, I feel like I'm failing miserably at being with mum, at taking care of her, at making her feel secure and supported. This sense of worry and sense of failure is multiplying in my mind, which has been racing and restless largely because of this (and partly because of my longings to go home...) for so long I feel so exhausted, physically and emotionally. This mind of ours... it's so perpetually bombarded by worry, fear, and longing! This mind of ours, creator of our moods and the worlds we live in.
I must learn to tame the mind, tame the mind to be in one place, to be focused on one thought at a time, and not to let it wander around like curious little puppies. Be in this place, be in this moment, be with the person you are with, and enjoy every single moment together. That is living fully, that is living without worry, without fear.
The monk comforted me, and reassured me that often all we can do is be there, be supportive. Nothing else, however inadequate it may be. Even if you want to do more, what more is there that you can do...? I'm not a healer, I'm not a trained physician... I'm not God who can miraculously will or wish the cancers away. I'm just a son trying the best I can do help, to offer support. It may feel inadequate, it may not feel like it's enough, but really, what else can I do...?
And she does. She reminds me almost daily by telling me how many of her friends are so impressed by me, how her friends, or even strangers on the street, praise me for being so caring, so loving.
I have to believe that, accept that, and tell myself over and over again, I am doing the best I can in the circumstances. And that is enough!
Crying
I told my brother the latest news, and I could see him on the webcam wiping his tears.
I don't know if I did the right thing telling him, making him sad, making him worry. But he does have a right to know, and now better than.
"We just have to deal with it, accept it, and see what treatment is available..." I said. Maybe those are not the most assuring words. They certainly aren't not words of comfort or consolation. I need consolation myself, and for now, what I said to brother are the only words I can think of.
He wiped him tears some more. It is difficult to see him sad and to see him cry. But I had my chance to talk to him, while mum is out, and it is easier now than if mum were around and watching him cry.
We talked a bit about the wedding, in a way to distract him and make him feel happy. "Mum is really looking forward to the wedding. And she's happy that you're finally settling down. It's one less worry for her," I said. Brother is lucky he has found support and companionship, and whatever happens to mum, at least he'll have another person to take care of him, to love him. Perhaps it is selfish, perhaps it is being jealous, but who do I really have left, but friends and relatives, whom I value, whom I am grateful to, but at the end of the day, they can give me only so much...
"Please don't be too sad. Please don't worry too much..." I said, just before our conversation ended. But I imagine brother now, tearing and crying like I did when I heard the news a few weeks ago about mum's condition getting worse. I can only imagine that pain, that hurt to hear such devastating news.
Be well, brother... I'm sorry to break the news to you, and I'm sorry to make you so sad...
I don't know if I did the right thing telling him, making him sad, making him worry. But he does have a right to know, and now better than.
"We just have to deal with it, accept it, and see what treatment is available..." I said. Maybe those are not the most assuring words. They certainly aren't not words of comfort or consolation. I need consolation myself, and for now, what I said to brother are the only words I can think of.
He wiped him tears some more. It is difficult to see him sad and to see him cry. But I had my chance to talk to him, while mum is out, and it is easier now than if mum were around and watching him cry.
We talked a bit about the wedding, in a way to distract him and make him feel happy. "Mum is really looking forward to the wedding. And she's happy that you're finally settling down. It's one less worry for her," I said. Brother is lucky he has found support and companionship, and whatever happens to mum, at least he'll have another person to take care of him, to love him. Perhaps it is selfish, perhaps it is being jealous, but who do I really have left, but friends and relatives, whom I value, whom I am grateful to, but at the end of the day, they can give me only so much...
"Please don't be too sad. Please don't worry too much..." I said, just before our conversation ended. But I imagine brother now, tearing and crying like I did when I heard the news a few weeks ago about mum's condition getting worse. I can only imagine that pain, that hurt to hear such devastating news.
Be well, brother... I'm sorry to break the news to you, and I'm sorry to make you so sad...
06 January 2011
Call
Mum was out for a bit of massage, something she does after her chemo sessions. The phone rang, and it was a friend of hers.
"Just calling to check up on your mum," she said. I recognised her voice. In the time I have been back home, this auntie has called to see how mum is doing at least half a dozen times.
I thanked her profusely. I felt my many, many thanks cannot express how grateful I am, how much I value her support and her phone calls. I was moved to tears, and had to suppress myself to avoid betraying my wavering voice. "Thank you for your calls, for caring so much about mum. When I'm not here, my brother is not here, and you often call. I really am very grateful..."
"It's nothing," she said, "Just friends supporting each other. I'm a bit worried about her [my mum], especially during and just after chemo, so that's why I call."
I thanked her again, and could not think of anything else to say. Deep down, I was filled with such gratitude that words are meaningless and useless to express how I felt.
"Encourage her, don't always talk about her illness but also about other things. Let her vent," the auntie said.
We all need to vent indeed. In many ways I am glad that I am here so mum can pour out her pains and her sorrows. It may get too much at times, especially when she starts to talk about wanting to be left to die. Her complaints may overwhelm me, flood me with such deep, deep sadness, may trigger a rebellious unwillingness to really face and accept the reality of her situation.
But most of the time, I let her emotions unload on me in the hope that she will feel relieved afterwards, in the hope that the less she bottles inside, the less damage her pent up emotions can do to her physical body, and the less her frustrations and worry will become food for the cancer that loves foster and feed on negativity and stress.
"I'll call back again later," she said, and the brief conversation ended.
Inside, the indescribable and so inadequately expressed feelings of gratitude grew and lingered...
"Just calling to check up on your mum," she said. I recognised her voice. In the time I have been back home, this auntie has called to see how mum is doing at least half a dozen times.
I thanked her profusely. I felt my many, many thanks cannot express how grateful I am, how much I value her support and her phone calls. I was moved to tears, and had to suppress myself to avoid betraying my wavering voice. "Thank you for your calls, for caring so much about mum. When I'm not here, my brother is not here, and you often call. I really am very grateful..."
"It's nothing," she said, "Just friends supporting each other. I'm a bit worried about her [my mum], especially during and just after chemo, so that's why I call."
I thanked her again, and could not think of anything else to say. Deep down, I was filled with such gratitude that words are meaningless and useless to express how I felt.
"Encourage her, don't always talk about her illness but also about other things. Let her vent," the auntie said.
We all need to vent indeed. In many ways I am glad that I am here so mum can pour out her pains and her sorrows. It may get too much at times, especially when she starts to talk about wanting to be left to die. Her complaints may overwhelm me, flood me with such deep, deep sadness, may trigger a rebellious unwillingness to really face and accept the reality of her situation.
But most of the time, I let her emotions unload on me in the hope that she will feel relieved afterwards, in the hope that the less she bottles inside, the less damage her pent up emotions can do to her physical body, and the less her frustrations and worry will become food for the cancer that loves foster and feed on negativity and stress.
"I'll call back again later," she said, and the brief conversation ended.
Inside, the indescribable and so inadequately expressed feelings of gratitude grew and lingered...
Changes
Life changes, and plans change with it. Change, uncertainty, unpredictability. We have to just change with change, otherwise we’ll forever torment ourselves with things not going according to plan, not according to our wishes.
It seems like every day there is change, most things we don't notice, but some things, and sometimes, it frustrates us. Change in the weather, change in the schedule, change in the body, change in the mind. With mum's health, it's change in the date of the next test, change in the date of the next chemo session… With the approaching dates of my friend’s arrival next week, I feel kind of torn between wanting to be there for mum, and wanting to make sure my friend (and I) have a good time together.
He has been exceptionally patient and understanding. Once he said doesn’t matter where we are, or where we go, for the point is to spend time together. Everything else is not so important if you enjoy the moment, and enjoy one another’s company. Having and enjoying good humour and good companionship makes even the most tedious of places or situations seem fun!
I’ve planned trips away, but these trips and dates of these trips keep on changing, because my mum’s hospital appointments keep on changing. It’s not ideal, but what can I do but adapt and change plans accordingly? Really, I could begin to feel frustrated, feel upset that things may have to be cancelled or postponed, but what can I do? If I were a perfectionist, if I want everything to happen like I want to, then it is only going to cause me unnecessary stress and maybe even create tension. That’s no fun for anyone.
Just go with the flow… let things be, and live life accordingly.
05 January 2011
End of third session
Is it harder to suffer than to watch someone you love and care about suffer? I do not know. But I do know it is extremely straining on the mind, on the emotions, and on the soul to see a loved one sick, depressed and talk as if anytime could be the end.
Went in to the hospital this morning to remove mum's invitro chemo tube. She had been feeling nauseous when she got up. In fact, I was waken by the noise of gagging over the toilet bowl. As we walked home slowly, her mind appeared scattered, and she spat out foamy fluids. "It's not phlegm" she said. It's the medicine, toxic and disgusting, mixing with fluids of her own body. Again she talked of death, of dying. Worse, she said again that she was waiting to die. All those toxins, all that medicine, all those pills and injections.What's the point?
I cannot explain how much it hurts to hear that... can anyone? Yes, it is the medicine and nausea making her think and talk this way. We are all dying. It is more certain than anything else as soon as we are born, we are dying, and waiting to die. But to hear that from your own mother... it sounds worse than anything else, worse than the worst possible swear word. I breathed deeply, and sniffed. Once again, I feel her illness, her occasional depression, test my patience, test my ability to provide the best possible love and care for her.
I feel myself tighten and tense, long to get away, long to escape and not have to deal with all these things. Again, I am so torn because I feel responsible. Despite being so weighed down by her illness and her destructive thoughts and words, I feel I need to be here for her, to support her however I can... but how much more of my own wellbeing can I give up in the meantime?
Went in to the hospital this morning to remove mum's invitro chemo tube. She had been feeling nauseous when she got up. In fact, I was waken by the noise of gagging over the toilet bowl. As we walked home slowly, her mind appeared scattered, and she spat out foamy fluids. "It's not phlegm" she said. It's the medicine, toxic and disgusting, mixing with fluids of her own body. Again she talked of death, of dying. Worse, she said again that she was waiting to die. All those toxins, all that medicine, all those pills and injections.What's the point?
I cannot explain how much it hurts to hear that... can anyone? Yes, it is the medicine and nausea making her think and talk this way. We are all dying. It is more certain than anything else as soon as we are born, we are dying, and waiting to die. But to hear that from your own mother... it sounds worse than anything else, worse than the worst possible swear word. I breathed deeply, and sniffed. Once again, I feel her illness, her occasional depression, test my patience, test my ability to provide the best possible love and care for her.
I feel myself tighten and tense, long to get away, long to escape and not have to deal with all these things. Again, I am so torn because I feel responsible. Despite being so weighed down by her illness and her destructive thoughts and words, I feel I need to be here for her, to support her however I can... but how much more of my own wellbeing can I give up in the meantime?
"It repulses me..."
Another visit to the hospital, another quiet and slow walk home. For the last two days, going to the hospital seems to have become a routine.
Today was an appointment with the neurosurgeon, from whom we wanted a second opinion about the recent spread of the tumour around the spine. He didn't say much, only that more detailed scans are necessary before he can make a full(er) diagnosis, and before he can recommend treatment. I did manage to see an image of the spinal column from the latest MRI scan. As the doctor zoomed in, unmistakably there was a massive grey lump around the spine. It looked so innocent on the flatscreen of the computer, yet, it is so deadly, so vile, so malignant...
There is nothing that can be done till two weeks from now, when the results from further tests are revealed. Mum left the hospital, and once again she looked down. I tried to cheer her, the weather was beautiful, which is a novelty given the dreadfully cold spells Taipei has experienced since I arrived.
"Going to the hospital, it repulses me..." she said finally as we walked along the banks of the little creek on the way home. "Better to let me die..." It sounded much worse in Taiwanese, a line to the effect of leaving something and not tending to it so that it would just rot away and die. But this is my mum we're talking about. This is my mum talking...
"Don't say that, please..." I was frustrated, and affected. The air was heavy with burden, depressed and fragile with fear and sadness. Momentarily I was lost for words, unsure what I could say to get the stale air and conversation moving again. Perhaps it was best not to say anything at all...
She threw up shortly after we got home. Little came out, except thick slime and saliva, and now she is lying in bed resting. She did not manage to sleep at all last night, something that is common for her on the first night of the chemo treatment. Earlier while on the phone she sighed and lamented how bitter life is.
Perhaps it is the medicine talking. Perhaps it is the nausea and the headaches, the discomfort and the unsettledness of having to carry around a bottle with her that is making her depressed and have all these extreme thoughts.
But these feelings will pass.
Won't they?
Today was an appointment with the neurosurgeon, from whom we wanted a second opinion about the recent spread of the tumour around the spine. He didn't say much, only that more detailed scans are necessary before he can make a full(er) diagnosis, and before he can recommend treatment. I did manage to see an image of the spinal column from the latest MRI scan. As the doctor zoomed in, unmistakably there was a massive grey lump around the spine. It looked so innocent on the flatscreen of the computer, yet, it is so deadly, so vile, so malignant...
There is nothing that can be done till two weeks from now, when the results from further tests are revealed. Mum left the hospital, and once again she looked down. I tried to cheer her, the weather was beautiful, which is a novelty given the dreadfully cold spells Taipei has experienced since I arrived.
"Going to the hospital, it repulses me..." she said finally as we walked along the banks of the little creek on the way home. "Better to let me die..." It sounded much worse in Taiwanese, a line to the effect of leaving something and not tending to it so that it would just rot away and die. But this is my mum we're talking about. This is my mum talking...
"Don't say that, please..." I was frustrated, and affected. The air was heavy with burden, depressed and fragile with fear and sadness. Momentarily I was lost for words, unsure what I could say to get the stale air and conversation moving again. Perhaps it was best not to say anything at all...
She threw up shortly after we got home. Little came out, except thick slime and saliva, and now she is lying in bed resting. She did not manage to sleep at all last night, something that is common for her on the first night of the chemo treatment. Earlier while on the phone she sighed and lamented how bitter life is.
Perhaps it is the medicine talking. Perhaps it is the nausea and the headaches, the discomfort and the unsettledness of having to carry around a bottle with her that is making her depressed and have all these extreme thoughts.
But these feelings will pass.
Won't they?
Worth me treasuring and cherishing,
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.
It seems so normal
After a few days of cold, damp weather, the sun suddenly appeared again. The clouds parted, and out came the warmth, the brightness of the sun.
Mum and I went for a walk in the morning after breakfast. It's become a sort of ritual for us. The doctors said she should walk at least an hour every day, and also do other kinds of exercises to keep the body moving, oxygenated, so the cancer won't spread so quickly.
We walked down the tree-lined boulevard, with the sun beating down on our faces. I was feeling light and smiley, and mum looked happy too. Everything seems to be so normal, for a moment or two, it was as if there is not a worry in the world, and the world of hospital wards and chemo treatments appeared to be so far, far away.
But like with all things in life, I guess it is all a matter of perspective, a matter of the mind. Barely a day ago, we received such devastating news, and mum's mind, as well as mine, were clouded with fear and worry. For a good few hours we were quiet, quiet as we silently walked home, silently ate.
But at bed time, I climbed onto mum's bed, and hugged her, held onto her tightly. It was difficult to do, because I felt my tears tearing. But it felt so right, so very right to hold mum, to reassure her with pats on her back and my whispers that things will be alright...
Mum said she felt very lucky to have me, and she said something that made me so touched. "You've done so much for me already, I could not ask for more..." With those words, my doubts about myself, about what I'm doing and about my repeated attempts to try to be here with mum as much as I can were soothed and removed.
I may not be the perfect son. I may get grumpy and may be impatient and may be not as understanding as I should be sometimes... but I really try, and I'm glad mum feels it, treasures it, and will remember it. Glad, not because I seek approval or praise, but glad because I know that I make a difference, however small, however insignificant...
We spoke for almost an hour, way past her normal bed time. But it was a conversation full of memories, longings and hopes. Perhaps it takes the sight of possible death to develop a certain bond, to initiate a heart to heart talk between a mother and child (or between anybody, for that matter). Mum recounted dad's passing, and told me how she would like to be taken care of... Maybe it's all premature, for who knows how long she has left, or seen from another perspective, how long she will go on living?
"Just be happy, be strong," I said, "Just take care of your health, and everything else is not so important..."
Mum smiled at me, and stroked my head softly. I know deep down, she worries about me, and she said again that she is worried about my "abnormal" ways (alluding to my homosexuality, but that word, or any equivalent is never mentioned...). Perhaps seeing how I hug a big teddy bear, which my friend gave me last year, mum actually said she feared that my friend and I would get married.
"Married? I'm not even sure where we stand at this point, let alone talk about marriage!" I could barely contain my laugh at such a strange twist in our conversation, and at how my mum was already imagining things. "We care about each other, I like him, I enjoy his company a lot, and I think he feels the same way back".
For the first time ever, I made it clear to her that I am the way I am, it is nature that made me this way, and nothing can change that. "I'm happy, and that is what is important. And I want you to be happy..."
Mum smiled, and in that smile hid a kind of recognition of, or perhaps resignation to, the impossibility to change fate, to change the course of life, and to smoothen its unpredictable twists and turns. I hugged her again, to reassure her that I am still the son who cares and loves her, that nothing changes. I think she felt it, received my hug, and she understood. Or at least, little by little is beginning to understand.
Mum and I went for a walk in the morning after breakfast. It's become a sort of ritual for us. The doctors said she should walk at least an hour every day, and also do other kinds of exercises to keep the body moving, oxygenated, so the cancer won't spread so quickly.
We walked down the tree-lined boulevard, with the sun beating down on our faces. I was feeling light and smiley, and mum looked happy too. Everything seems to be so normal, for a moment or two, it was as if there is not a worry in the world, and the world of hospital wards and chemo treatments appeared to be so far, far away.
But like with all things in life, I guess it is all a matter of perspective, a matter of the mind. Barely a day ago, we received such devastating news, and mum's mind, as well as mine, were clouded with fear and worry. For a good few hours we were quiet, quiet as we silently walked home, silently ate.
But at bed time, I climbed onto mum's bed, and hugged her, held onto her tightly. It was difficult to do, because I felt my tears tearing. But it felt so right, so very right to hold mum, to reassure her with pats on her back and my whispers that things will be alright...
Mum said she felt very lucky to have me, and she said something that made me so touched. "You've done so much for me already, I could not ask for more..." With those words, my doubts about myself, about what I'm doing and about my repeated attempts to try to be here with mum as much as I can were soothed and removed.
I may not be the perfect son. I may get grumpy and may be impatient and may be not as understanding as I should be sometimes... but I really try, and I'm glad mum feels it, treasures it, and will remember it. Glad, not because I seek approval or praise, but glad because I know that I make a difference, however small, however insignificant...
We spoke for almost an hour, way past her normal bed time. But it was a conversation full of memories, longings and hopes. Perhaps it takes the sight of possible death to develop a certain bond, to initiate a heart to heart talk between a mother and child (or between anybody, for that matter). Mum recounted dad's passing, and told me how she would like to be taken care of... Maybe it's all premature, for who knows how long she has left, or seen from another perspective, how long she will go on living?
Mum smiled at me, and stroked my head softly. I know deep down, she worries about me, and she said again that she is worried about my "abnormal" ways (alluding to my homosexuality, but that word, or any equivalent is never mentioned...). Perhaps seeing how I hug a big teddy bear, which my friend gave me last year, mum actually said she feared that my friend and I would get married.
"Married? I'm not even sure where we stand at this point, let alone talk about marriage!" I could barely contain my laugh at such a strange twist in our conversation, and at how my mum was already imagining things. "We care about each other, I like him, I enjoy his company a lot, and I think he feels the same way back".
For the first time ever, I made it clear to her that I am the way I am, it is nature that made me this way, and nothing can change that. "I'm happy, and that is what is important. And I want you to be happy..."
Mum smiled, and in that smile hid a kind of recognition of, or perhaps resignation to, the impossibility to change fate, to change the course of life, and to smoothen its unpredictable twists and turns. I hugged her again, to reassure her that I am still the son who cares and loves her, that nothing changes. I think she felt it, received my hug, and she understood. Or at least, little by little is beginning to understand.
04 January 2011
One day...
I was just about to walk into the living room, and I heard mum on the phone...
"...he rented a larger apartment, and he said he wanted me to visit him when my treatment is done."
I could not contain my tears again, and had to brace myself. I turned away, and hid in the bathroom, afraid that my cries would be heard.
Yes, that was the hope. For a long time, I have wanted to show her my life, share with her my new life in the New World. In a way, to let her know that I'm doing well where I am, to reassure her that she has nothing to worry about, because I am happy and comfortable, or at least I can be happy and comfortable where I have settled. But maybe that dream of one day showing her my life in Canada will never happen now...
I looked at myself in the mirror, at the quivering lips, at those sad, sad eyes that were tearing and Where was that child who once believed in miracles? Where is that child who once was so strong, was so impenetrable and collected?
What's wrong with me...?
"...he rented a larger apartment, and he said he wanted me to visit him when my treatment is done."
I could not contain my tears again, and had to brace myself. I turned away, and hid in the bathroom, afraid that my cries would be heard.
Yes, that was the hope. For a long time, I have wanted to show her my life, share with her my new life in the New World. In a way, to let her know that I'm doing well where I am, to reassure her that she has nothing to worry about, because I am happy and comfortable, or at least I can be happy and comfortable where I have settled. But maybe that dream of one day showing her my life in Canada will never happen now...
I looked at myself in the mirror, at the quivering lips, at those sad, sad eyes that were tearing and Where was that child who once believed in miracles? Where is that child who once was so strong, was so impenetrable and collected?
What's wrong with me...?
Chemo again
Within two hours of the latest diagnosis, mum went to the oncology ward to begin her latest treatment. She was strong, and laughing, joking with the nurses as they attended to her. As one nurse injected a needle into her artificial artery, suddenly she screamed out: “Ow, it hurts!”
I saw her contorted face, and deep down felt her pain, even though I know I could never feel someone else’s pain… The nurses comforted her, chit-chatted with her as they prepared for her medicine. Out came bottles of toxic drugs, pills and tubes. They continued to talk, asking her how she has been, what she’s been up to. It’s like they know mum so well, as if they are good friends who have not seen one another for a long time. It was beautiful… the nurses, they were so beautiful, and I was moved by their compassion, by their care and attentiveness.
Mum told me to go away and come back in a few hours, so I don’t have to spend the time in the stale air of the hospital. I grabbed her hand as I parted, and turning away, I could feel the tears swell up again.
I walked as quickly as I could outside, to the little park next to the hospital. There, I had spent many hours before waiting, hoping, meditating. Memories of three years ago flooded back… this same pond with little swimming fish, these same rocks and trees offered me consolation as dad slowly slipped out of my life… And now they again offer me consolation, as mum enters a critical and uncertain stage of her treatment.
I could not contain my tears, so they flowed out with little sobs as I sat on a bench in a secluded area of the park, away from gazing eyes. Nobody noticed at that very moment, at that very place I was crying. And mum would never know that I have been crying because of her.
I cannot help it… sometimes life gets too much, I just have to let it all out. Am I weak to cry? How trivial are these things I am facing compared to the pain and suffering of others who have no hope, who have no cure? Am I a coward to fear, to dread, to be so consumed with dark thoughts and negativities? Am I a dreamer to imagine one day, perhaps a month, perhaps a year from now, I can look back and smile because it is all in the past?
I cannot contain my tears… tears that are now falling because of sadness, because of circumstances beyond my control, because life is happening so fast and so unpredictably that I am unsure what to make of it all.
All I wish to give mum is my love, my support, my care as she undergoes yet another painstaking and agonising dose of treatment… Can I give her even those things?
"It's complicated..."
"It's complicated..." With those words, the doctor looked at us momentarily before he attended to the next patient. As I exited the hospital, another patient was reading a book entitled "Cancer need not be the end".
I was so scared, scared like I've not felt, or perhaps never felt before. I was so overwhelmed by the latest diagnosis, I felt such strong, strong emotions well up. I could have broken down and cried there and then, but mum was right beside me. I put an arm around her, patted her, swallowed my pain, my tears.
If I felt so terrible, imagine what it must have felt like, what it must feel like to hear the news. She looked forlorn... she frowned, and her eyes looked like they were about to water. It was hard to see her, so disappointed, see her disbelief, see her frustration.
There has been more spreading. Though there is apparently nothing in the lung, there may be something in the spinal chord, and further scans are necessary. Possible imminent surgery may be needed, or otherwise her nerves could be injured, and she could become forever disabled. The chemo treatment must continue as planned, but now there is the added complication of a pending surgery.
"There's no hope... This is it..." She felt apologetic that again there is bad news, and that she is burdening me, delaying my return to my own life. She was saddened by the thought that perhaps the plan to visit me in Canada in Spring will never happen now...
"Please don't say that..." I was almost crying, but I held it all in. Held all the pain in, swallowed it all, contained it all, however bitter, however foul the taste, because she does not need to see me cry after hearing such a damning diagnosis. "Please don't say that. If you have no hope, what about me?" Don't worry about me, I said, "Just take care of your self, do the treatment, and hope for the best..."
But was it all a lie I was telling her? We walked in silence home, and she held onto my arm. I am glad that I am here to support her, to put my arm around her when needed, to put my palm on her back so that she can feel loved and supported.
It is hard to digest the news, even harder to imagine the possible outcome of her latest diagnosis.
A million things are going through my head right now.... can I be strong for my mum? can I comfort her, accompany her, take care of her? My hope of returning to my old life seems for now dashed, and once again my future is filled with such uncertainty, such unpredictability it is sickening and nauseating... My hope and plans to have a good time with my friend when he visits next week is now thrown into disarray, and how I hate to disappoint him, especially as he is flying all the way here to be with me...
I;m so lost, so confused at this moment, so close to breaking once again......
But I must be strong...
I was so scared, scared like I've not felt, or perhaps never felt before. I was so overwhelmed by the latest diagnosis, I felt such strong, strong emotions well up. I could have broken down and cried there and then, but mum was right beside me. I put an arm around her, patted her, swallowed my pain, my tears.
If I felt so terrible, imagine what it must have felt like, what it must feel like to hear the news. She looked forlorn... she frowned, and her eyes looked like they were about to water. It was hard to see her, so disappointed, see her disbelief, see her frustration.
There has been more spreading. Though there is apparently nothing in the lung, there may be something in the spinal chord, and further scans are necessary. Possible imminent surgery may be needed, or otherwise her nerves could be injured, and she could become forever disabled. The chemo treatment must continue as planned, but now there is the added complication of a pending surgery.
"There's no hope... This is it..." She felt apologetic that again there is bad news, and that she is burdening me, delaying my return to my own life. She was saddened by the thought that perhaps the plan to visit me in Canada in Spring will never happen now...
"Please don't say that..." I was almost crying, but I held it all in. Held all the pain in, swallowed it all, contained it all, however bitter, however foul the taste, because she does not need to see me cry after hearing such a damning diagnosis. "Please don't say that. If you have no hope, what about me?" Don't worry about me, I said, "Just take care of your self, do the treatment, and hope for the best..."
But was it all a lie I was telling her? We walked in silence home, and she held onto my arm. I am glad that I am here to support her, to put my arm around her when needed, to put my palm on her back so that she can feel loved and supported.
It is hard to digest the news, even harder to imagine the possible outcome of her latest diagnosis.
A million things are going through my head right now.... can I be strong for my mum? can I comfort her, accompany her, take care of her? My hope of returning to my old life seems for now dashed, and once again my future is filled with such uncertainty, such unpredictability it is sickening and nauseating... My hope and plans to have a good time with my friend when he visits next week is now thrown into disarray, and how I hate to disappoint him, especially as he is flying all the way here to be with me...
I;m so lost, so confused at this moment, so close to breaking once again......
But I must be strong...
03 January 2011
Jade rocks
"Do you not see the face of Jesus Christ? And here... right there, half a face of the Lord Buddha."
I looked and looked, but for a long while could only see the framed photograph of a colourful pieces of jade on display. The pictures were indeed beautiful, and I have never seen jade stone splashed with so many varieties and shades of colours and contrasts. I tried to see the monkeys playing, tried to spot the dragons descending from the heavens, tried to decipher the faces of happy and hapless beings, or the apparition of the Holy Mary from mere glares from the flashlight of the camera. But I really had difficulty seeing what I was supposed to see.
Maybe I lack faith and am plagued by doubt. Or perhaps my practice is not 'high' or refined enough to see such divine revelations. People around us on the tour seemed to be all nodding with contented and inspired looks on their faces, and all seemed to be so fascinated by the guide, who with a laser pen to highlight the signs and messages left behind by higher powers, took us on a tour lasting almost two hours. Even though mum was enthusiastic about the exhibition, towards the end, she felt exhausted and we left the tour and left the rest of the group who seemed so absorbed by the pictures.
A few weeks ago, mum received tickets to go see an exhibition entitled "Colours of the Sky in Jade Paintings". Thinking it was an exhibition of different magnificent jade rocks, I was kind of disappointed to see only framed pictures of low-resolution close-ups of various rocks, each with very elaborate and poetic names. The event was organised by a spiritual guru, who in recent years has become famous with his weekly lectures on TV. He-- who calls himself "professor", even though he only graduated from elementary school-- talks about spirituality, about Buddhist practice, Taoist philosophy, and is known to have an ability to predict the future and read people's lives, because of his advanced level of practice. Though he began on TV, he has grown into a cult of some sort, with a lot of followers/believers.
This "professor" does possess great oratory skills, and some of the things he talks about share roots in my own spiritual practice. But more and more, I'm disturbed by the fact that his talks and events are always so commercial. He may be well-intentioned, wanting to spread the word and benign benefits of having a belief or having faith, but on the side he sells a range of 'holy' products, from mineral water, to incense, to blessed rocks to face masks and various blessed potions and lotions. Even my mum has begun to feel skeptical about his true intentions, as she recently attended a lecture which was supposed to be about the end of the world in 2012, but turned out to be more like a tel-sell programme. I do wonder what this guru does with all the money he and his troupe gains from all the lectures and products they sell and promote...
We left the exhibition hall, exhausted, and drained by the bombardment of what we should see in the framed photographs, and by the shameless promotion of various products and merchandise on offer. There is a way to happiness and to enlightenment, as the Buddha once taught, and it begins with yourself, with the calming of your own mind, and with the spread of compassion and kindness toward yourself and toward others.
And then there is another way, which is more costly, rests blind faith and following someone who claims he knows the way...
I looked and looked, but for a long while could only see the framed photograph of a colourful pieces of jade on display. The pictures were indeed beautiful, and I have never seen jade stone splashed with so many varieties and shades of colours and contrasts. I tried to see the monkeys playing, tried to spot the dragons descending from the heavens, tried to decipher the faces of happy and hapless beings, or the apparition of the Holy Mary from mere glares from the flashlight of the camera. But I really had difficulty seeing what I was supposed to see.
Maybe I lack faith and am plagued by doubt. Or perhaps my practice is not 'high' or refined enough to see such divine revelations. People around us on the tour seemed to be all nodding with contented and inspired looks on their faces, and all seemed to be so fascinated by the guide, who with a laser pen to highlight the signs and messages left behind by higher powers, took us on a tour lasting almost two hours. Even though mum was enthusiastic about the exhibition, towards the end, she felt exhausted and we left the tour and left the rest of the group who seemed so absorbed by the pictures.
I guess people see what they want to see. And it is easy to see something when you believe that it is there, and even easier to see something when you are told that this is what you are supposed to see. I don't doubt what people were seeing, but as I walked from picture to picture I could not think back at philosophy lessons I had back in high school about how people often don't just see the world, but tend to "see-as".
A few weeks ago, mum received tickets to go see an exhibition entitled "Colours of the Sky in Jade Paintings". Thinking it was an exhibition of different magnificent jade rocks, I was kind of disappointed to see only framed pictures of low-resolution close-ups of various rocks, each with very elaborate and poetic names. The event was organised by a spiritual guru, who in recent years has become famous with his weekly lectures on TV. He-- who calls himself "professor", even though he only graduated from elementary school-- talks about spirituality, about Buddhist practice, Taoist philosophy, and is known to have an ability to predict the future and read people's lives, because of his advanced level of practice. Though he began on TV, he has grown into a cult of some sort, with a lot of followers/believers.
This "professor" does possess great oratory skills, and some of the things he talks about share roots in my own spiritual practice. But more and more, I'm disturbed by the fact that his talks and events are always so commercial. He may be well-intentioned, wanting to spread the word and benign benefits of having a belief or having faith, but on the side he sells a range of 'holy' products, from mineral water, to incense, to blessed rocks to face masks and various blessed potions and lotions. Even my mum has begun to feel skeptical about his true intentions, as she recently attended a lecture which was supposed to be about the end of the world in 2012, but turned out to be more like a tel-sell programme. I do wonder what this guru does with all the money he and his troupe gains from all the lectures and products they sell and promote...
We left the exhibition hall, exhausted, and drained by the bombardment of what we should see in the framed photographs, and by the shameless promotion of various products and merchandise on offer. There is a way to happiness and to enlightenment, as the Buddha once taught, and it begins with yourself, with the calming of your own mind, and with the spread of compassion and kindness toward yourself and toward others.
And then there is another way, which is more costly, rests blind faith and following someone who claims he knows the way...
02 January 2011
Bed warmer
There once was a boy called Huang-Shiang (黃香) whose kindness and love towards his parents has touched people for generations. During the Summer, when the mosquitoes are around, he would go to bed early. When asked why, he said he wanted the mosquitoes to bite him first, so his parents could sleep better at night. In the Winter, when it is cold, he would go to bed early too. When asked why, he said his body temperature would warm the bed so that when his parents went to bed, they would feel warm. His actions are often cited as the epitome of filial piety (孝), a great virtue in East Asian / Taiwanese society.
I don't claim to be as great and praiseworthy as Huang-Shiang, but when mum retired to the bedroom to sleep, she found her quilt had been warmed by an electric blanket that she had recently purchased. It was such a simple gesture, turning the electric blanket on and putting it under her quilt so she doesn't have to climb into a cold bed. But mum was touched. "You remind me of Huang-Shiang," she said, "And how I wish my child could be with me..."
She explained afterwards that it was just something she thought, something provoked by my gesture, and she meant nothing with those words. Yet, I felt again the pressure and her desire to have me around to keep her company. It is only natural, and I can understand why she has that desire, especially given the fact that mum and I have been separated and have been living apart since I was 13 or so. And it is also natural, because mum is ill, and at times feels like her world is going to end soon, and perhaps she is afraid that it will all end with her all alone by herself...
Moments like these make me doubt myself again, despite the fact that a few days ago, everything seemed so clear what I should do to lead my own life and try to begin something with my life. Mum may have really not meant anything much when she expressed those sentiments, but deep down inside, I know there is a desire to have me around, to want someone to be with her to keep her company.
And frankly, I don't think I can fulfill that desire, however much I would like to be there for her as much as I can. Increasingly, I feel I cannot forever stay around here and live in the same confined space with my mum for an extended period of time. A month or two may be alright, especially while she's undergoing treatment... but in the long run, not having my own space, not having any privacy at all, will make my life miserable, and I'm beginning to feel it already.
Once again, is it selfish to feel this way? Is it wrong to want to have my own space and do my own things away from mum?What child does not grow up and eventually leave home to begin his own life elsewhere and separate from his family? I have had and enjoyed my freedom for so many years, and to suddenly have to live together with family takes patience and adjusting.
I don't claim to be as great and praiseworthy as Huang-Shiang, but when mum retired to the bedroom to sleep, she found her quilt had been warmed by an electric blanket that she had recently purchased. It was such a simple gesture, turning the electric blanket on and putting it under her quilt so she doesn't have to climb into a cold bed. But mum was touched. "You remind me of Huang-Shiang," she said, "And how I wish my child could be with me..."
She explained afterwards that it was just something she thought, something provoked by my gesture, and she meant nothing with those words. Yet, I felt again the pressure and her desire to have me around to keep her company. It is only natural, and I can understand why she has that desire, especially given the fact that mum and I have been separated and have been living apart since I was 13 or so. And it is also natural, because mum is ill, and at times feels like her world is going to end soon, and perhaps she is afraid that it will all end with her all alone by herself...
Moments like these make me doubt myself again, despite the fact that a few days ago, everything seemed so clear what I should do to lead my own life and try to begin something with my life. Mum may have really not meant anything much when she expressed those sentiments, but deep down inside, I know there is a desire to have me around, to want someone to be with her to keep her company.
And frankly, I don't think I can fulfill that desire, however much I would like to be there for her as much as I can. Increasingly, I feel I cannot forever stay around here and live in the same confined space with my mum for an extended period of time. A month or two may be alright, especially while she's undergoing treatment... but in the long run, not having my own space, not having any privacy at all, will make my life miserable, and I'm beginning to feel it already.
Once again, is it selfish to feel this way? Is it wrong to want to have my own space and do my own things away from mum?What child does not grow up and eventually leave home to begin his own life elsewhere and separate from his family? I have had and enjoyed my freedom for so many years, and to suddenly have to live together with family takes patience and adjusting.
Slow start
It's only the second day of the new year, but I feel so sluggish and tired for no particular reason. Been home just over a week, and other than spend time with mum, I've not really done anything worth mentioning.
I actually feel kind of useless. Mum's condition is more or less stable, or at least for now, at least from the outside. It's not sure how she will respond to the next dose of treatment in two days time, but so far, I'm not really sure what I can do here, or whether being here really makes much of a difference. She has her group of friends she talks to, she has her daily routine of exercises and trips to the market. Whereas I feel like a visitor, even though I'm at home... Sometimes, I really do wonder what I'm doing here, and feel like I want to get back to my own life as soon as possible, because I'm bored here.
Maybe it sounds like I don't appreciate time spent with mum, or that I'm being/becoming selfish wanting to do my own things and live my own life. But it's not that, I don't think. I know every moment together with her is precious, and I'm sure when the time comes when she is again weakened by the chemo or depressed by her illness, I can offer invaluable support and company. But more and more, I feel like I want to get back to my routine, get back to my own life and my work. I just want to feel useful, feel like I'm doing something substantial and constructive, instead of just sitting around, cooking, washing up, sweeping the floor, and making the bed.
It doesn't help that the apartment is so small that I feel increasingly claustrophobic in such a confined space with mum all the time, day in and day out. I don't even have a room where I can retreat into to do my own things without being distracted by mum watching TV, doing her things, or just hovering around watching what I'm doing.
I think I'll decide on a date soon when I'm going to head home. My own home, back to my own life. The question is when...
I actually feel kind of useless. Mum's condition is more or less stable, or at least for now, at least from the outside. It's not sure how she will respond to the next dose of treatment in two days time, but so far, I'm not really sure what I can do here, or whether being here really makes much of a difference. She has her group of friends she talks to, she has her daily routine of exercises and trips to the market. Whereas I feel like a visitor, even though I'm at home... Sometimes, I really do wonder what I'm doing here, and feel like I want to get back to my own life as soon as possible, because I'm bored here.
Maybe it sounds like I don't appreciate time spent with mum, or that I'm being/becoming selfish wanting to do my own things and live my own life. But it's not that, I don't think. I know every moment together with her is precious, and I'm sure when the time comes when she is again weakened by the chemo or depressed by her illness, I can offer invaluable support and company. But more and more, I feel like I want to get back to my routine, get back to my own life and my work. I just want to feel useful, feel like I'm doing something substantial and constructive, instead of just sitting around, cooking, washing up, sweeping the floor, and making the bed.
It doesn't help that the apartment is so small that I feel increasingly claustrophobic in such a confined space with mum all the time, day in and day out. I don't even have a room where I can retreat into to do my own things without being distracted by mum watching TV, doing her things, or just hovering around watching what I'm doing.
I think I'll decide on a date soon when I'm going to head home. My own home, back to my own life. The question is when...
31 December 2010
Happy new year...
If we open the window of our heart
[We] will see the beautiful dream of youth
Even if the future is hopeless
It will somehow make the sighs in [our] chest disappear
Beautiful dream of youth, where are you?
Hopefully you are always in our hearts
If we open the window of our heart
[We] will see the beautiful dream of youth...
On the TV sparks and flashes of fireworks exploding over the night sky across the island. I hugged mum tightly, and closed my eyes to savour the passing moments after the clock struck midnight.
I can't recall the last time I spent new year's eve/day with mum at my side. Even though it's quiet at home, and even though mum was almost falling asleep, I am glad I decided not to go into town to see the celebrations live. "I'm so lucky to have you with me this year," she whispered.
The new year has come, and though less than an hour of it has passed, mum was again worrying about things. As she prepared to go to bed, she began to talk of past events and distant memories, began to recall the people and events that made her upset, that make her feels frustrated and angry. Almost everything revolved around money... cold, meaningless money. In fact, a few hours ago, my brother actually called to ask for it, to sponsor him in his future plans, as if mum has not done enough in paying for everything for the wedding. Doesn't have enough and can't afford this and that, he complained. No happy new year, no well wishes. Just called to ask if mum could send him some money.
I'm not sure how to react. A new year has come, yet the problems, the topics of worry and sources of discussion are still the same. But this is life. These are the circumstances. These are the people we have to deal with, whether we like it or not.
I listened to mum's complaints, stroked her back to reassure her, to tell her not to let these trivial things bother her. "A new year has come. Be happy, be healthy, this and every year", I said.
Deep down, there really is nothing else I wish for...
Wedding plans
I met up with mum in Tainan today, in the ancient capital of the island. On the shores of this city brimming with age-old temples, monasteries and relics, the Dutch once settled and built a fort where they began trading with aboriginals in the precious hide of the Formosan Sika Deer. This is a city of history, but also has recently been named by the Wall Street Journal as capital of culinary delights.
The main reason to come here is to get a tailor-made suit for me to wear to the upcoming wedding. My sister-in-law has many close friends in the fashion industry here, and she recommended I make a special trip to get myself measured and suited up. Even if it means travelling to the south of the country, the good deal and expertise, I was told, is worth the trip.
We got to the tailor store, and a lovely older man took out a measuring tape and started to note down my dimensions. "You have a really nice build, perfect for making a suit", he said, as he took out all sorts of fancy fabric and donned them on me. I looked at myself in the mirror, admired myself a little, and smiled when I noticed how good I actually looked (something I rarely do). With mum's help and advice from the tailor, I picked a blue-black fabric with stripes, a beautiful pinkish striped tie, and two colours for two tailor made long-sleeve shirts, light grey and light purple. As I left the tailor's, I was excited at what I will receive in the mail in two week's time when finished product wiil be mailed to my home.
Later, mum and I went to the department store to pick out new bedding for the newly weds, to be used on their 'first' night together at our home. Money aside, mum appeared so happy as we went about shopping for the new couple, and she had maticulously been planning how to set up the 'wedding room' for that special day. "We have to make it very special..." she said.
I looked at her, and deep down felt warm and comforted to see her smile and so happy. It is all so beautiful, so magical, so memorable. The coming together of two people, the joy and celebration, the hopes and well-wishes of so many people in the background. What could be more joyous than this?
While I feel warm and happy to be part of it all, to be involved in the wedding plans for my own brother, I cannot hide feelings of being envious. I'm not going to say it out loud, for I don't want to ruin the atmosphere and make it about 'me' and about my feelings... but I do wonder more and more as that big day approaches, when and whether I can one day also experience the same, not for someone else's big day and life-long commitment, but for my own. I would love to plan, to think of all the little details, fine touches, touching little words and speeches, express all the gratitude and love to all the people in my life... But it's not the time. Not yet. Not ever?
Perhaps wallowing in self-sorrow, I imagine myself at the wedding, smiling, celebrating and toasting the new couple... but deep down, feeling kind of lonely that there will be no-one by my side.
But that's just the way it is, I guess...
The main reason to come here is to get a tailor-made suit for me to wear to the upcoming wedding. My sister-in-law has many close friends in the fashion industry here, and she recommended I make a special trip to get myself measured and suited up. Even if it means travelling to the south of the country, the good deal and expertise, I was told, is worth the trip.
We got to the tailor store, and a lovely older man took out a measuring tape and started to note down my dimensions. "You have a really nice build, perfect for making a suit", he said, as he took out all sorts of fancy fabric and donned them on me. I looked at myself in the mirror, admired myself a little, and smiled when I noticed how good I actually looked (something I rarely do). With mum's help and advice from the tailor, I picked a blue-black fabric with stripes, a beautiful pinkish striped tie, and two colours for two tailor made long-sleeve shirts, light grey and light purple. As I left the tailor's, I was excited at what I will receive in the mail in two week's time when finished product wiil be mailed to my home.
Later, mum and I went to the department store to pick out new bedding for the newly weds, to be used on their 'first' night together at our home. Money aside, mum appeared so happy as we went about shopping for the new couple, and she had maticulously been planning how to set up the 'wedding room' for that special day. "We have to make it very special..." she said.
I looked at her, and deep down felt warm and comforted to see her smile and so happy. It is all so beautiful, so magical, so memorable. The coming together of two people, the joy and celebration, the hopes and well-wishes of so many people in the background. What could be more joyous than this?
While I feel warm and happy to be part of it all, to be involved in the wedding plans for my own brother, I cannot hide feelings of being envious. I'm not going to say it out loud, for I don't want to ruin the atmosphere and make it about 'me' and about my feelings... but I do wonder more and more as that big day approaches, when and whether I can one day also experience the same, not for someone else's big day and life-long commitment, but for my own. I would love to plan, to think of all the little details, fine touches, touching little words and speeches, express all the gratitude and love to all the people in my life... But it's not the time. Not yet. Not ever?
Perhaps wallowing in self-sorrow, I imagine myself at the wedding, smiling, celebrating and toasting the new couple... but deep down, feeling kind of lonely that there will be no-one by my side.
But that's just the way it is, I guess...
Short retreat
(Sitting in a loud internet cafe, with lots of gamers players their games and listening to loud pop music... so my thoughts might not be so conherent...)
Outside the window, there rows and rows of banana trees, rice paddies and flower fields. Rural Taiwan has a charm that is warming to the heart, and that makes me feel calm and at home.
The last two days I left Taipei and headed down to the monastery in Puli for a short retreat. Partly, I wanted to get away a bit, have some time to think things through. Partly, I wanted to give mum some time and space, as she wanted to deal with some issues that she could better deal if I were not around. When I call her to check up on her, she jokes that she feels so much freer without me around and scrutinising everything that she does!
However troubled I feel or I am, I always seem able to find myself at the monastery. The surrounding mountains, the view, the quiet setting brings me to this moment, away from worries and myriad of proliferating thoughts and anxieties in my mind. And the Hawaiian monk who lives there, has for years been my spiritual guide, my confidante and like a father-figure.
It was only two days, but I spent some of the time meditating. Even though I try to meditate at home, there are always many distractions and disturbances, wheras at the monastery, perhaps the serenity of the place and ths gaze of many Buddha statues prompt me to practice more diligently than if I were any where else. Other than meditating, I spent time doing some light translation work, sweeping the floors and cleaning
Outside, there is a golden statue of the Buddha, and for a number of years, I've been responsible for washing and cleaning the Buddha. They say whoever cleans a Buddha statue will receive great merit... to me, it is something I thoroughly enjoy doing, like a ritual cleansing. As I scrub away the moss, bird faeces and stains of nature from the Buddha's body, I feel like I'm cleansing some of entanglements and attachments of my mind...
At night, I would spend hours talking to the monk, about Buddhist practice, about Dharma, about life. I poured out my feelings, feelings that have been accumulating throuhgout the last few months, if not years. Torn, I said I feel, between my duties as a child, and my duties to myself. I guess I put a lot of pressure on myself, and am always trying to please others, trying to make others happy. But all the while, I often forget about myself.
"Whatever will happen will happen..." I can stay around, thinking I could make a difference to mum's life by keeping her company... but I am growing older, and have to decide for myself what I want to do with my life. I could live for someone else, live to please and live to make someone happy... but ultimately I am only able to make myself happy, if I choose to.
"Is it selfish to want to be happy?" No, it's not. All any one ever wants is to be happy. It is very human. Happiness is all we ever seek in life, and the Buddhist practice is all about life lived in peace and happiness, away from worry and suffering.
"But being happy, does it mean you don't care about other people's happiness?" Being happy doesn't mean that you don't care about other . You can be happy, and you can wish other people to be happy. But you cannot make someone happy. "You're already doing the best you can," the monk reminded me, "You've done so much to care for your mother, and I'm sure she knows it..." Hearing that, I felt a tear burst...
I do try... I do try to juggle between my own life elsewhere, and being there for her whenever I can. I often question myself whether my phone calls, my little postcards and gift packages, my surprise visits are ever enough. I do ask myself often whether I am loving and caring enough, and whether she feels it... but really, if I look back, if I think back at all the things I've done or tried to do to make her feel cared for, I have only ever done what I could in the circumstances, nothing more, but also nothing less. And that is apparently enough. And I think I can be proud that even though I'm already grown-up and live so far away from her, she is still so close to me and so close to my heart.
Sometimes in life, we have to be a little 'selfish'. Selfish not in the sense that everything is about me, about what I want, about getting what I want, and having no regard for the feelings or wellbeing of others. 'Selfish' as in you have to think about your own life, your own future and make plans accordingly.
It is not wrong to want to do something with your life... it is not wrong to want to find love and settle down one day... and it is not wrong to be away from your parent, especially when you've already reached a certain age. Doing all those things, whether at the same time, or one by one, does not mean that I have to forsake my mum. And I think I know myself that I am not someone who can just turn away and forget about my mum, for she will always be on my mind, for she is my mum, and I love and care about her.
I guess for a long time, I thought to myself and imagined that I needed to give up everything I have going well just to be with her until the day she passes away... But she wouldn't want that. And I definitely would not be happy in the long run.
"You need to take care of yourself well before you can take care of others..."
Time to take care of myself...
Outside the window, there rows and rows of banana trees, rice paddies and flower fields. Rural Taiwan has a charm that is warming to the heart, and that makes me feel calm and at home.
The last two days I left Taipei and headed down to the monastery in Puli for a short retreat. Partly, I wanted to get away a bit, have some time to think things through. Partly, I wanted to give mum some time and space, as she wanted to deal with some issues that she could better deal if I were not around. When I call her to check up on her, she jokes that she feels so much freer without me around and scrutinising everything that she does!
However troubled I feel or I am, I always seem able to find myself at the monastery. The surrounding mountains, the view, the quiet setting brings me to this moment, away from worries and myriad of proliferating thoughts and anxieties in my mind. And the Hawaiian monk who lives there, has for years been my spiritual guide, my confidante and like a father-figure.
It was only two days, but I spent some of the time meditating. Even though I try to meditate at home, there are always many distractions and disturbances, wheras at the monastery, perhaps the serenity of the place and ths gaze of many Buddha statues prompt me to practice more diligently than if I were any where else. Other than meditating, I spent time doing some light translation work, sweeping the floors and cleaning
Outside, there is a golden statue of the Buddha, and for a number of years, I've been responsible for washing and cleaning the Buddha. They say whoever cleans a Buddha statue will receive great merit... to me, it is something I thoroughly enjoy doing, like a ritual cleansing. As I scrub away the moss, bird faeces and stains of nature from the Buddha's body, I feel like I'm cleansing some of entanglements and attachments of my mind...
At night, I would spend hours talking to the monk, about Buddhist practice, about Dharma, about life. I poured out my feelings, feelings that have been accumulating throuhgout the last few months, if not years. Torn, I said I feel, between my duties as a child, and my duties to myself. I guess I put a lot of pressure on myself, and am always trying to please others, trying to make others happy. But all the while, I often forget about myself.
"Whatever will happen will happen..." I can stay around, thinking I could make a difference to mum's life by keeping her company... but I am growing older, and have to decide for myself what I want to do with my life. I could live for someone else, live to please and live to make someone happy... but ultimately I am only able to make myself happy, if I choose to.
"Is it selfish to want to be happy?" No, it's not. All any one ever wants is to be happy. It is very human. Happiness is all we ever seek in life, and the Buddhist practice is all about life lived in peace and happiness, away from worry and suffering.
"But being happy, does it mean you don't care about other people's happiness?" Being happy doesn't mean that you don't care about other . You can be happy, and you can wish other people to be happy. But you cannot make someone happy. "You're already doing the best you can," the monk reminded me, "You've done so much to care for your mother, and I'm sure she knows it..." Hearing that, I felt a tear burst...
I do try... I do try to juggle between my own life elsewhere, and being there for her whenever I can. I often question myself whether my phone calls, my little postcards and gift packages, my surprise visits are ever enough. I do ask myself often whether I am loving and caring enough, and whether she feels it... but really, if I look back, if I think back at all the things I've done or tried to do to make her feel cared for, I have only ever done what I could in the circumstances, nothing more, but also nothing less. And that is apparently enough. And I think I can be proud that even though I'm already grown-up and live so far away from her, she is still so close to me and so close to my heart.
Sometimes in life, we have to be a little 'selfish'. Selfish not in the sense that everything is about me, about what I want, about getting what I want, and having no regard for the feelings or wellbeing of others. 'Selfish' as in you have to think about your own life, your own future and make plans accordingly.
It is not wrong to want to do something with your life... it is not wrong to want to find love and settle down one day... and it is not wrong to be away from your parent, especially when you've already reached a certain age. Doing all those things, whether at the same time, or one by one, does not mean that I have to forsake my mum. And I think I know myself that I am not someone who can just turn away and forget about my mum, for she will always be on my mind, for she is my mum, and I love and care about her.
I guess for a long time, I thought to myself and imagined that I needed to give up everything I have going well just to be with her until the day she passes away... But she wouldn't want that. And I definitely would not be happy in the long run.
"You need to take care of yourself well before you can take care of others..."
Time to take care of myself...
28 December 2010
Exhausted
"You look so frail," my cousin said, "So different from last time I saw you." Which was just over six months ago. I'm not sure if it was the jetlag, which seem to be especially acute in the afternoon (which is way past midnight Montreal time). But I do feel tired, frustrated and agitated for some reason, and have been feeling this way ever since I got back to Taiwan.
It's probably a combination of factors. Dealing with mum's illness face-to-face takes a heavy strain on me and my mind, even if I don't do much during the day. And the heavy conversations we've been having also is very strenuous. All the while, I'm kind of on the edge, wondering what's happening, if anything, between me and my friend, who I miss and think of often, but at the same time feel wrong to feel that way, especially given the uncertainties and unknowns. In short, my mind is in flux, driven and weighed down by a mix of up and down emotions, tiredness, worry and stress, and it is all really tiring me.
And this tiredness, this agitation I am beginning to feel physically too. My skin itches and the red rashes are coming back (seems to happen every time I'm in Taiwan, possibly due to the sudden change of climate...). I feel my stomach is becoming more and more upset, and my appetite is also down too. Some meals I just don't feel like eating much, if anything, and I feel kind of moody too. Last time I weighed myself, I actually am now a kilogram or two lighter than my mum, which is worrying (but good for her, since she hasn't lost too much weight since her treatment!)
Time to slow down, take a deep breath, take a break, and recuperate...
It's probably a combination of factors. Dealing with mum's illness face-to-face takes a heavy strain on me and my mind, even if I don't do much during the day. And the heavy conversations we've been having also is very strenuous. All the while, I'm kind of on the edge, wondering what's happening, if anything, between me and my friend, who I miss and think of often, but at the same time feel wrong to feel that way, especially given the uncertainties and unknowns. In short, my mind is in flux, driven and weighed down by a mix of up and down emotions, tiredness, worry and stress, and it is all really tiring me.
And this tiredness, this agitation I am beginning to feel physically too. My skin itches and the red rashes are coming back (seems to happen every time I'm in Taiwan, possibly due to the sudden change of climate...). I feel my stomach is becoming more and more upset, and my appetite is also down too. Some meals I just don't feel like eating much, if anything, and I feel kind of moody too. Last time I weighed myself, I actually am now a kilogram or two lighter than my mum, which is worrying (but good for her, since she hasn't lost too much weight since her treatment!)
Time to slow down, take a deep breath, take a break, and recuperate...
26 December 2010
Dear friend
I have this friend I've only met twice in my life, but she and I seem to connect on so many levels. For one thing, she is seven days younger than me, so she's a Pisces, a dreamer, an idealist, a leftist, and a jurist-in-training. But most importantly, she and I share similar experiences, fears and traumas of living with a parent with cancer.
I've only met her twice in her life, once at an event, where we only spoke briefly. The second was earlier this year, when I made a special day trip to just go see her. But we've mailed one another back and forth at regular intervals, and almost always the main topic of our messages is about how our mums are doing.
I look forward to her messages, and read them as if they were written about my feelings, about my dilemmas and insecurities. She writes about how torn she feels having to juggle her professional life and studies with taking care and being there for her mum. I write about my mum's latest chemo treatment, and the heart-wrenching side-effects it has on her, and how helpless I often feel seeing her suffer and in pain. She writes about how it pains her to see her mum so weakened and so changed physically and mentally by the illness. I write about my frightening nightmares, my fears of receiving that phone call one day that may be the last...
Sometimes her messages brings me to tears, and perhaps my words have the same effect on her. At other times she makes me smile and feel warm inside, because she cares about my wellbeing, and about my mum, who she's never even seen before. And I care about her wellbeing, and her mum's health too, for for some reason, reading about her mum's trials and setbacks makes my heart ache, even though I do not know her personally. More than once I have been tempted to write a little card to her mum, to show her support, to tell her to hang on there and not to give up on herself. And last time I saw my friend, my mum actually had a gift to give to her mum-- a bottle of propolis, which works wonders and alleviates pain for patients receiving chemo.
Even though we do rarely meet or see one another, when I read her messages, I am filled with such gratitude, with such a sense of inspiration and encouragement. Perhaps because she manages to strike a deep chord within me, and she lets me know that I am not alone in what I feel, in what I experience.
It is comforting to know that despite the distance and many degrees of separation, despite only have met twice in our lives, we can relate to one another in so many ways.
I've only met her twice in her life, once at an event, where we only spoke briefly. The second was earlier this year, when I made a special day trip to just go see her. But we've mailed one another back and forth at regular intervals, and almost always the main topic of our messages is about how our mums are doing.
I look forward to her messages, and read them as if they were written about my feelings, about my dilemmas and insecurities. She writes about how torn she feels having to juggle her professional life and studies with taking care and being there for her mum. I write about my mum's latest chemo treatment, and the heart-wrenching side-effects it has on her, and how helpless I often feel seeing her suffer and in pain. She writes about how it pains her to see her mum so weakened and so changed physically and mentally by the illness. I write about my frightening nightmares, my fears of receiving that phone call one day that may be the last...
Sometimes her messages brings me to tears, and perhaps my words have the same effect on her. At other times she makes me smile and feel warm inside, because she cares about my wellbeing, and about my mum, who she's never even seen before. And I care about her wellbeing, and her mum's health too, for for some reason, reading about her mum's trials and setbacks makes my heart ache, even though I do not know her personally. More than once I have been tempted to write a little card to her mum, to show her support, to tell her to hang on there and not to give up on herself. And last time I saw my friend, my mum actually had a gift to give to her mum-- a bottle of propolis, which works wonders and alleviates pain for patients receiving chemo.
Even though we do rarely meet or see one another, when I read her messages, I am filled with such gratitude, with such a sense of inspiration and encouragement. Perhaps because she manages to strike a deep chord within me, and she lets me know that I am not alone in what I feel, in what I experience.
It is comforting to know that despite the distance and many degrees of separation, despite only have met twice in our lives, we can relate to one another in so many ways.
Taiwan Teddy
I wanted to buy it myself to add to my collection. A special edition, German-made white teddy bear to commemorate the 100th anniversary of ‘Taiwan ’ (actually, of the Republic of China
I took a good look at the soft toy, but hesitated a little because of the price. It does look and feel very nice, the fabric is so soft, and really there is a difference exactly because it's made in Germany. I decided to buy it, but mum beat me to the cashier.
"It's from me to you," she said, "You can take it home, hold it in your sleep when I'm not around". I wasn't sure whether she meant when she's not close by, or whether she meant something else. But I was moved, and will treasure this teddy bear for ever and ever.
When she got home, she asked if she could have a hug. With the teddy, she meant. I gave the soft toy to her, and watched her caress the bear like she would a child. For a few moments, she leaned in close and closed her eyes. What a beautiful moment that was.
When she got home, she asked if she could have a hug. With the teddy, she meant. I gave the soft toy to her, and watched her caress the bear like she would a child. For a few moments, she leaned in close and closed her eyes. What a beautiful moment that was.
The Taiwan Teddy is number 136 of 200 in the world. And through my mum's caress and embrace, this special edition teddy just became even more special.
25 December 2010
Talk
"This caring heart of mine... I cannot just switch it off like that..." I put my hand on mum's back, gave her a few gentle pats, and put my arm on her shoulder. I hugged her tightly, and turned away, temporarily not wanting to see her, to look into her eyes, because I knew that it would too much. I was so close to crying there and then in the park. The stream of hot spring from the mountains whispered and cried as it flowed quietly by. Warm, white mist rose from the rock bed into the cold, cold morning air.
A little hike after breakfast somehow turned into an emotional discussion. I can't recall exactly how it all began. I think I was telling her about my life and my friends in Montreal, in a way, to reassure her that I am happy where I am, and to let her know that she has nothing to worry about. Because if there is one thing she does, it is to worry about me and my wellbeing.
I think she felt that she was imposing on my life, and that I was giving up all that just to be with her. She felt bad, having to impose herself on me and on my brother, felt guilty that she is ill and that she is making us worry. "It would be so much easier if I were...."
I did not let her finish. What silliness! What nonsense! What a thing to think! How could she even think or believe that? "This is my life, and I made a choice to be with you now. I'm not making big sacrifices, it's what I want to do, it's what I can do, because I have the freedom to travel and I have no obligations at this stage of my life..."
This is the conversation I've been wanting to have with her for a long time, yet at that moment I felt tongue-tied and lost for words to describe how I felt, or what I really wanted to say. I've been wanting to tell her how I feel, and I want her to know that if I had a choice, I would not do things differently. "It's the bond between a mother and a child. I am doing what I can to be with you, to support you, because I want you to be happy, I want you to take care of your health and get better..."
Such difficult words to say, and for a long time I've been wanting to say them to mum, but never had a chance. And these thoughts have been bubbling inside of me, waiting to come out, because I'm not sure who I can talk to and who can understand what I'm going through... Maybe I should have been more tactful, been more careful what I say, and be more sensitive to her feelings when I tell her how torn I often feel between leading my own life and wanting to make sure that she is alright. Because I know, I know deep down, every mother wishes their children to fare well, to succeed in life and to have a stable career and a stable, comfortable life. And I know that she would want nothing less for me. But I also know that she cannot shake away the feeling that her illness and her condition has dragged my life, and my brother's life, down.
"I really want you to be happy. I want you to take good care of yourself, and to promise to be strong, to not be afraid..." Such difficult words to say, yet there is nothing more heartfelt or moving. Overwhelmed by emotions, suppressing my tears, I could almost not breathe. Deep down inside, I myself am afraid... I am afraid that she feels much mental anguish, much physical discomfort because of her condition, and she does not need to also feel responsible that she is weighing down on my life or my future. The last thing I ever wanted was to add more stress and more frustration to her life.
Maybe I'm becoming obsessive about her health and her wellbeing... maybe I'm too attached and I care much too much about her wellbeing, and am forsaking my own. The sleepless nights, all those days and nights thinking, crying, worrying... The dramatic loss of weight in the last two months.
If only she knew, but I cannot let her know.
"I'll be fine," she said, "I'll be strong, and I know I have a number of years still."
"That's what I want so hear". It is really what I want to hear, perhaps for selfish reasons so I can tell and justify to myself that it is alright for me to leave one day and not look back. But it is really what I want to hear, because I want her to tell herself, to believe herself that there is hope yet. Hope in the face of hopelessness...
A little hike after breakfast somehow turned into an emotional discussion. I can't recall exactly how it all began. I think I was telling her about my life and my friends in Montreal, in a way, to reassure her that I am happy where I am, and to let her know that she has nothing to worry about. Because if there is one thing she does, it is to worry about me and my wellbeing.
I think she felt that she was imposing on my life, and that I was giving up all that just to be with her. She felt bad, having to impose herself on me and on my brother, felt guilty that she is ill and that she is making us worry. "It would be so much easier if I were...."
I did not let her finish. What silliness! What nonsense! What a thing to think! How could she even think or believe that? "This is my life, and I made a choice to be with you now. I'm not making big sacrifices, it's what I want to do, it's what I can do, because I have the freedom to travel and I have no obligations at this stage of my life..."
This is the conversation I've been wanting to have with her for a long time, yet at that moment I felt tongue-tied and lost for words to describe how I felt, or what I really wanted to say. I've been wanting to tell her how I feel, and I want her to know that if I had a choice, I would not do things differently. "It's the bond between a mother and a child. I am doing what I can to be with you, to support you, because I want you to be happy, I want you to take care of your health and get better..."
Such difficult words to say, and for a long time I've been wanting to say them to mum, but never had a chance. And these thoughts have been bubbling inside of me, waiting to come out, because I'm not sure who I can talk to and who can understand what I'm going through... Maybe I should have been more tactful, been more careful what I say, and be more sensitive to her feelings when I tell her how torn I often feel between leading my own life and wanting to make sure that she is alright. Because I know, I know deep down, every mother wishes their children to fare well, to succeed in life and to have a stable career and a stable, comfortable life. And I know that she would want nothing less for me. But I also know that she cannot shake away the feeling that her illness and her condition has dragged my life, and my brother's life, down.
"I really want you to be happy. I want you to take good care of yourself, and to promise to be strong, to not be afraid..." Such difficult words to say, yet there is nothing more heartfelt or moving. Overwhelmed by emotions, suppressing my tears, I could almost not breathe. Deep down inside, I myself am afraid... I am afraid that she feels much mental anguish, much physical discomfort because of her condition, and she does not need to also feel responsible that she is weighing down on my life or my future. The last thing I ever wanted was to add more stress and more frustration to her life.
Maybe I'm becoming obsessive about her health and her wellbeing... maybe I'm too attached and I care much too much about her wellbeing, and am forsaking my own. The sleepless nights, all those days and nights thinking, crying, worrying... The dramatic loss of weight in the last two months.
If only she knew, but I cannot let her know.
"I'll be fine," she said, "I'll be strong, and I know I have a number of years still."
"That's what I want so hear". It is really what I want to hear, perhaps for selfish reasons so I can tell and justify to myself that it is alright for me to leave one day and not look back. But it is really what I want to hear, because I want her to tell herself, to believe herself that there is hope yet. Hope in the face of hopelessness...
What is love...?
As mum was getting ready for bed, I handed her a gift I had gotten her before leaving Montreal. She has always loved lavender, the flower and the colour, as well as its soothing, calming scent which makes her sleep more peacefully and rest better at night. So I picked up a big box of lotions, scented oil and cream made of the purple flower. As she sat on her bed and opened the box, she was filled with such joy.
"Thank you," she said, "You're always so thoughtful. And you really shouldn't have spent so much on gifts..." But I wanted to buy the gift, and many other things, for her, because I knew she would enjoy it, and benefit greatly from it.
And that is love... knowing what someone likes or needs, and going to lengths to give that to someone, because you want to, because you know it will make the person happy, because you know that it will make you happy knowing the other person will derive joy from your act of giving. That is love.
I always thought I never understood love, and that I am incapable of giving or showing love. But, really, love is... putting a blanket over someone, because you are afraid that the person will feel cold... putting little pieces of fish and vegetables on someone else's plate, because you want them to eat well and get a balanced and healthy diet... Love is... pouring someone a cup of water, regardless of if the person is thirsty or not... it is worrying because someone is suddenly having a bout of coughing. And yes, love is even asking whether the person has gone to the bathroom that day, and how much came out...!
Love is many things, and it involves care, giving and affection. Care for care's sake, giving without wanting any thing in return, and affection that comes from the heart, and that finds its source in the warmth, kindness and compassion of the human soul. Love is... calling every (other) day (and sometimes every night) to make sure the other person feels your concern for their well-being... writing and leaving someone little cards and notes to make them feel special... Love is travelling great distances to see someone, because you want to spend time with them, because you want to make them feel less lonely, even if it is only for a little while.
Love is wondering if the person sleeps well at night, and asking how they are feeling or if they are troubled by anything. Love is sitting there and listening, offering support and a soft pat on the back, or gently stroking the other person's hand to let them know you are here for them and that you care.
Love can touch others, but it can also touch yourself, sometimes in ways that can move others and even yourself to tears. Little acts, which may appear so meaningless, little words and thoughts, which may be invisible to others, suddenly have so much meaning, suddenly becomes all too clear and all too natural. That is love... an irresistible force of emotion, that is so difficult to describe, so hard to pinpoint, exactly because it manifests itself in so many different way, at so many different times, and toward so many people.
Love just is.
24 December 2010
Selfishness?
So I was left alone with the morning to think and meditate. It's only the second full day here, yet it somehow feels so much longer. I do want to be here with mum, but at the same time, more and more, I feel I have an obligation to myself to continue my life in Canada, or at least finish off the studies I began two years ago.
Is it selfish to feel this way? Is it selfish to want to be happy, to want to be in a place where I have dear friends, a loving cat, and a comfortable home surrounded by my personal things? Or should I think of mum and stay with her for as long as it takes, till she recovers (if she ever)? There is no real answer...
Mum and I talked about this, and we talked about this even just yesterday. Of course, her first reaction was that I should get on with my life, start pursuing (or at least, beginning!) a career and settle down. All children have to leave home when they grow up. Don't worry about her, she would say, but somehow I always detect a hint of sadness in her voice.
I try... I really try to be with her as much as I can. Looking back, in the last two years, I've been back and forth between Taiwan and Canada at least five times. And a number of times I've been to see mum whenever she's in Europe. I treasure every encounter, value every moment I spend with her (sure, sometimes there are tensions and frustrations when you're with your mum too long...), and I don't regret putting my life and studies on hold to be with her. It's what I can do, and what I feel is right to do. As my friend recently put it, mum is "number one". But is it enough what I do? Is anything ever enough at all?
Yet, more and more, I feel I cannot keep this up. "I'm almost 27," as I told her the other day, "And I can't continue living like this..." She agreed with me, even though she can still vividly recall the days when I was just a little baby, how she used to wrap her arms around me little body, and how I used to sleep so soundly in her embrace. I have grown up now, and I have my own life to lead, my freedoms, and my own happiness to pursue...
But why is it that I cannot shake away the thought or possibility that she might have to bear suffering and pain all by herself? If I could remove or share just a tiny part of her pain and suffering, does that alone not outweigh me being in a setting, in a place surrounded by my own comforts and friends?
Perhaps I care too much, perhaps I think too much how other people may feel, especially if the person is my own dear mother. Losing my dad and not having been on the best of terms in that last year of his life probably made me realise I could and maybe I should do things differently with mum...
But deep down, I know I really can't just fly around the world all the time. I may be able to do it now, because I have no real obligations as a student, but one day I'll have to get a job, and I cannot afford to just fly off at a moment's whim and spend weeks or months on end away. But why do I feel selfish to think this way? Why is it that I cannot bear to think of mum alone here, or imagine if she suddenly falls terribly ill, or worse...?
There is an ancient saying here which sort of sums up my predicament: "the tree wishes to be still, yet the wind does not stop [blowing], the child wishes to take care [of the parent] yet the parent does not wait". (樹欲靜而風不止，子欲養而親不待). Growing up, our parents are like trees that tirelessly shelter us from the ceaseless winds. They may want to rest, but they cannot. Having grown up, the child may wish to take care of the parents, but the parents are often no longer there. They may want to provide comfort, warmth and affection to the parents, but they have already departed...
I'm no where closer to finding an answer, and I'm no where closer to deciding what I want... And all the time I'm torn between wanting to be happy, wanting to make other people, and wondering whether I'm not being too selfish through it all...
Missing...
It's been a long time since I felt this way about anyone, if ever...
And I'm not even sure if I should be feeling this way at all, because in the end it may just be in vain, and end in heartbreak and hurt.
But ever since I left Montreal, I've been missing my friend a lot (I miss other things too, like my cat...). I think of him, wonder what he's doing, where he may be now. It's not constant obsession, but still thoughts of him and imaginings of his face and presence sometimes creep into my mind from nowhere. We've really spent almost every moment together in the run up to me leaving. Intensity and intimacy of that degree is hard to let go, really. really hard. And last night, before falling asleep, I found myself counting down the days till we see one another again. I imagined him lying right next to me in the same room...
It's all a bit too much. I really must distract myself more...
And I'm not even sure if I should be feeling this way at all, because in the end it may just be in vain, and end in heartbreak and hurt.
But ever since I left Montreal, I've been missing my friend a lot (I miss other things too, like my cat...). I think of him, wonder what he's doing, where he may be now. It's not constant obsession, but still thoughts of him and imaginings of his face and presence sometimes creep into my mind from nowhere. We've really spent almost every moment together in the run up to me leaving. Intensity and intimacy of that degree is hard to let go, really. really hard. And last night, before falling asleep, I found myself counting down the days till we see one another again. I imagined him lying right next to me in the same room...
It's all a bit too much. I really must distract myself more...
Early to bed
I had wanted to spend the night talking and catching up with her, but she looked tired. With every passing moment, she looked as if she could just collapse from tiredness. As I was showing her pictures of my life and friends in Montreal, I could feel her eye lids closing.
"I'm sorry," mum said, "I'm so tired... Today is the first day, and tomorrow I'll feel better." The first day after the treatment, the drugs are starting to work, starting to give off side-effects. Starting to kill off those bad cells, and also to kill off those precious anti-bodies and white blood cells which sustain a person's immune system and vitality.
She got into bed, barely past nine in the evening, Christmas Eve. Not that Christmas or such holidays ever mean much to me, but still, it would be nice to stay up and talk and bond a little more. She lay down, pulled the covers over her shoulders, and leaned to one side.
I gave her a tight hug. "Don't worry, you just sleep well. We can talk whenever."
"I'm sorry," mum said, "I'm so tired... Today is the first day, and tomorrow I'll feel better." The first day after the treatment, the drugs are starting to work, starting to give off side-effects. Starting to kill off those bad cells, and also to kill off those precious anti-bodies and white blood cells which sustain a person's immune system and vitality.
She got into bed, barely past nine in the evening, Christmas Eve. Not that Christmas or such holidays ever mean much to me, but still, it would be nice to stay up and talk and bond a little more. She lay down, pulled the covers over her shoulders, and leaned to one side.
I gave her a tight hug. "Don't worry, you just sleep well. We can talk whenever."
Christmas Eve
I felt nauseous at the hospital. Even with all that bright decoration, even with all the brights lights, all the Christmas trees, poinsettas and roses, you cannot dim let alone hide the dreariness and sterile smell of a hospital ward. It may be Christmas Eve, but for many people here, it is another day of treatment, of hoping for a miracle, of prayers, and at times, of despair.
I walked in with mum at my side, imagined all those times she had to come here alone by her self, imagined how much courage she had and still has to muster to face all the nurses, needles, and the hapless faces, sighs and cries of fellow patients. With one agile movement, the nurse removed her needle, and off came the tubes that wrapped around her shoulder and the pouch that clung onto her waist like the ball and chain of an involuntary prisoner. At least for now.
As we walked slowly home, the wind started to blow, and dark clouds were forming. The weather was changing, and a cold front is descending on the island. The banks of the little creek I used to play and run around on as a little child was overgrown with weed grass. Beautiful birds would suddenly leap into view from nowhere, and twitter elegantly.
"I have no real regrets in my life," she suddenly said, "There is really nothing much that weighs me down, too much." She recounted how lucky she feels she is, to not to have to worry about life, about getting by. She said she's traveled the world and lived abroad, all thanks to dad. She is free to do what she wants, can go out and buy what she needs. And the children are all grown up, and are more or less on track, so she's fulfilled her duty as a mother. "One regret I have is my health. I have a lot, but I don't have my health..."
I held and squeezed her hand, and reassured her that if she continues the treatment, she'll have her health back. But then, deep down inside, even I was unsure. I felt I was perhaps lying, to myself, to her... even though I hope for the best, even though friends always comfort me by telling me to think positive.
In the short period of time since I arrived yesterday morning, we have already had various exchanges about her retirement plans, and about where she sees herself. We've talked frankly about death, about leaving, about the future, about where she wants to be, how her affairs should be taken care of. These are never easy topic to broach, yet at some stage in a parent and child's relationship it has to be dealt with. Better sooner, rather than later, or perhaps it might be too late.
I just listen with an open mind. I know mum is prepared, or at least, she has already made arrangements, and I'd like to hear it from her face to face. It is never an easy topic of discussion, and made even more difficult and impersonal over the phone.
She looked calm, and our footsteps were in sync as we walked. "Brother is getting married, and he's starting a family of his own. I'm just worried about you."
"What are you worried about?" I said, even though I knew what exactly. We've had various discussions on the issue of my homosexuality, but she still cannot let it go. She still tells me how much she wants me to "find a good shelter", which is a very gender neutral euphemism for finding a partner and getting settled.
"I'm worried about your relationship. About the strange relationship you have with your friend..."
I'm not even sure if what my friend and I can be termed a "relationship", but those are just details. Various times in the last two days, she's asked me about my friend, asked about what he does, and about why he is travelling all the way across the world to see me again. Some questions I cannot answer myself. But mum has seen the big teddy bear that my friend gave me last year, and even given the bear a few strokes on his big, huggable belly. At the same time, somehow she seems very interested to know what I plan to do with him once he arrives, at times mum even offered suggestions of places to go, places to eat. She even recently asked whether my friend "takes care of me well", which I found bizarre.
"Please don't worry about me or my life. I am happy with who I am, and I want you to be happy too."
She looked at me, and then looked away. Momentarily there was a hint of sadness and disappointment. She looked at me again, and that hint of sadness and disappointment was gone, or was perhaps suppressed. "It's your choice..."
"And I'm happy with it, mum," I said.
At the restaurant
At lunch mum and I went to a traditional Taiwanese eatery. It's what she felt like eating, and in the few days during and after chemo, if she feels like eating and if she can eat, then that's the most important thing.
We ordered a few simple dishes. Boiled sweet potatoes leaves with soy sauce and garlic, seasoned tofu skin, Chinese cabbage with fish skin, two little fish with lots of meat, a bowl of meatball soup and rice noodle soup for me.
Soon after we sat down, an elderly woman came in and sat down at the table right next to ours. She had white hair, a face graced with wrinkles, and held a walking stick, and she was with (what I think was) her daughter. They said very little, only the bare essential while ordering food. Once the waiter took the order and left, the daughter (I'm guessing) took out a smart phone and began playing with it.
Mum and I ate, and we exchanged quiet conversation and laughs about this and that. At times I'd tell her to eat this, eat more of that, because it's good for her, and I'd move the plates around so that she'd get a taste of everything, fearing that she might not get enough.
I felt the elderly woman watching us as we ate, as we spoke. It was not an uncomfortable gaze, for a few times our eyes met, and she seemed to want to say something to me. She fidgeted with her hands, while her daughter (I'm guessing) looked down and fingered her smartphone. I felt somewhat bad for the elderly woman, who seemed so much want to talk, want some company, but then her daughter (I'm guessing) was more interested in the phone than in her. She seemed to be looked over at my mum and I and watching us eat and engage in conversation with envy.
Getting up ready to leave the restaurant, I turned to say goodbye to the elderly woman. She just nodded and smiled.
We ordered a few simple dishes. Boiled sweet potatoes leaves with soy sauce and garlic, seasoned tofu skin, Chinese cabbage with fish skin, two little fish with lots of meat, a bowl of meatball soup and rice noodle soup for me.
Soon after we sat down, an elderly woman came in and sat down at the table right next to ours. She had white hair, a face graced with wrinkles, and held a walking stick, and she was with (what I think was) her daughter. They said very little, only the bare essential while ordering food. Once the waiter took the order and left, the daughter (I'm guessing) took out a smart phone and began playing with it.
Mum and I ate, and we exchanged quiet conversation and laughs about this and that. At times I'd tell her to eat this, eat more of that, because it's good for her, and I'd move the plates around so that she'd get a taste of everything, fearing that she might not get enough.
I felt the elderly woman watching us as we ate, as we spoke. It was not an uncomfortable gaze, for a few times our eyes met, and she seemed to want to say something to me. She fidgeted with her hands, while her daughter (I'm guessing) looked down and fingered her smartphone. I felt somewhat bad for the elderly woman, who seemed so much want to talk, want some company, but then her daughter (I'm guessing) was more interested in the phone than in her. She seemed to be looked over at my mum and I and watching us eat and engage in conversation with envy.
Getting up ready to leave the restaurant, I turned to say goodbye to the elderly woman. She just nodded and smiled.
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