26 August 2009
Fear. Comes. True.
The mobile phone rang just as I finished this morning's lecture, while some students were queueing up to ask questions. From the other side of the line came the dreadful question: given your mom's current condition, should she lapse into critical state, would I want them to try all means to save her?
Over the past one week, despite repeated whispering into her ear, she had shown no response. What else can I do, except to hope against hope, hope beyond hope?
Just carry on hoping.
Aaron
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
亲情:我的母亲 (4)
19-22 August 2009
If Tuesday is deemed to have ended in a positive note, the next few days nullified it quickly.
The high hope that was generated the evening before was brutally dashed when I arrived at mom's bed on Wednesday (19 August) afternoon to see her slipping into a state of deep drowsiness, brought on by a fever caused by an infection. Despite me shaking and calling her, speaking into her ear, she showed not a sign of acknowledgement whatsoever.
She remained in that slumberous state for the next few days, appearing to have been depleted of all energy. Each day, hope against hope, I stepped into the ward looking forward to her greeting me, even if it was to be a silent eye contact, or a light grasping of my hand. No. My wish was not met. She had been transferred from ICU to HDU (high-dependency unit), and then to the general ward, sleeping through all of these transactions and totally unaware of anything.
I found my own energy slowly sapping away, nodding off all so often on bus and train. I found myself getting edgy, scolding Cowen for the slightest mistake he made in his school work or mischief he did at home. I found myself aching whenever I had to answer the question of "How's your mom?" from well-meaning friends and relatives, as if reliving the ordeal once more. I found myself, apologetically, putting aside emails from friends who expressed their concern. In fact, I've procrastinated updating this blog as long as I could, with the hope that I could offer something a little more joyful.
There were moments I wish there were people rallying around me, people from whom I could draw their strength; yet there were moments I just wanted to be alone. And alone I am now, with Jane and Cowen back at my in-law's home to spend the weekend. They need their rest too, with Cowen just recovered from fever last week and seemed to get tired more easily these few days, and Jane who fell sick a few days ago.
It's so quiet around here now.
Aaron
If Tuesday is deemed to have ended in a positive note, the next few days nullified it quickly.
The high hope that was generated the evening before was brutally dashed when I arrived at mom's bed on Wednesday (19 August) afternoon to see her slipping into a state of deep drowsiness, brought on by a fever caused by an infection. Despite me shaking and calling her, speaking into her ear, she showed not a sign of acknowledgement whatsoever.
She remained in that slumberous state for the next few days, appearing to have been depleted of all energy. Each day, hope against hope, I stepped into the ward looking forward to her greeting me, even if it was to be a silent eye contact, or a light grasping of my hand. No. My wish was not met. She had been transferred from ICU to HDU (high-dependency unit), and then to the general ward, sleeping through all of these transactions and totally unaware of anything.
I found my own energy slowly sapping away, nodding off all so often on bus and train. I found myself getting edgy, scolding Cowen for the slightest mistake he made in his school work or mischief he did at home. I found myself aching whenever I had to answer the question of "How's your mom?" from well-meaning friends and relatives, as if reliving the ordeal once more. I found myself, apologetically, putting aside emails from friends who expressed their concern. In fact, I've procrastinated updating this blog as long as I could, with the hope that I could offer something a little more joyful.
There were moments I wish there were people rallying around me, people from whom I could draw their strength; yet there were moments I just wanted to be alone. And alone I am now, with Jane and Cowen back at my in-law's home to spend the weekend. They need their rest too, with Cowen just recovered from fever last week and seemed to get tired more easily these few days, and Jane who fell sick a few days ago.
It's so quiet around here now.
Aaron
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
亲情:我的母亲 (3)
17 August 2009, Monday
When I woke up this morning, the pain and itchiness in my left eye became quite unbearable. I sent Cowen off to his school bus, then dropped by Clementi polyclinic on my way to work. The doctor prescribed chloramphenicol for my eye infection.
The morning moved rather quickly. After attending a meeting, I proceeded to TTSH. They had switched on the fan and draped a wet towel over mom's forehead. I learned that she was having a fever and some infection. Like the day before, she could respond to movements, but still couldn't say my name, though she looked rosier, probably due to the blood transfusion she received, which I believe also accounted for her BP reaching sub 200.
I went home to meet my mother-in-law, who would be staying with us for the time being, helping us to look after Cowen. Cowen was apparently very happy to see his grandmother. He dropped his school bag immediately and went over to his easel whiteboard to scribble these words:
As L* K* H* is away, a new
volunteer named S* G* E*
will be taking over.
LKH is my mom's name and SGE my mother-in-law's. "Volunteer?" I looked at Cowen dubiously, "They are not volunteers. They are your grandmas!"
But on second thought, Cowen was quite right. They are indeed volunteers.
That afternoon passed even more quickly than the morning. I brought Cowen and my mother-in-law to visit mom. This time, I introduced Cowen to mom as "Dai Ngan Zai" (大眼仔), which is her favourite nickname for him. ("Mun Mun", on the other hand, is my favourite.) Mom repeated "dai ngai zai" over and over again.
After sending both of them home, I went to the hospital the third time in the same day to meet my relatives: third uncle, his wife and daughter, fourth aunt and seventh uncle. It was a village so I had to sneak them up to the ward in batches.
Everybody sent forth comforting words decorously in an attempt to console me. My mind, however, meandered between high hope and reality as I listened painfully to the maundering of mom.
18 August 2009, Tuesday
I had a long day in office today. Though my colleagues had kindly volunteered to help cover my lectures, I did it myself in the end, as I thought the best way to take one's mind off one thing is to keep it occupied with something else.
It was past seven when I reached the ward. Mom seemed to look her best in days. Her fever had subsided, and she appeared to be surveying the room. She could respond to my call, though she still could not get beyond mumbling a few words at a time, mostly repeating my nickname. And when I held her hand loosely and asked her to grip mine tightly, the pressure I felt on my hand could not be mistaken. It certainly lifted my spirit a bit.
But the moment that made my voice crack came when I bid her "bye bye" before I left. "Bye bye", she echoed. Just as I was about to straighten up my body and turn, I heard her weak voice: "bye bye, 睇车", "bye bye, 睇车".
"睇车" is her oft-use reminder whenever I bid her goodbye. In that instance, I felt the connection between us come back.
Monday, August 17, 2009
亲情:我的母亲 (2)
Jane was sobbing, still startled at the news. "It's so sad," she sighed, "I shouldn't have quarrelled with mom so much. I am sorry I caused so much hurt in this family because I wanted my own way of living. I realised it is so stupid of me not treasuring what I have and love all my family members."
At that moment, I felt relieved and grateful. Jane and mom have never been able to see eye to eye on many things, both being hardheaded and each insisting on her own way of things.
To be fair, it takes two hands to clap so all parties share some responsibility,
including myself.
But why must one wait to be presented with the prospect of permanent loss before one casts aside differences, takes a step back and focuses on goodnesses?
Have we all learned? That all the time expended on unnecessary pains and squabbles could have been better spent on simply treasuring the people around us?
Just two months ago, Jane had a cancer scare. Fortunately it turned out to be a benign tumour, and it had since been removed.
Six years ago, my mom was found sitting on the floor by her bed one morning, appearing disoriented and too weak to get up. She had been complaining about some gastric pain for a couple of days, but it turned for the worse. She was sent to the hospital, and diagnosed for a case of bleeding stomach ulcer. She escaped surgery, and was eventually nursed back to health.
18 years ago, dad stopped breathing suddenly one night. I applied CPR on him and managed to get him come round the first time, but moment later his breathing stopped again and this time despite all my attempts to revive him, he left us.
Dad's sudden demise came as a shock. There was no sign that it was to happen, apart from the fact that he was old. I felt miserable, because he left us sooner than I could hold his hand and say "I love you". Ironically, it happened so fast that it looked quite painless, and I took comfort in the fact that though he would not hear those words, it had always be known, tacitly, that way in our hearts, all the same, all the time.
15 August 2009, Saturday
I woke up early in the morning, with my left eye stinging. When I looked into the mirror, I saw a blood-shot eye. "Ruptured blood vessels", I mumbled to myself. I dropped some lotion onto it and yelled in pain as it came into contact with the eye. It used to work, but this time the redness remained.
I checked the emails to find replies from all my co-lecturers, offering to cover my duties should I need it.
One of the reasons I like my job so much, besides the joy of teaching and the opportunities to meet young people, is the fortune of knowing this bunch of wonderful colleagues.
I made my way to my in-laws' home, to spend some time with Cowen supervising his school work in compensation for lost time. He would be having an enjoyable time with his cousin over the weekend.
Anxious to visit mom, I reached the hospital half an hour before the visiting hours of 12 to 2pm. I now saw posters on alert yellow flanking the passageway, not taking notice of them the day before. After registering myself and collecting the sticker and the mask, I went up to the ward, but was denied access as it was too early. I retreated to the waiting area, flipped open my 766-page Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to while away time. At 12 noon I went in again, but some four or five persons in white were gathering around mom's bedside. At 12:15pm I attempted a third time, but the nurse needed to clean her. Finally, at 12:30pm
I had the chance to look at mom and touch her, the first time after her operation.
She had never looked so frail. Half of her head was shaved, and the bandages marked out the trail where the cut was made. It was hard to visualise the person in front for a fiery woman whom she once was. Mom is the strict disciplinarian, while my late dad was the quiet and gentlemanly one. During my childhood, hardly a week passed without some form of disciplinary measures being administered on me by her. And the measures weren't about caning; that's just too tame. It's needle. Yes, needle, true to her name as a seamstress. To me, she is the first 东方不败, the formidable one who wielded her fearful needle masterfully and mercilessly.
But then, I could never imagine another mother who dotes on her child more. This might sound like oxymoron - cruel love - but in the older days, people truly believed in 打是爱. These days, such parents could be hauled to the court for child abuse.
Now, wrists bound to the side of the bed, eyes mostly closed except for the occasional blinking, the once hardy body seemed to have its energy drained off through the assortment of pipes running into her various cavities, some natural, some man-made, all over the body.
Six years ago I was saved the ordeal of seeing her in such a state, owing to the strict no-visitor ruling imposed at the height of SARS. Now, I had to bear the full brunt of the sight.
The only signs of life came from her heavy breathing, movements of her limbs in attempts to wriggle herself out of discomfort, and the waveforms and figures flashing on the monitor, which provides the consolation coming from recognising that the readings were quite normal. She wasn't in a vegetative state. She wasn't paralysed. I struck off two of the worst scenarios.
I stroked my fingers gently over her dry and wrinkled face. "Mi (the way I call her), can you hear me? I'm Ah Marhn (the way she calls me)." I said that in Cantonese over and over again. Tears welled up as I spoke.
After what appeared like a long time, she opened her eyes for a brief moment, muttered a weak "Ah Marhn", then fell back into what seemed like a slumber again.
The nurse walked in and heard me. She gave me a smile; I could see it though her face was hidden behind her mask. I smiled back and said: "She is a bit quiet today. When she gets well she will start scolding people." I could see the nurse raise her eye-brows, visible above the mask.
I wasn't joking. The last time mom was warded she told off a young doctor who passed her a cup of water to drink, without first washing the cup. "That's not hygienic!" she scolded the doctor. You can see how fastidious she is.
I was back to the ward that same evening, this time accompanied by Jane. Mom opened her eyes in response to us calling her, this time her eyes seemed to linger on us a little longer. Jane commented at one point: "When I call mom she seems to respond more quickly." "Yes," I said, "maybe she recognises your voice so she wants to get up to scold you. So, please call her more."
16 August 2009, Sunday
I woke up late this morning, at 8am. The long sleep cured the headache but my left eye still hurt, and the red was getting worse. I put on more eye lotion, yelping at
each drop that hit the eye.
I checked the date. I had missed the Singapore Bay Run.
I did a bit of house chores. Then I wanted to work on my lecture notes but couldn't focus much, and since I had told myself not to work if possible on Sunday due to an incident a couple of years back (let's save this for another time), I set off for the gym, but not before I passed the bag of old newspapers to the "char siew" sisters, friends of mom and store-holders who sell nice char siew and roast meat at the wet market opposite my block. I updated them about my mom.
I was on my way to the hospital that it struck me that I hadn't informed any of my mom's sisters and brothers.
When I reached the ward I basically went through the same thing I did the day before, talking to mom and asking if she could recognise me. She started to utter 'Mun Mun', and repeated that over and over again. 'Mun Mun' is the way I call Cowen sometimes.
"I am not 'Mun Mun'," I said, "I am your son. I am 'Ah Marhn'. 'Mun Mun' is your grandson." I spoke very slowly.
That evening I brought some relatives to visit her. Mom didn't seem to recognise us all. When I posed the question "Do you recognise me? Who am I?" again, the only words she would repeat were "Mun Mun, Mun Mun".
Could it be that a task undone -- fetching Cowen from his school bus on Friday -- had been etched into her subconsciouseness so deeply, or could it be just me finding a reason to explain away a random utterance?
The answer may never come to light.
At that moment, I felt relieved and grateful. Jane and mom have never been able to see eye to eye on many things, both being hardheaded and each insisting on her own way of things.
To be fair, it takes two hands to clap so all parties share some responsibility,
including myself.
But why must one wait to be presented with the prospect of permanent loss before one casts aside differences, takes a step back and focuses on goodnesses?
Have we all learned? That all the time expended on unnecessary pains and squabbles could have been better spent on simply treasuring the people around us?
Just two months ago, Jane had a cancer scare. Fortunately it turned out to be a benign tumour, and it had since been removed.
Six years ago, my mom was found sitting on the floor by her bed one morning, appearing disoriented and too weak to get up. She had been complaining about some gastric pain for a couple of days, but it turned for the worse. She was sent to the hospital, and diagnosed for a case of bleeding stomach ulcer. She escaped surgery, and was eventually nursed back to health.
18 years ago, dad stopped breathing suddenly one night. I applied CPR on him and managed to get him come round the first time, but moment later his breathing stopped again and this time despite all my attempts to revive him, he left us.
Dad's sudden demise came as a shock. There was no sign that it was to happen, apart from the fact that he was old. I felt miserable, because he left us sooner than I could hold his hand and say "I love you". Ironically, it happened so fast that it looked quite painless, and I took comfort in the fact that though he would not hear those words, it had always be known, tacitly, that way in our hearts, all the same, all the time.
15 August 2009, Saturday
I woke up early in the morning, with my left eye stinging. When I looked into the mirror, I saw a blood-shot eye. "Ruptured blood vessels", I mumbled to myself. I dropped some lotion onto it and yelled in pain as it came into contact with the eye. It used to work, but this time the redness remained.
I checked the emails to find replies from all my co-lecturers, offering to cover my duties should I need it.
One of the reasons I like my job so much, besides the joy of teaching and the opportunities to meet young people, is the fortune of knowing this bunch of wonderful colleagues.
I made my way to my in-laws' home, to spend some time with Cowen supervising his school work in compensation for lost time. He would be having an enjoyable time with his cousin over the weekend.
Anxious to visit mom, I reached the hospital half an hour before the visiting hours of 12 to 2pm. I now saw posters on alert yellow flanking the passageway, not taking notice of them the day before. After registering myself and collecting the sticker and the mask, I went up to the ward, but was denied access as it was too early. I retreated to the waiting area, flipped open my 766-page Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to while away time. At 12 noon I went in again, but some four or five persons in white were gathering around mom's bedside. At 12:15pm I attempted a third time, but the nurse needed to clean her. Finally, at 12:30pm
I had the chance to look at mom and touch her, the first time after her operation.
She had never looked so frail. Half of her head was shaved, and the bandages marked out the trail where the cut was made. It was hard to visualise the person in front for a fiery woman whom she once was. Mom is the strict disciplinarian, while my late dad was the quiet and gentlemanly one. During my childhood, hardly a week passed without some form of disciplinary measures being administered on me by her. And the measures weren't about caning; that's just too tame. It's needle. Yes, needle, true to her name as a seamstress. To me, she is the first 东方不败, the formidable one who wielded her fearful needle masterfully and mercilessly.
But then, I could never imagine another mother who dotes on her child more. This might sound like oxymoron - cruel love - but in the older days, people truly believed in 打是爱. These days, such parents could be hauled to the court for child abuse.
Now, wrists bound to the side of the bed, eyes mostly closed except for the occasional blinking, the once hardy body seemed to have its energy drained off through the assortment of pipes running into her various cavities, some natural, some man-made, all over the body.
Six years ago I was saved the ordeal of seeing her in such a state, owing to the strict no-visitor ruling imposed at the height of SARS. Now, I had to bear the full brunt of the sight.
The only signs of life came from her heavy breathing, movements of her limbs in attempts to wriggle herself out of discomfort, and the waveforms and figures flashing on the monitor, which provides the consolation coming from recognising that the readings were quite normal. She wasn't in a vegetative state. She wasn't paralysed. I struck off two of the worst scenarios.
I stroked my fingers gently over her dry and wrinkled face. "Mi (the way I call her), can you hear me? I'm Ah Marhn (the way she calls me)." I said that in Cantonese over and over again. Tears welled up as I spoke.
After what appeared like a long time, she opened her eyes for a brief moment, muttered a weak "Ah Marhn", then fell back into what seemed like a slumber again.
The nurse walked in and heard me. She gave me a smile; I could see it though her face was hidden behind her mask. I smiled back and said: "She is a bit quiet today. When she gets well she will start scolding people." I could see the nurse raise her eye-brows, visible above the mask.
I wasn't joking. The last time mom was warded she told off a young doctor who passed her a cup of water to drink, without first washing the cup. "That's not hygienic!" she scolded the doctor. You can see how fastidious she is.
I was back to the ward that same evening, this time accompanied by Jane. Mom opened her eyes in response to us calling her, this time her eyes seemed to linger on us a little longer. Jane commented at one point: "When I call mom she seems to respond more quickly." "Yes," I said, "maybe she recognises your voice so she wants to get up to scold you. So, please call her more."
16 August 2009, Sunday
I woke up late this morning, at 8am. The long sleep cured the headache but my left eye still hurt, and the red was getting worse. I put on more eye lotion, yelping at
each drop that hit the eye.
I checked the date. I had missed the Singapore Bay Run.
I did a bit of house chores. Then I wanted to work on my lecture notes but couldn't focus much, and since I had told myself not to work if possible on Sunday due to an incident a couple of years back (let's save this for another time), I set off for the gym, but not before I passed the bag of old newspapers to the "char siew" sisters, friends of mom and store-holders who sell nice char siew and roast meat at the wet market opposite my block. I updated them about my mom.
I was on my way to the hospital that it struck me that I hadn't informed any of my mom's sisters and brothers.
When I reached the ward I basically went through the same thing I did the day before, talking to mom and asking if she could recognise me. She started to utter 'Mun Mun', and repeated that over and over again. 'Mun Mun' is the way I call Cowen sometimes.
"I am not 'Mun Mun'," I said, "I am your son. I am 'Ah Marhn'. 'Mun Mun' is your grandson." I spoke very slowly.
That evening I brought some relatives to visit her. Mom didn't seem to recognise us all. When I posed the question "Do you recognise me? Who am I?" again, the only words she would repeat were "Mun Mun, Mun Mun".
Could it be that a task undone -- fetching Cowen from his school bus on Friday -- had been etched into her subconsciouseness so deeply, or could it be just me finding a reason to explain away a random utterance?
The answer may never come to light.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
亲情:我的母亲 (1)
I'm Aaron, Cowen's dad. I think I will be hijacking my boy's blog for some time until he is ready to take over.
I would have preferred this blog to start with something light and pleasurable. But life is unpredictable. Certain parts in my post below may be too vivid for comfort, so if you don't have a strong stomach, please do consider skipping it.
14 August 2009
It was an usual Friday in office until I sensed something unusual when I called home several times around 1:15pm, my usual routine to check that Cowen is home. Cowen should have reached home by now, as his school dismisses at 12:30pm on Friday, but nobody picked up the phone. At about 1:20pm my wife Jane called me. Mom wasn't to be found at the ground floor greeting Cowen from his school bus. The boy went upstairs himself and pressed the door bell to which nobody answered. Cowen then went over to our neighbour to use their phone to call Jane, who then called me.
I called home again. Still unsuccessful. "Mom won't let this happen", an uncomfortable thought nagged me. I picked up my bag and went over to my colleague's desk and explained to her that I needed to go back, as we were to meet at 2pm to head for a meeting outside NUS together. I told her I would get to the meeting myself, though in most certainty I would be late.
I managed to flag a taxi very quickly. As I reached for its door another colleague walked past and waved at me. I waved back, showing a signal that I was in a hurry to go.
I found mom on the floor
2pm.
I went up to my neighbour's house to fetch Cowen, but without waiting for him, hurriedly got into my own and my fear materialised right before my eyes.
It wasn't a pretty sight. Lying motionlessly on the floor just outside the bathroom, mom was surrounded by what seems to be a patch of blood and vomits, with a rag nearby.
I went down to check her pulse. A thick clot of blood hung from her right nostril, carving a scarlet trail all the way across half of her face to her right ear and down onto her dress. It was a stroke of luck that she lay sideway, or she could have been choked on her own vomits. I shook her and talked to her, but she did not respond, except for some movement that appeared to be a grimace.
I could hear Cowen's footsteps behind me. "Mah-mah (paternal grandmother in Cantonese) is still breathing." I heard him. "Yes" I said crisply without turning my head. "Quick, go get changed. We have to send mah-mah to the hospital". I mopped the blood from her face and moved her slightly away from the pool of mixture, but not daring to move her too much in case she had suffered some bone injuries.
I grabbed the leaflets from the mail-holder where I keep leaflets of all sorts, found the number for calling private ambulance and dialed it. Nobody answered! Dialed again. Still nobody answered! Fed-up, I called 999.
While waiting for the ambulance, I examined mom for any sign of external injuries. I removed her ear-rings as they were rather sharp at their end. I kept talking to her, but in her semi-unconscious state all I could hear was some incoherent mumbling, or could it be just reflex actions?
"Are you crying, daddy?" came the boy's voice from behind. "No," still not turning my head to face him, I said quickly, "this is not time for tears. Go, quickly get changed. Drink some water. It is going to be a long wait in the hospital."
The police called back. The guy asked a few questions about how my mom was found and wanted to get her IC number. I rummaged her bedroom looking for her handbag, found it but her IC was nowhere to be seen. The guy at the other side of the line repeated "I need to have her IC number." I was in two minds whether to continue searching for the IC or tend to my mom. When things happen too quickly, your mind goes a bit slow. Now feeling fluttered, I spoke into the phone: "Look, I'm busy attending to my mom now. I give you *my* IC number first. Could you call back later when I've found her IC?"
I heard footsteps, several of them, outside my gate now and I knew the paramedics were here. "Open the gate for them, Cowen", I said to Cowen absent-mindedly, still without turning my head as I examined my mom. But that was unnecessary, the gate was already open. The paramedic came in and I quickly updated them, left my mom to their care and went into her bedroom again to continue searching for her IC, for I know I would need it later at the hospital. I found it eventually, in another purse of hers.
In no time, the paramedics got mom on the stretcher and made their way downstairs. As I left the house, I grabbed Cowen's medication from the table and chucked it inside my bag. He had a high fever a few days ago and was still under medication.
At the hospital
While on the ambulance I updated Jane and called my colleague to apologise that I wouldn't be able to make it for the meeting. I sat at the front seat, Cowen behind with his grandma.
We reached Tan Tock Seng hospital. They wheeled her to the emergency room, leaving my boy and me waiting outside.
"I have seen the inside of the ambulance!" Cowen declared enthusiastically. I gave him a wan smile.
The boy is pretty brave. I thought, and I hope. I just hope that it had not be too traumatic for him. He has seen death not too long ago -- his maternal grandfather, my father-in-law, passed away barely eight months ago, and today he has just witnessed the somewhat gruesome scene of his grandmother lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
It was indeed a long wait. They wheeled mom out of the emergency room past us into another room, which I later gathered was for a CT scan. Then they wheeled her past us back into the emergency room.
A doctor came out and told me that she was in a pretty serious condition, and they needed to do a scan to ascertain whether there was any damage to her head. I guessed they guess the same, that my mom might have hit her head when she collapsed.
I took out Cowen's medication and fed him. "I hope mah-mah will be all right." I told him casually. "We can pray to god" he said, rather cheerfully. For a moment, I thought he was going to utter some Christian prayer, because he has this little Children's bible which he reads from time to time. But as he opened his mouth, what came out first was a string of what sounded like Taoist chanting, which I supposed he had picked up from observing his grandfather's funeral. Then, in Mandarin, he uttered this: "Please help mah-mah to recover and be healthy... (I can only remember this part) ... you must do this... ("This sounds more like a command or a threat rather than a prayer", I thought to myself) ... thank you." ("At least you are polite", I thought to myself again.)
"I think Mah-mah will need to go for operation," I said, again casually, just to fill the silence. "Is it pain?" Cowen asked. "You should say 'Is it painful?'", I corrected him for the umpteenth time. He has this bad habit of saying "pain"instead of "painful".
A doctor, this time a different one, came over and took us to see the result of the CT scan on the monitor. Apparently her head must have been hit during the fall, which caused bleeding inside the head, as the scan showed. The danger was imminent, so immediate operation was necessary. However, as part of his job, he conveyed to me the possible outcome of the operation, which ranges from some loss of functions to being paralysed to in the worst case, vegetative state. It would unlikely be back to her old self, I was told, as the doctor surveyed me, asking me to consider it seriously.
Compared to Jane's predicament eight months ago when her family had to make the dreadful decision of whether to pull the plug off her father's life support, it wasn't a difficult decision. I opted for operation almost immediately. They brought her to the ICU, to get ready to operate on her the next moment the OT is available.
Cowen and I waited in a room at the ICU. Cowen was now too tired and drowsy -- the effect of his medicine has kicked in -- and dozed off at the table. Eventually, at about 5:30pm, I got to see mom before they took her to the operating theatre. She was still unconscious. We were told to go home and wait for news, which should be in a couple of hours' time.
The night
Cowen and I went home. I cleaned up the floor, packed up and sent Cowen to my mother-in-law's home in which he would spend the weekend. I then went back to office to make alternative work arrangements.
On my way from office to home, a call from the hospital informed me that mom had been discharged from the OT and back in the ICU, sooner than I had expected. I were to go to the hospital to meet the doctor.
The doctor assured me that the operation had gone well in general. The clotted blood had been drained. However, there was a point when her blood pressure dipped. Low blood pressure may result in insufficient blood supply to the brain, which in turn may cause some damage. The only way to tell is to wait.
It was past midnight when I reached home. I sent out a few emails to update my 'brothers' whom I had SMSed earlier. When I hit the bed, it was past 1am. The past 12 hours was like a whirl...
I would have preferred this blog to start with something light and pleasurable. But life is unpredictable. Certain parts in my post below may be too vivid for comfort, so if you don't have a strong stomach, please do consider skipping it.
14 August 2009
It was an usual Friday in office until I sensed something unusual when I called home several times around 1:15pm, my usual routine to check that Cowen is home. Cowen should have reached home by now, as his school dismisses at 12:30pm on Friday, but nobody picked up the phone. At about 1:20pm my wife Jane called me. Mom wasn't to be found at the ground floor greeting Cowen from his school bus. The boy went upstairs himself and pressed the door bell to which nobody answered. Cowen then went over to our neighbour to use their phone to call Jane, who then called me.
I called home again. Still unsuccessful. "Mom won't let this happen", an uncomfortable thought nagged me. I picked up my bag and went over to my colleague's desk and explained to her that I needed to go back, as we were to meet at 2pm to head for a meeting outside NUS together. I told her I would get to the meeting myself, though in most certainty I would be late.
I managed to flag a taxi very quickly. As I reached for its door another colleague walked past and waved at me. I waved back, showing a signal that I was in a hurry to go.
I found mom on the floor
2pm.
I went up to my neighbour's house to fetch Cowen, but without waiting for him, hurriedly got into my own and my fear materialised right before my eyes.
It wasn't a pretty sight. Lying motionlessly on the floor just outside the bathroom, mom was surrounded by what seems to be a patch of blood and vomits, with a rag nearby.
I went down to check her pulse. A thick clot of blood hung from her right nostril, carving a scarlet trail all the way across half of her face to her right ear and down onto her dress. It was a stroke of luck that she lay sideway, or she could have been choked on her own vomits. I shook her and talked to her, but she did not respond, except for some movement that appeared to be a grimace.
I could hear Cowen's footsteps behind me. "Mah-mah (paternal grandmother in Cantonese) is still breathing." I heard him. "Yes" I said crisply without turning my head. "Quick, go get changed. We have to send mah-mah to the hospital". I mopped the blood from her face and moved her slightly away from the pool of mixture, but not daring to move her too much in case she had suffered some bone injuries.
I grabbed the leaflets from the mail-holder where I keep leaflets of all sorts, found the number for calling private ambulance and dialed it. Nobody answered! Dialed again. Still nobody answered! Fed-up, I called 999.
While waiting for the ambulance, I examined mom for any sign of external injuries. I removed her ear-rings as they were rather sharp at their end. I kept talking to her, but in her semi-unconscious state all I could hear was some incoherent mumbling, or could it be just reflex actions?
"Are you crying, daddy?" came the boy's voice from behind. "No," still not turning my head to face him, I said quickly, "this is not time for tears. Go, quickly get changed. Drink some water. It is going to be a long wait in the hospital."
The police called back. The guy asked a few questions about how my mom was found and wanted to get her IC number. I rummaged her bedroom looking for her handbag, found it but her IC was nowhere to be seen. The guy at the other side of the line repeated "I need to have her IC number." I was in two minds whether to continue searching for the IC or tend to my mom. When things happen too quickly, your mind goes a bit slow. Now feeling fluttered, I spoke into the phone: "Look, I'm busy attending to my mom now. I give you *my* IC number first. Could you call back later when I've found her IC?"
I heard footsteps, several of them, outside my gate now and I knew the paramedics were here. "Open the gate for them, Cowen", I said to Cowen absent-mindedly, still without turning my head as I examined my mom. But that was unnecessary, the gate was already open. The paramedic came in and I quickly updated them, left my mom to their care and went into her bedroom again to continue searching for her IC, for I know I would need it later at the hospital. I found it eventually, in another purse of hers.
In no time, the paramedics got mom on the stretcher and made their way downstairs. As I left the house, I grabbed Cowen's medication from the table and chucked it inside my bag. He had a high fever a few days ago and was still under medication.
At the hospital
While on the ambulance I updated Jane and called my colleague to apologise that I wouldn't be able to make it for the meeting. I sat at the front seat, Cowen behind with his grandma.
We reached Tan Tock Seng hospital. They wheeled her to the emergency room, leaving my boy and me waiting outside.
"I have seen the inside of the ambulance!" Cowen declared enthusiastically. I gave him a wan smile.
The boy is pretty brave. I thought, and I hope. I just hope that it had not be too traumatic for him. He has seen death not too long ago -- his maternal grandfather, my father-in-law, passed away barely eight months ago, and today he has just witnessed the somewhat gruesome scene of his grandmother lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
It was indeed a long wait. They wheeled mom out of the emergency room past us into another room, which I later gathered was for a CT scan. Then they wheeled her past us back into the emergency room.
A doctor came out and told me that she was in a pretty serious condition, and they needed to do a scan to ascertain whether there was any damage to her head. I guessed they guess the same, that my mom might have hit her head when she collapsed.
I took out Cowen's medication and fed him. "I hope mah-mah will be all right." I told him casually. "We can pray to god" he said, rather cheerfully. For a moment, I thought he was going to utter some Christian prayer, because he has this little Children's bible which he reads from time to time. But as he opened his mouth, what came out first was a string of what sounded like Taoist chanting, which I supposed he had picked up from observing his grandfather's funeral. Then, in Mandarin, he uttered this: "Please help mah-mah to recover and be healthy... (I can only remember this part) ... you must do this... ("This sounds more like a command or a threat rather than a prayer", I thought to myself) ... thank you." ("At least you are polite", I thought to myself again.)
"I think Mah-mah will need to go for operation," I said, again casually, just to fill the silence. "Is it pain?" Cowen asked. "You should say 'Is it painful?'", I corrected him for the umpteenth time. He has this bad habit of saying "pain"instead of "painful".
A doctor, this time a different one, came over and took us to see the result of the CT scan on the monitor. Apparently her head must have been hit during the fall, which caused bleeding inside the head, as the scan showed. The danger was imminent, so immediate operation was necessary. However, as part of his job, he conveyed to me the possible outcome of the operation, which ranges from some loss of functions to being paralysed to in the worst case, vegetative state. It would unlikely be back to her old self, I was told, as the doctor surveyed me, asking me to consider it seriously.
Compared to Jane's predicament eight months ago when her family had to make the dreadful decision of whether to pull the plug off her father's life support, it wasn't a difficult decision. I opted for operation almost immediately. They brought her to the ICU, to get ready to operate on her the next moment the OT is available.
Cowen and I waited in a room at the ICU. Cowen was now too tired and drowsy -- the effect of his medicine has kicked in -- and dozed off at the table. Eventually, at about 5:30pm, I got to see mom before they took her to the operating theatre. She was still unconscious. We were told to go home and wait for news, which should be in a couple of hours' time.
The night
Cowen and I went home. I cleaned up the floor, packed up and sent Cowen to my mother-in-law's home in which he would spend the weekend. I then went back to office to make alternative work arrangements.
On my way from office to home, a call from the hospital informed me that mom had been discharged from the OT and back in the ICU, sooner than I had expected. I were to go to the hospital to meet the doctor.
The doctor assured me that the operation had gone well in general. The clotted blood had been drained. However, there was a point when her blood pressure dipped. Low blood pressure may result in insufficient blood supply to the brain, which in turn may cause some damage. The only way to tell is to wait.
It was past midnight when I reached home. I sent out a few emails to update my 'brothers' whom I had SMSed earlier. When I hit the bed, it was past 1am. The past 12 hours was like a whirl...
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