16 March 2011

My mom met with the advanced stage doctor, or 晚期醫生, in the morning yesterday. I arrived in the hospital in the evening where she was running a fever. Worn out from the medication, she was drowsy but perked up when she saw me. My dad headed out for dinner that I packed from the hawker stall we first frequented when my mom began her chemotherapy - a place that had a fairly tasty vegetarian option neighboring a selection of authentic double boiled herbal soups that was apparently good for her in that period of time.

She couldn't say much, but my name, faltering a little, feeble with tears held back in her eyes. I nodded and told her, that I knew. But what did I really?

She closed her eyes and went back to sleep, while I asked her to breathe in slow and controlled movements. Ah, the significance of one's breath. We've taken it so much for granted that we forget it is the simplest breath we breathe in that keeps us alive.

I stared at her while she slept.

When she woke, I asked if she was afraid. She said, no, she was calm, this was always on the back of her mind, but she had been keeping her hopes high for a miracle.


D woke up at 3/16/2011 03:22:00 PM [comment]

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