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.
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