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.
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