November 3, 2013

  • Memories – painful but cathartic

    A few years ago, I lost my mom to cancer.  At least, that’s what I tell people.  She was diagnosed just before winter and passed away in the summer.   She knew she didn’t have long to live when she went into the hospital.  It was for a tracheotomy.  The tumor was creating a lot of pain in the neck area and slowly choking her.  All she wanted was just a few weeks – preferably at home.  I remember her laughing after the surgery. We tried to make the hospital room as comfortable as possible.  The nurses and staff let us use the second bed.  We brought in a CD player and her Chinese newspapers.   I would bring in my photography magazines so she could look at some of the wonderful outdoor & wildlife photography.  Everyday she would ask what day it was.  Eventually we would just tell her the date right once we showed up.  Her bed was too low and too far from the window.  All she saw was the sky.  We would describe the scenery to her.

    One day, my dad  said “listen to this”.  In her new guttural voice, she said “Happy Birthday” to my dad.  My dad laughed.  It was the first time both of them laughed in the hospital.  I had forgotten it was my dad’s birthday.  She started to talk cautiously about coming home and to see her garden.  I wondered how we were going to handle this but was glad that there was a chance of her coming home.

    Then the cruel daggers of reality struck.  Several times a day, her throat had to be cleared of mucus.  It was a tube sucked the mucus out.  She struggled and it was a painful ordeal.  The nurses wanted teach us how to do it.  Both my sister and brother tried.  I didn’t.  I couldn’t bear to see her struggle as if she was being choked.  There was also a rotten smell from the opening.  My mom’s sense of smell was very keen and I don’t know how she coped with it.

    One day, my sister and I were with her.  She wanted to go to the bathroom.  I had done this before with my brother.  I held on to her while my brother wiped her.  I felt her shame.  This time my sister was there so I thought it might be a bit easier.  But as she went into the bathroom, she fainted.  I held on to her desperately and let her body leaned on mine.  I had the wall to support my back.  But my arms couldn’t hold on to her.  I slowly slid down the wall to the floor while holding on to her.   The nurses came in and took over.  I felt so useless.

    When I spoke to my mom afterwards, she didn’t remember what happened.  A couple of days later, I got a call from my sister early in the morning.  My mom wanted to meet with all of us.  When we got there, she told us in that strange new voice “I want to die.”  I didn’t say anything.  I noticed my dad slowly walking out of the room.  He put his head to the wall and started to cry.  I walked over and just put my hand on his shoulder.  The next few moments are a blur.  A priest came in to give her the last rites.  I mumbled the Lord’s Prayer.  Later that day, a nurse removed the tube for her peritoneal dialysis.   Her doctor saw us afterwards and assured us the diabetic coma would be painless.  There was a part of me that was numb to all of this. One night, it was just me and her in the room.  She was asleep.  I started by rattling off the date.  Then slowly as I held her hand, I thanked her for being a wonderful mom and for raising me.  I struggled because I had to speak Cantonese.  I felt like a child again.  I told her she would see her mom, dad and sister.  Then I said she would see her beloved cats.  She suddenly smiled and held that for about a second.  I knew she heard me.   I just wanted her to know things would be ok.

    She passed away while my brother and I were in the funeral home making arrangements.  I realized then why she kept asking us for the date.  She hung on 1 day past her wedding anniversary.  I knew she didn’t want my dad to associate that day with her death.  The cancer didn’t beat her.  She was brave to the end and died on her terms.

    To my readers, I’m sorry if all of my recent posts have been grim.  I need to slowly get this stuff out of me.

Comments (28)

  • I just commented on your WP site — my thoughts are with you as I read this. Hang in there — it’s a difficult time, but your being able to visit is important both for your dad and for you.

    • Yes I saw it and am a bit behind in my replies. Thank you for the support.

      It’s a bit confusing running 2 sites with the same content. I know others do this and I’m never sure which one to comment on. My rule of thumb is whichever it I saw it on first. But I also want Xanga to get some traffic too. Argh…

  • No need to apologize, Matt. We all have to die sometime. You did and are doing the best you can to make the best of a bad situation. Thoughts and prayers, my friend.

  • Mattie, I am sobbing. I visualized every little bit of that hospital room and you with your mother. It is good to talk about these memories. Lets the steam out of the chest. Love you babe. You are a great son and have always been one, I know.

    • I think as a doctor, you can visualize this a bit better than others. It was good to let this out. This entry has been bubbling for a long time. I should attach a box of kleenex when I write these entries. Thank you for the kind words as always.

  • Thank you for writing this.

    My sister visited a couple of months ago, and asked me a question that stirred up a lot of reflection on how I’ve handled (or avoided handling) death. The day my dad had his massive stroke, I drove up to see him, and on the way picked up my sister. We got to the hospital at midnight and found him alone in ICU. He had been unconscious since early afternoon. When we talked to him, his pulse jumped a bit and he moved his arm and foot a bit more, but there was never any facial response.

    I sat with him for an hour, then went to his house to sleep. My sister stayed with him. She called at 3:15 to say he had died. My stepmom and I went to the hospital then, and stayed until dawn.

    My sister’s question was: Why had I gone home to sleep instead of staying there with him? I don’t have a good answer. At the time it seemed like the natural thing to do, but in retrospect, I left my sister there alone and I didn’t stay with my dad during his final hours.

    • Well, as you said it seemed like the natural thing to do. I probably would have done the same thing and take turns with my siblings. You didn’t do it on purpose (to deliberately avoid being there) and that’s the important thing.

  • Thanks for sharing this personal moment of your life. My thoughts are with you. It is never easy to let a loved one go. It takes courage and strenght and this is what you are showing. You are such a beautiful person.

  • thoughts and prayers, stay strong!

  • I am not sure if you can see my replies anywhere or you have to go to my site to look them up. So I thought I would come here and thank you for your comment on my post. I feel the same way about autumn. Once the color is there, it shows that the leaves will drop out soon and then it gets so bitterly cold.

  • Dealing with our parents deaths is probably one of the most emotionally dark parts of our lives yet it’s something we all should expect and deal with. I’ve yet to have the courage to share what really happened in that hospital room with my dad. I hope you find some peace now that you’ve told your story.

  • Wrenching. She was lucky to have her caring family close to her.
    I was standing beside her bed when my mom passed. As awful as it was to experience, I’m glad I was there.

  • You continue to be in my thoughts and prayers, Matt.
    Those final days and moments with those we love are so precious…but can, also, be so difficult.
    I was there when my parents passed.
    Your mom was brave! And your memories of her will carry you through the difficult times.
    Thank you for sharing your heart with us.
    HUGS!!!

  • HUGS. i’m lost for words. my heart sank and my eyes started to get misty. i’m fighting to stay neutral and normal, as i’m reading this at work. it is a beautiful thing you are able to remember those moments. not for the sadness, but for the spirit your mum possessed. don’t loose that. BIG HUGS.

    • Oh dear, I didn’t mean to make your eyes mist while you’re at work. There’s a bit more to the story, while my brother and I were at the funeral home making arrangements, my sister and my dad were at the hospital with my mom. My sister went down to get a coffee leaving my dad at the room. She passed away with my dad at her side. My brother and I drove back to the hospital, she was still in the room. We sat with her for a bit and eventually we let them take her body away. We weren’t there for that. I barely remember cleaning up the room and taking home all her stuff.

      I was just thinking Rudy, if we ever meet – I hope I don’t tell sad stories like this. We’ll all be choked up.

  • What a totally sweet story. My mother died of cancer also, in 1986. It was a particularly tough period because my father had predeceased her in 1975. Mom was diagnosed soon after his death, but she went into remission and stayed there for about ten years before the cancer returned. You will always cherish the fact that you did kind acts for her at the end and that you were also supportive of your father.

    • Thank you, I guess it was sad and sweet at the same time. It must have been so difficult for your mom to learn of her cancer shortly after your dad passed. I don’t know what I would have done.

  • I just wanted you to know you are not forgotten.

    I continue to think of your Dad…and pray for him, and pray for you.

    HUGS!!!

  • I never have the right words to say. Miles away, not really knowing you, still I feel your pain. Sending a virtual hug (EW)

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