The Pink Ribbon On My Jacket December 11, 2009
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A few hours ago, I helped my mother write a letter to everyone that visited her in the hospital. Her dictation of the gratitude she felt was suppressed by the current coarseness of her voice. Also I’m sure her words were filtered because I was typing them for her. Even at this moment and the moments that have followed, my mom still has a certain about her. It isn’t disdain and not really modest—something in between, I’m sure.
Lets back track a little, shall we?
Last summer my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. The doctor’s said that We caught it early. I’ve been told that this was a good thing thousands of times prior to this.
How she broke the news to us was the only I’m sure she knew how. Bluntly. There it was — non-sugarcoated, blatant, unrelenting breast cancer. She said the phrase all up to God now or all in God’s plan. This concept has almost been tattooed to my ear drums even before I could even walk. Still, They’re tough to swallow.
I didn’t know what to say or do — or even feel. In retrospect I should. I see it on TV all the time. Sometimes there are flash backs; sometimes there are close-ups on single tears; sometimes a Fray song or a Fray-like song playing little in the background. I just wish I said something. Anything — not just sitting there looking at the ground.
In mid-November, my dad brought her to the hospital at 3 in the morning. It seems odd now that the morning itself was just like any other. That morning in particular I woke up earlier to coach junior basketball at my old high school in New West/Burnaby area.
I will remember the sudden vibration in my pocket.
I will remember running.
I will remember how my hands couldn’t stop shaking on the bus.
I will remember pacing back and forth on the Skytrain platform.
I will remember feeling like everyone was looking at me from Lougheed station all the way to Vancouver General Hospital.
I will remember the strange nuances in my behavior — wanting to both sit and stand, scream and shout, tell the world and no one at the same time.
I will remember wanting to set that waiting room on fire.
I will remember the synonymous reassuring phrases from Uncles and Aunties.
I will remember paying too much for hospital cafeteria food.
I will remember feeling alone within a circle of loved ones.
I will remember holding my mother’s hand while she was in a coma induced state.
In fact, I will always remember. This was the longest day of my life.
The doctors and nurse told us she had an infection. A bad one I guess. Because her immune system was down because of the chemotherapy, she could’ve caught any number of infections. Therefore they tested her for everything.
They put her in ICU Room 1. I’m not sure if the number has anything to do with priority but I remember a lot of doctors going in and closing the curtains.
Everyday from then was not as different as it was the same. I would come home and something was missing. Coming home alone was the worst, needless to say.
When I visited her, for the first few times, she wasn’t my mother. I just saw wires and machines. I can almost feel, even now, her skin being so cold.
I’d try to see her as much as I could when she was there. Even when she was asleep I’d go for just for five minutes after school. I think I just went to see if I could I couldn’t sleep well on those days. I couldn’t help tracing in my head of the worst case scenario. With that said, I couldn’t sleep at all on days I didn’t visit her.
I remember being there when they brought her out of the coma. Her eyes opened just slight. I don’t think I’ll ever cry the way I did that night. Essentially, it was the most predominant sign I saw that she was becoming my mother again. This was when I started believing she was going to get better. In terms of actually believing not choosing my words selectively toward my family and select friends.
As the weeks went on she got better. I started to recognize her. Her smile was exactly the same as it was.
Okay. Now where were we?
The frailty in her voice did not match the reverence in the message to her visitors. I could tell she wanted to say more. I even caught her holding back a few words. Her analytical pauses deepened after every phrase. I’ve almost memorized where and when she paused, and her voice inflections in the letter.
I know we’re not exactly out of the woods just yet. Even still, she had a look in her eyes after I sent it out. It made me believe we would be. Like I said before, my mom has a certain way about her.
