Every new day brings routinized, sanitized normality. The soothing ease of knowing what will unfold before you. The work load, the petty chatter, the water cooler topics, the senescent drive, the relief of another hapless day quieted by the darkened night - all the trappings of an adult life, which is neither horrible nor wonderful. And despite the familiarity of the day, there are both subtle and jarring reminders of an unsettled life.
The coworkers, friends, acquaintances, even the dog (poor Saul) appear to extend looks of sorrow and pity. This I cannot accuse those around me of any malice, but I know of having been on the other end of exchanges that there is nebulous haze, which smother honest sentiment into stunted and distorted responses.
Every new day buries me in worry. I want to eradicate all fear and doubt in an oblivion of alcohol and reckless emotional effusion, but I worry about the call that will come.
A friend pointed to the call when she surmised that a bag packed with my black suit, shoes, and little else would be ready by the door. The first call I received from my cousin saying my mother had cancer had removed a pillar of faith and stability. The second call, I fear, will disturb nothing because I exist in this moment as an individual who has expected the shoestring to break.
Every new day is a mixed blessing filled with false hope and bittersweet joy. When my mother says through the telephone that she can sense recovery around the corner, I cannot help but feel remorse and wonder.
Every new day is a corner.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Looks like
My first day of work looked typical and usual. Coworkers greeted me enthusiastically, and they seemed genuine in their concern and happy for my return. It’s odd for me to think the last time that I was here was in November 2008. Even this morning as I dressed and readied for work, I was unsure of my movements. The series of actions were familiar, and I wasn’t sure whether I had left everything out. In some ways, it was as though I started my first day on the job, but I left on time, changed the station to the morning show that drowns my frustrations, merged into the right lanes, made the correct stops, arrived early, and sat at my desk.
Somehow the morning routine ended with me here, though my thoughts were ensconced firmly in what I had left behind in Los Angeles. In some ways I feel like an amnesiac who had arrived at an endpoint without being fully aware of what had transpired. But my greater fear is that I shall somehow lose the sense of longing and grow comfortable enough to be immersed in the minutiae of the day.
Which brings me to how I grieve and worry while I’m here, miles away from my family. I wonder whether some will be suspicious if I don’t break down in tears, unable to control my emotions. What is the expectation of my grief? How shall I justify my absence? After all, months spent away in the luxuries of Los Angeles; shouldn’t I show the situation was dire enough that I should pound my chest and expose my heart? Where’s the wailing? Where are the tears?
There shall be none. I am numb and fatigued. The marrow of whom and what I was has been drained. There is concern that I shall return to the essence of who I was before – he, who is adrift and buoyed by aimlessness. Perhaps I shall be better, but that is not my concern. The future remains grim, ever more so that I am so distantly removed.
I worry about my father especially when my aunt returns to Korea, and he is left to fend for his wife who is like a palimpsest. Every new day brings another woman who is part wraith, part vestige. My fear is that he will doubt his strength and his love and become terrified and fearful of the person that he is surely able to protect. My fear is that love is not so strong after all.
Somehow the morning routine ended with me here, though my thoughts were ensconced firmly in what I had left behind in Los Angeles. In some ways I feel like an amnesiac who had arrived at an endpoint without being fully aware of what had transpired. But my greater fear is that I shall somehow lose the sense of longing and grow comfortable enough to be immersed in the minutiae of the day.
Which brings me to how I grieve and worry while I’m here, miles away from my family. I wonder whether some will be suspicious if I don’t break down in tears, unable to control my emotions. What is the expectation of my grief? How shall I justify my absence? After all, months spent away in the luxuries of Los Angeles; shouldn’t I show the situation was dire enough that I should pound my chest and expose my heart? Where’s the wailing? Where are the tears?
There shall be none. I am numb and fatigued. The marrow of whom and what I was has been drained. There is concern that I shall return to the essence of who I was before – he, who is adrift and buoyed by aimlessness. Perhaps I shall be better, but that is not my concern. The future remains grim, ever more so that I am so distantly removed.
I worry about my father especially when my aunt returns to Korea, and he is left to fend for his wife who is like a palimpsest. Every new day brings another woman who is part wraith, part vestige. My fear is that he will doubt his strength and his love and become terrified and fearful of the person that he is surely able to protect. My fear is that love is not so strong after all.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
bilirubin
My apologies to those who've attempted to contact me the past week. We had a doctor's appointment on Tuesday, March 10, and the news was disheartening.
-
Since I was returning to Minneapolis, my father, mother, and I went to the doctor's appointment together. This allowed my father to identify the significant landmarks - the blood laboratory, the clinic, the outpatient tower, the pharmacies: inpatient and outpatient. As we waited before our appointment, my father was noticeably agitated by the dance steps; that is, the chain of events necessary before initiating any processes. The benefit of our long wait was that my mother and I had the time to alleviate his fears and teach him what he needed to know. And besides, we said, I was a phone call away, and skype will allow us to be in close contact.
We hoped for the best when our time came to meet with the doctor. After a quick check in, the doctor's tone shifted noticeably. We had waited two weeks to see whether my mother's bilirubin numbers had decreased, but it hadn't. Rather, the grim number ticked steadily higher. Normal numbers should be below 3. A special phase I trial for patients with severe liver dysfunctions was available but for patients whose numbers were no higher than 6. My mother's number was at 7.1 on February 23. The next week it rose to 9. Today, her number was at 10.1.
I translated the news to my parents. My father wondered whether any surgery was possible or if any medications could be prescribed. Since we still hadn't told my mother about the severity of the cancer, I was unable to tell him that a doctor wouldn't want to attempt surgery to excise any section of the liver nor prescribe medication when every attempt was sure to end in futility. My mother's hands fiddled with the canvas bag handle. What can I do she asked in a quiet voice. And the room was silent.
The doctor thought my mother's bilirubin numbers were going to rise steadily and that we should seek palliative care. Instead we set up another appointment for April 7 in the hope that her numbers would decline, and we left the office.
Outside in the cold hallway, beneath the dying fluorescent light, we sat in silence.
Can't they fix her liver, my father asked the closed door. And I saw my mother's hands tremble as they crimped the canvas bag handle.
-
Since I was returning to Minneapolis, my father, mother, and I went to the doctor's appointment together. This allowed my father to identify the significant landmarks - the blood laboratory, the clinic, the outpatient tower, the pharmacies: inpatient and outpatient. As we waited before our appointment, my father was noticeably agitated by the dance steps; that is, the chain of events necessary before initiating any processes. The benefit of our long wait was that my mother and I had the time to alleviate his fears and teach him what he needed to know. And besides, we said, I was a phone call away, and skype will allow us to be in close contact.
We hoped for the best when our time came to meet with the doctor. After a quick check in, the doctor's tone shifted noticeably. We had waited two weeks to see whether my mother's bilirubin numbers had decreased, but it hadn't. Rather, the grim number ticked steadily higher. Normal numbers should be below 3. A special phase I trial for patients with severe liver dysfunctions was available but for patients whose numbers were no higher than 6. My mother's number was at 7.1 on February 23. The next week it rose to 9. Today, her number was at 10.1.
I translated the news to my parents. My father wondered whether any surgery was possible or if any medications could be prescribed. Since we still hadn't told my mother about the severity of the cancer, I was unable to tell him that a doctor wouldn't want to attempt surgery to excise any section of the liver nor prescribe medication when every attempt was sure to end in futility. My mother's hands fiddled with the canvas bag handle. What can I do she asked in a quiet voice. And the room was silent.
The doctor thought my mother's bilirubin numbers were going to rise steadily and that we should seek palliative care. Instead we set up another appointment for April 7 in the hope that her numbers would decline, and we left the office.
Outside in the cold hallway, beneath the dying fluorescent light, we sat in silence.
Can't they fix her liver, my father asked the closed door. And I saw my mother's hands tremble as they crimped the canvas bag handle.
midwest
I arrived yesterday afternoon to an unusually warm Minneapolis. The landscape wore the same shit-brown coat that it dons every spring. Bare arms, chopstick-thin bikers, and mildly obese people appeared and every familiarity became repulsive and wearisome. In short, the scenery, the people, the colors, became reminders that I left my parents behind, but I do not know what else I could have done.
And a part of me is horribly disappointed for the reprieve. That I may sleep past 6 a.m., that I'm not checking the clock constantly, that I'm not calling the pharmacy, that I'm not praying repeatedly, that I'm not choking on every spoonful during meals because my mother is six feet away from us while we eat dinner and she's nourished by the memories of her last meal five months ago.
All catholics wear regret with as much ease as they do their skin. But the act of leaving my father and mother behind has sliced me open. My heart goes plumbum, and it pulls despair into my throat.
And a part of me is horribly disappointed for the reprieve. That I may sleep past 6 a.m., that I'm not checking the clock constantly, that I'm not calling the pharmacy, that I'm not praying repeatedly, that I'm not choking on every spoonful during meals because my mother is six feet away from us while we eat dinner and she's nourished by the memories of her last meal five months ago.
All catholics wear regret with as much ease as they do their skin. But the act of leaving my father and mother behind has sliced me open. My heart goes plumbum, and it pulls despair into my throat.
Monday, March 9, 2009
moment
The night is stuck on 3 a.m.
The parquet floor whines beneath his heavy steps. A bedroom door opens slowly. A sigh lingers on the periphery. At one end of the apartment, the whir and click of the machine pulses nutrients. He tiptoes the best he can, and exhaustion and age give him the grace of a barge. Steady into the night.
Standing at the base of the bed, he stares at the figure in the wan halogen light. Her jaundiced skin fades into the darkness, but her arm remains tethered to the IV pole - her anchor to the world.
His breath slows to matching her rhythm. In, 1, 2, 3, out, 1, 2, 3. Again.
Before he turns away, she is wrenched away from sleep. Rising bile with deep bone pain. He sits beside her, rubs her back, reads the braille of her spine. The pink gown, given as a present some weeks earlier, is worn thin from the hours of massage. Skin and bone. The fingers feel only skin and bone.
"Where is the pain? In the shoulders? Stomach?"
"Shoulders."
"Okay. Do you want some Dilaudid?"
"..."
"Okay."
She stifles groans, he kneads shoulders, a car alarm cries.
The narcotic submerges her. Back to sleep, away from tonite. What are we gonna do, he asks. What are we gonna do, dear? What are we gonna do?
He stands to leave. I hear his heavy feet plod against the floor. He returns to his room, and the door clicks shut.
The parquet floor whines beneath his heavy steps. A bedroom door opens slowly. A sigh lingers on the periphery. At one end of the apartment, the whir and click of the machine pulses nutrients. He tiptoes the best he can, and exhaustion and age give him the grace of a barge. Steady into the night.
Standing at the base of the bed, he stares at the figure in the wan halogen light. Her jaundiced skin fades into the darkness, but her arm remains tethered to the IV pole - her anchor to the world.
His breath slows to matching her rhythm. In, 1, 2, 3, out, 1, 2, 3. Again.
Before he turns away, she is wrenched away from sleep. Rising bile with deep bone pain. He sits beside her, rubs her back, reads the braille of her spine. The pink gown, given as a present some weeks earlier, is worn thin from the hours of massage. Skin and bone. The fingers feel only skin and bone.
"Where is the pain? In the shoulders? Stomach?"
"Shoulders."
"Okay. Do you want some Dilaudid?"
"..."
"Okay."
She stifles groans, he kneads shoulders, a car alarm cries.
The narcotic submerges her. Back to sleep, away from tonite. What are we gonna do, he asks. What are we gonna do, dear? What are we gonna do?
He stands to leave. I hear his heavy feet plod against the floor. He returns to his room, and the door clicks shut.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
skype
Through some combination of fortune and misfortune, I purchased another computer. The old one will be left with my parents. A couple of Webcams and the Webs will allow me to see my parents once I return to MN. We had a crash course in skype today. It went like this:
Me: Okay, so you double click here. Once the program opens, you should be signed in automatically. Just click here, which says call with video, and it will call me up. It's pretty simple.
Mom: Click here, and here?
Me: Yup.
Mom: Got it.
Mom's the quick learner. My dad walks through the door.
Me: Dad, c'mere. I'm teaching mom how to skype.
Dad: Your mom's the smart one.
Me: Mom, why don't you teach dad. It'll help to reinforce what you've learned.
Mom: Your dad can't do it.
Dad: I really can't.
Me: C'mon, you need to learn in case mom doesn't want to help you.
Dad and mom: I can see that happening.
Mom goes through the steps to initiate a call, but my dad seems to have a hard time seeing the pointer.
Dad: Where is the damn thing? Do I click here?
Mom: Don't be a goat.
Dad: I can't find it.
Mom: (shaking her head) It's right here! Geez! Do what I just did.
Dad: I can't remember. Is this it? (futzes with the keys for a second) Do I press this one?
Mom: Cripes.
That's all verbatim folks.
Me: Okay, so you double click here. Once the program opens, you should be signed in automatically. Just click here, which says call with video, and it will call me up. It's pretty simple.
Mom: Click here, and here?
Me: Yup.
Mom: Got it.
Mom's the quick learner. My dad walks through the door.
Me: Dad, c'mere. I'm teaching mom how to skype.
Dad: Your mom's the smart one.
Me: Mom, why don't you teach dad. It'll help to reinforce what you've learned.
Mom: Your dad can't do it.
Dad: I really can't.
Me: C'mon, you need to learn in case mom doesn't want to help you.
Dad and mom: I can see that happening.
Mom goes through the steps to initiate a call, but my dad seems to have a hard time seeing the pointer.
Dad: Where is the damn thing? Do I click here?
Mom: Don't be a goat.
Dad: I can't find it.
Mom: (shaking her head) It's right here! Geez! Do what I just did.
Dad: I can't remember. Is this it? (futzes with the keys for a second) Do I press this one?
Mom: Cripes.
That's all verbatim folks.
Good grief
Meghan O'Rourke lost her mom to cancer last year on Christmas. She writes for slate.com, and she captures some things that I'm unable to cage. You may want to read her stuff in case my writing is nonsensical, poor, and/or too happy. I dunno.
http://www.slate.com/id/2211257/entry/2211256/
http://www.slate.com/id/2211257/entry/2211256/
whisper
As my departure date creeps closer, I gauge my mother's health. I worry that my parents won't be able to navigate the LACUSC rigmarole, which may inhibit access to medications. Given her precarious condition, one would think that she'd have all the narcotics of the world at her disposal, but the oncologist is wary of prescribing any stronger medication in fear that it may kill her. That is to say, the doctors are worried that she may die from the medication rather than from the cancer. I dunno, sounds like the captain of the Titanic may have been keeping an eye out on the curtains than say an iceberg.
My mother has been cornering my aunt whose been visiting from Korea (AWBVFK) since she volunteers at a cancer ward in Seoul. Jaundice, swelling ankles, and abrupt cessation of chemo has clued my mother that she may be closer to "purchasing real estate" than one would hope. That's my euphemism for death. Mom has been intensifying her questions to AWBVFK. What are the survival rates for cancer patients? Jaundice means the end, doesn't it? I'm not getting better am I? It's gotten to the point where AWBVFK avoids being alone with her.
Plus, she found my black suit, and wondered why it was hanging in the closet. "Um, in case I had to look for work in Los Angeles." "sure."
My mother has been cornering my aunt whose been visiting from Korea (AWBVFK) since she volunteers at a cancer ward in Seoul. Jaundice, swelling ankles, and abrupt cessation of chemo has clued my mother that she may be closer to "purchasing real estate" than one would hope. That's my euphemism for death. Mom has been intensifying her questions to AWBVFK. What are the survival rates for cancer patients? Jaundice means the end, doesn't it? I'm not getting better am I? It's gotten to the point where AWBVFK avoids being alone with her.
Plus, she found my black suit, and wondered why it was hanging in the closet. "Um, in case I had to look for work in Los Angeles." "sure."
forward
My parents may move and upheaval may be the magic word the past few weeks. In preparation of the possible address change, I've packed up my books, trashed old papers, tossed all the jewel cases for my cds (hmmm...I don't remember owning a Sarah MacLachlan retrospective album), and tore up all those unfortunate report cards that lay hidden among the pages of Calvin & Hobbes and Geneaology of Morals (now that's ironic). The strata of years in these plastic bags weigh heavy. Why did I hold on to those things?
Monday, March 2, 2009
unexpected
During the past few months, it's been easy to understand that there have been a number of surprises, most of which have turned out to be the unpleasant variety. Medical disclosures, revelations, and all those intimacies that one holds throughout the years are exposed by simple questions asked by doctors. I mean, you want to know what's wrong, so secrets become not so secret. And though what's been exposed may not seem to be horrible or intimate or special or meaningful, silence covers the mystery in a patina - shame like beauty is in the eyes of the beholder...for that matter so is most everything else. But everything hasn't been so terrible.
I may have mentioned that my mother and I have been watching a lot of cooking shows. Sometimes one tires of the endless tripe on the soap operas, and sometimes my mom can't stand the bob-style haircuts that so many of the Korean youth sport. How'd she put it again? Ah, yes, onions. They look like onions. So we flip through all the prodigious digital tv stations until we find a cooking show. From this, she's learned of the Cuisinart (she'd like to own one of those, as would I), pasta maker (ditto), and other contraptions that ease the toil of cooking. As with Korean soap operas, we can't control which shows appear and when and on which channel. One day we ended up on a Spanish-language station where they were cooking something or other. A list of ingredients appeared on the side, and I was able to translate what most of the ingredients, except one.
Me: Mantequilla, that's butter. Juevos, eggs. Harina, flour. Oh. I don't know what that one is. Calabaza? It looks like sweet potatoes.
Mother: Pumpkin.
Me: What?
Mother: Calabaza means pumpkin.
Me: ?!?
Me: (Laughing) Did you know what the other ingredients were too?
Mother: Sure. I've even tried that dish too.
Me: Well I never.
Actually, I may have said Zounds or Gadzook. The thing is, you never know.
I may have mentioned that my mother and I have been watching a lot of cooking shows. Sometimes one tires of the endless tripe on the soap operas, and sometimes my mom can't stand the bob-style haircuts that so many of the Korean youth sport. How'd she put it again? Ah, yes, onions. They look like onions. So we flip through all the prodigious digital tv stations until we find a cooking show. From this, she's learned of the Cuisinart (she'd like to own one of those, as would I), pasta maker (ditto), and other contraptions that ease the toil of cooking. As with Korean soap operas, we can't control which shows appear and when and on which channel. One day we ended up on a Spanish-language station where they were cooking something or other. A list of ingredients appeared on the side, and I was able to translate what most of the ingredients, except one.
Me: Mantequilla, that's butter. Juevos, eggs. Harina, flour. Oh. I don't know what that one is. Calabaza? It looks like sweet potatoes.
Mother: Pumpkin.
Me: What?
Mother: Calabaza means pumpkin.
Me: ?!?
Me: (Laughing) Did you know what the other ingredients were too?
Mother: Sure. I've even tried that dish too.
Me: Well I never.
Actually, I may have said Zounds or Gadzook. The thing is, you never know.
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