Crying is not a new thing to you and me. Mom once said, my tears don’t cost a thing. From that you can see how often I use tears as a weapon for self-protection, as a way for vent and as an expression for fear. Coming out of nowhere, tears streamed down my face the moment I entered my room last night. I wish I could explain to myself the reason for this outburst. Yet, something inside my heart has been heavily pressing me out of breath, I couldn’t speak, nor could I show a face in agony.
Why am I doing this–preparing breakfast for mom every night? Using dad’s term, I have been like Cinderalla working very hard in the kitchen every single night. The chance for us to chat reduces, remaining only brief conversation with answers like yes or no. He is working at his own world, mom is living in her own way by herself, while me, I am not so sure why I can stand in the kitchen, spending time with the medicine, the stoves and the pressure cooker, in silence all night.
Commonly speaking, a patient will get better and even recover speedily with careful tendance. But I know in my mom’s case, no matter how hard I work, no matter how devout I pray, no matter how determined I try all possible way, the result will turn negative. The only gratification probably is mom will have happy memories in her remaining days. I’ve told myself firmly, stop crying when writing. My eyes are still teary. Isn’t that like some sort of destiny? I can’t stop my tears, nor can I change mom’s destiny or dad’s bias towards mom and her family.
I notice this is the first entry I write in the new year of 2007. Sorry that I have brought in sentimental ambience here. I don’t know how long this kind of days gonna last. If mom can survive a long life, she will certainly give me courage to prepare my future and to build in confidence to live on. If not, I have to struggle for a while between death and life, condolence and anticipation, grief and esperance. Sometimes I wonder if my sympathy and empathy outweigh my love for mom. Over these years, she is a depressive soul to me. What can I do to change a depressive personality if myself is one of the kind?
Apathy–I came across this word just now while looking up for "empathy." I am superstitous. I take it as God’s message. Automatically I recall how dad treated mom in the past. Since we discovered mom’s condition, not a single day have I not been struggling in my judgement about dad. I can love him dearly but I also can hate him for ever. Of course, the latter feeling comes out of my empathy for mom. I don’t know how much we can improve our life, but now my legs start to shake. I reckon sometimes I cry out of fear, probably most of time. And after sobbing to sleep, I still cannot find a better solution to this situation which I am in.
Let me put in this way, I may not be that in panic and at a loss if the patient wasn’t mom but me. Frankly, I did pray that I could exchange my healthy body for mom’s disfunctioned one. That for once in a while reminds me of the movie "Green Miles" in which the big black prisoner with good heart cured others’ pain. I cried for his tragic ending–I chuckled at myself being so into the movie. But if I could be like him, mom would have a high chance of survival, wouldn’t she?
Stop thinking silly, kiddo! Time to get back to work. Thoughts to be continued…