Some days ago, I received a phone call while I stepped out from work to pick up some lotto tickets and donuts. The 920 area code was unfamiliar, and the phone recognized the call was from California; so I pulled into a parking lot and answered. I dread calls from unfamiliar numbers that originate from California. Before my mother's illness I couldn't fathom the tragedy that would trigger a call, but now my suspicions are narrowed to a couple of probabilities. (1) She's dead. (2) She'll die shortly, book your flight.
In either case, I take a couple of breaths before answering.
The call was from the oncologist who was seeing my mother for the appointment that day. It turns out there were no Korean translators at LACUSC hospital. That is to say, the hospital in the city that holds an estimated 1.2 million Koreans had no translators. So my father gave my mobile number to the doctor and she called me. In some way, I'm glad she did. I was able to provide the doctor with an update of my mother's condition since I speak with her and my father daily. Plus, I was able to ask about the bilirubin numbers. The onc said the numbers were holding steady at 17, so though her numbers haven't increased, the frail liver continued to deteriorate under the strain. All this, and I knew the liver problems were a red herring to the biliary cancer, which proceeded to march onward, conquering organs.
Over the past few weeks, my mother's nausea has waned, and she's been drinking juice - a mixture of carrot, celery, and sweet potato - that, according to my dad, helps to improve the liver. I'm skeptical, but the small pleasure of her drinking something delighted me. Perhaps she'll be able to engage in some basic joys before the great nothingness pulls on her sleeve.
