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| I haven't posted since last year. It's a bit difficult to read what I wrote last September so I actually haven't returned. I think my silence is symbolic of the loss of my mother for it's a irreplaceable void that cannot be filled while I'm here on Earth. Everything about that day last year comes back so vividly again as important dates in our personal history makes time seem more circular than linear.
I will be forever grateful for my mother's sacrifices. I had imagined the arrival of my nephew, Ethan, or my wedding would bring her the type of joy that would remind us as humans that we have a limitless capacity for the simple splendors of life. Faith tells me she is in a better place, but the silence beckons me to demand signals. Nowadays, my parents come to mind during celebratory times. I suppose it's because I want to see their smile or hear their laughter too.
With each passing year I will be joined by others who will have lost their parents. It's a reminder of how precious life is, how little control we have and perhaps how impossible it is to reason why things turn out the way they do. I don't think anyone can ever truly prepare themselves for the loss of a parent. Even if you just imagine it for a split second now it probably seems surreal for there are likely the palpable Thanksgiving and Christmas plans of the past and future that you also have in mind.
When a loved one passes away we also think of his legacy. My parent's attributes instilled in me are a reminder of their legacy and I hope someday that through my children I will see a reflection of my parent's kindness and selflessness.
Another thing that has been on my mind is how I ought to feel liberated from failure. Since my parent's departure, their loss is amplified when I realize that there aren't many other people in this world who could love me in that "unconditional" sense. I suppose I will know better some day myself, but I would surmise that it's a lot easier for a parent to call someone else other than their own children an idiot or a failure. The thing about my parents is that they had this self-deprecating demeanor. They were generous with their compliments, but withheld praise for themselves. The truth is they let their actions speak and I think that type of silent leadership that they exemplified is what resonates within me. These days I am trying hard to encourage others more rather than feel the need to win an argument or prove a point. Life is short so the cliche goes and it was evidenced by my parent's passing so there's really no need to be dogmatic. I try to remind myself that I am fortunate to have had such parents and that is plenty of reason to feel accomplished. This probably sounds very familiar to some and I suppose it's like a gentle raindrop that reminds us what may only seem bad can work for the common good.
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| It's just past 9:30am when my aunt and uncle accompany me to visit with the doctors at the hospital. The doctors are carefully matter-of-fact and solemn with their words. We are escorted to a separate hospital room where my mom is in one of two beds. The other bed is empty and closer to the window with a view of some massive buildings in the horizon. This will be a private room for us where visitors will be allowed to come in and out. We are told that my mom's condition continues to deteriorate and that all movement has left her arms and legs. A doctor reviews yesterday's CT scans with my uncle, who also is a doctor while my aunt and I gather beside my mother. My aunt calls her by her Chinese name and tells her to get up as she sobs. I clench my mother's right hand with my right hand and place my head besides her right side and tell her that I understand, that I'm sorry and that I love her. A few moments later several of phone calls are made by my aunt and uncle. I give Ed, who just arrived back to the States a few hours ago, a call and tell him that our mom is comatose and could go soon.
Throughout the day there are several visitors and my aunt and a cousin frequently come in and out of the room. I'm trying to process my thoughts and I find myself often thinking about being at a train station with my mom in the late evening. It's my mom who is scheduled to leave. There's no exact location as to where she's headed only the feeling that the final boarding calls are being made and soon the train engine will whistle before heading out and disappearing into the foggy night. This is no ordinary train ride. We both know that it'll be a long time before we see each other again. It's unlike anything we've had to face; certainly not just a semester away for college or some other duration of separation we've endured. I promise my mom that I will be at peace when the train departs. Yet, I am conflicted.
I am doing all the talking today at the hospital. My mom remains silent. Shortly after the chat with the doctors the hospital staff decides to give my mom some additional oxygen to assist her with her breathing. Her breathing seems more labored than yesterday and she has a fever from all the medication. A few times throughout the day I tell myself that if it's time for some divine miracle- some Elisha moment if you will- that the time is now. When still no signs of movement appear, I whisper again into my mom's ears telling her that I love her. I am determined that the last words on Earth she should hear are ones telling her how thankful Ed and I are and how much we love her and how everything will be okay. I don't want to let go of my mom's hand and so I'm sitting beside her my right hand clenched into hers as I look with admiration upon the woman who has been my biggest hero, my most influential role-model. I rub her fingers and give her a few squeezes hoping she'll squeeze my hand back like she did yesterday, but her fingers are cold and lifeless today.
We're back at the train station again and the sound of activity has trickled to a silence. It appears as if the rest of the passengers have already boarded. I'm hugging my mom still and don't want to let go. A slight nod and a calm expression on her face tells me that she is ready to board. One last embrace and now she is on board and looking out at me from a window. My mother probably can't hear me now, but I alternate from yelling and waving to slowly speaking with exaggerated mouth gestures so that she may also read my lips. Either way I hope she knows how much I will miss her and how much I love her.
Back inside the hospital and it's almost 3:00pm now and I haven't eaten anything since my early breakfast this morning. I just thought of something else to say to my mom. I tell her to remember our trip to New York and Washington, D.C. Then I tell her that soon she'll be able to see Niagra Falls. I had planned to take her up to Buffalo sometime next year. You'll see it soon I tell her and then you can also swing by Toronto. I then lift her stiff legs slightly a few times to simulate a walking movement. It's hard to see my mom like this. Am I ready I ask myself. Certainly she'll be in a better soon and she'll soar on wings like an eagle.
I'm on the train station platform again. It's 5:35pm or so and the engine has sounded. Another roar and slowly I begin to see the wheels on the locomotive moving. I'm still standing on the platform. The wind has picked up, but I hardly notice. I blow my mother kisses now and start to cry. I'm encouraged by her calm demeanor.
At the hospital my mom is breathing calmly in her bed. Then some louder breathing noises. I don't know how or why, but I just know. My aunt is to her left. I'm at my mom's right side still clenching her hand. I tell my aunt in Chinese that it is her time. She hears my mom's breathing escalate and runs out to call the nurses and calls my uncle on her cell phone. We're both crying now, but there's a sense of calmness. The oxygen level and blood pressure readings are too faint now to register. Are you ready I ask myself. I think about how as a little kid I wondered what the day would be like. It was very abstract back then, but the level of sadness remains the same. Her pulse is faint and she has stopped breathing. I take a peek at her heart rate monitor and it is falling quickly. Around 30 bpm I stop looking and go back to my mother to embrace her once again. The last words I whispered to her were, "I love you so much."
I can hardly see the train now as it has entered the dense fog. But instead of straining into the horizon, I find myself looking upwards into the skies. It's a dark night, but the stars shine brightly. In eight days it'll be the three-year anniversary of my father's passing. I struggle, but manage to smile. Oh mom, have a safe journey with dad. I will see you both very soon. I leave the platform and am overcome with emotion. Yet a peace transcends me... what would my mother want me to do I ask myself.
It's time to leave the hospital and gather up her belongings. There is her hearing aid... oh mama I think, you don't need that anymore now... can you hear the music, mama? I gather up a notebook she scribbled on while she was in the hospital and her mug. There's an unused pack of diapers we had purchased for her last week. And then it hits me. I know what my mom would want me to do. She wants me to go back across to the other building and give this unused pack of diapers to an elderly lady and her grandson that our family had befriended these past few weeks. I make way across the hospital and go up the building where my mom had been doing her physical therapy. I wish my mom were in this building I think. As I enter the 9th floor where the female stroke patients are rehabilitating, the nurses catch sight of me and are surprised that I am here. I make my way over to the elderly lady and tell her to get well soon and leave the diapers for her. We won't be needing these anymore I tell her in Chinese. I walk pass the nurses again and the tears in my eyes do all the talking. I slightly nod as if to say thank you for taking care of my mother these past three weeks. As I leave the hospital I find myself looking up towards the skies again...
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| Dear Mom,
It pains me to see you like this. Since Friday you've become more fatigue. Throughout the week you have been steadily losing your appetite. Yesterday you were hardly responsive and today you were in a very deep sleep. I haven't seen you open your eyes for two days now. I was so hopeful Friday afternoon when I accompanied you to your physical therapy session. You were a little tired that day, but I was so proud of you making the effort to go through your exercises. The hospital staff moved you back into ICU today and brought some bad news after another CT scan. Oh mom, I hope it's not true what they told me. I'm hoping the bleeding in your head will stop. The specialists and neurosurgeons seem to think it's too risky to attempt any surgery.
Mama, I'm so sorry I cannot take your pain and suffering away. Please don't feel bad that I cried. I tried to hold back my tears for so many hours this afternoon, but I finally broke out sobbing next to you as I held your hand. I was hoping my touch would bring you some comfort. I'm not sure you heard anything I said tonight, but I told you thank you and that I love you very much. I can't bring myself to think what it would be like to lose you. Perhaps I can be selfish sometimes and wish things would turn out according to what I envision. You're an expecting Grandma... your grandson is less than three months from birth. I'm getting married next summer and I wanted you to be there that day as Michelle and I pay tribute to our parents.
Don't give up, Mama. How about another lap with me tomorrow? You just dream of where we are visiting and I'll help you move your arms and legs again. We've done a lot of laps together, huh? Remember when I was just a little kid and I was tired from the long bus rides and how I'd piggyback on you back to our apartment? Mom, I know you're a fighter. I saw you moving your legs a bit today and you were squeezing my hand with your hand too. It's my turn to carry you now; to be by your side praying for you and tending to your needs.
Mama, I'm hoping someday soon you can tell me how foolish I was for writing these things tonight and worrying about answering the phones thinking it would bring me the news that you had gone to heaven. Shalom, Mama. I hope you are feeling better now. I will try to find some peace tonight knowing I did not hold back telling you how much I love you.
-C
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| All,
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the encouragement, thoughts and prayers. It's comforting to know that we do not go through these ordeals alone as it may seem. Some good news to share. Yesterday after my mother returned from her afternoon physical therapy session, she was in a bit of a bad mood. I suppose she's frustrated with what she perceives to be a slow recovery. She said something along the lines that Ed (my older brother) and I were not helping her enough... My guess for her feeling this way is because sometimes during the mornings when Ed and I are not at the hospital she needs some assistance from us. While her long term memory appears to be intact, she sometimes understandably misjudges time and thinks we are there.
Anyhow, as she was sitting on a chair the nurses placed her in I held down her right leg and told her to try to move her left leg. To our delight she was able to slightly kick with her left leg and even bend it up towards her torso a little. I think a slight tear fell from my left eye. A nurse had also taken a keen interest in her and appeared as if she wanted to speak with her. I introduced myself to her and realized that she was actually a hospital chaplain. Long story short, she was also able to communicate with my mother and even led us in a brief prayer. I feel a little better knowing someone else at the hospital can keep an eye on my mother during non-visiting hours.
Today there were no new developments with her physical abilities that we witnessed, but my mother did enjoy the extra company of two of her friends who came to visit her. I imagine this period of recovery will take some time and her movement in her left leg the last two days were encouraging. Equally uplifting were your kind words of support.
Again, a heartfelt thanks,
-C
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| These past few days have been some of the challenging in my life...
On a typical morning this month on August 12th I tried calling my mother in Hong Kong to chat with her before I would begin working. I had last spoken to her on my way walking to church two days ago. During our conversation that Sunday morning she told me that she had just showered and was eagerly awaiting to watch the basketball game between China and the U.S.A. On this day though I got no response on the other end so I figured she had gone out early to run some errands. Later that evening around 9:00pm or so I tried calling again and still got no response. I then called her cell phone and still got no response. I started to worry and decided to give my aunt and uncle a call to see if they had seen my mother or knew of her whereabouts. I got through to my uncle shortly afterwards and asked him if he had seen or heard from my mother.
Then the memories came back to haunt me... much like the morning of September 9, 2005 when I got the phone call about my father's passing. This wasn't going to be a typical phone conversation. My uncle informed me that they had found my mother on the floor in her apartment on Monday night... she had a stroke and had been struggling on the ground for some time. In my mother's typical fashion of not wanting to cause panic, she had requested that our relatives spare us the news for a few more days. I wasn't able to sleep that night until the early hours of Wednesday morning.
It's 6:30am or so Wednesday morning when I'm startled by some nightmare. I had dreamt that some insect had crawled up on me. Thank goodness I think for just a brief moment- the conversations with my brother and relatives last night was just a dream, right? But the fatigue lingers and my senses come back to me... if only it were so simple to cast the bad away as dreams. I give my uncle another call again to find out about my mother's condition. She is still being monitored in an ICU I am told. Time for more phone calls and emails... first to co-workers and then some more phone calls to relatives. A plane ticket is quickly booked. I tell myself I must depart soon.... what if my mother doesn't make it through ICU?
Friday afternoon and I touch down in Hong Kong International airport. My eyes are horribly red. I still haven't slept much and the headaches I began feeling on board my flight intensify. I feel like I'm going to collapse, but I convince myself that I have to make my way to Yan Chai hospital. Whether anyone meets me at the airport or not, I am determined to find my way to the hospital. I am greeted by my aunt and we briefly stop at her apartment to put down my belongings. It's only 3:00pm and the hospital visiting hours for the ICU is between 4:00pm-8:00pm. It feels like the longest hour. My aunt convinces me that I need some food, some medication for my headache... to not worry so much... her words seemingly either bounce right off or pass through... all I can think about is getting to my mother's bedside.
It's just a bit past 4:00pm and I catch a glimpse of my mother scratching her head. I make my way over and she seems exhausted. My aunt tries to rouse her and let her know that I am here. I say hello, but she doesn't seem to hear me. She is facing to the right and I kneel down beside her, but it appears she doesn't recognize me. I'm scared and don't know what to think. This is not good.... a few minutes later though she sees me. It appears as if she has lost some of her peripheral vision to her left. These are difficult times for everyone at her bedside. I don't know what to tell her except to rest and that I am here. It's so good just to see her alive even though it pains me to see her like this. That was August 15th.
It's August 24th now and my mother has since been moved out of ICU. She spends most of her day bedridden still. Her left side is still very much paralyzed. I've since educated myself much more about strokes. I know about the 3-hour time period to unclot... I've since learned more of my mother's ordeal. She tells me how she struggled that morning... how she tried dialing 999, but failed. How she tried to get herself up and cried for help, but couldn't move. It's not easy to picture when I try to fanthom what those moments were like my body aches and twitches. Everyday I make my way to the hospital I hope to see some evidence of strength restored to her left side, but so far there hasn't been much progress. Some days I'm encouraged by her recollection of the past and her demonstration of her long term memory. She'll say some things about her relatives or about the placement of items in her apartments that are spot-on. Other times I'm encouraged if she shows a healty appetite with the soft foods we feed her. Even a slight curl or twitch in her left hand fingers and toes is cause for celebration.
Tomorrow we are scheduled to speak with the doctor. I expect his prognosis to be bleak. I'll be reminded about the 3-hour time period I'm sure. But we cannot give up. There is no other course. I actually have no idea what to do should she never be able to recover. Or maybe I have a slight idea, but don't allow my mind to enterain such thoughts. I've prayed by her her bedside. I've hoped that my hands to bring healing. Others have prayed and sent their sympathies. Even now I can't concentrate well. It's hard not to think about her and how she must be suffering... the despair and frustration she must feel. I've told myself this isn't the kind of stuff that happens to people at my age... I've already lost my father and now my mother has had a stroke. I won't lie... I've said many expletives aloud in my head... I've questioned my faith. The reality is that what I wish I can control I can't, but what I can control I convince myself I have made the decision to only because there really is no other alternative. For what can I do but remain positive and hope when things seem so dire?
I'm trying hard to think of happy memories with my mom. Only three months ago she had come out to New York to visit. I will not forget how happy she was to see the Statue of Liberty. Nor will I forget our trip to Washington, D.C. and how I was so proud of her for walking around so much. Even now as I gather and organize things in her apartment I am so proud of her. I know it must have been tough for her to be without my father these past few years.
I want to write more, but I am at a lost for words. I'm exhausted myself and need to just lie down. So just as I have been doing for the past 12 days or so now, I go on believing that tomorrow will bring good news and I try to find some rest while my thoughts are with my mother. Onto Him we commit our trust.
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