In the last few weeks, she’s been too weak to leave the house, but we can take her for walks in the afternoon now. Going around the block takes half an hour and leaves her legs shaking, but she’s happy to be out. Before we go, she gets dressed and puts on her makeup and does her hair. Even now, she retains the class and dignity I’ve always admired in her.
My aunt — the youngest child of my grandmother — has been here for weeks. She stopped taking her clients at work, and has been overseeing my grandmother’s treatments, as well as making decisions on her behalf.
They sleep in the same bed now, which I think is adorable, like regressing to some childhood time, except the roles have been reversed. Yesterday, she told me my grandmother had the best the night of sleep in a long time. She attributes it to my grandmother’s happiness that my dad and I are here.
This has already made the entire trip worth it.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have so much baggage. How my relationships would be different. Which ones would have worked, and which ones wouldn’t have changed at all.
Love, in all it’s multi-faceted wonder, levels, and types, is never a sure thing for me. I may feel it, but feel that it’s fleeting and conditional at the same time. Other people have the luxury of taking love for granted. They assume they’re loved. How comforting it must be. For me, it’s always been a struggle for stability. “We won’t love you if you don’t do well on this test. We won’t love you if you don’t practice piano. We won’t love you if you don’t finish your dinner. No one’s going to love you if you always stay this skinny.”
It feels like I haven’t survived my childhood yet. And I arrive at this fact so many times when trying to figure out the source of my issues that it’s starting to sound like an excuse. Therapy has helped identify my issues, but it’s still taking work on my part to resolve them, along with patience on the parts of others. I’m beginning to question why people would accept and love me. I guess it’s worth it to some, but things would be so much easier if they didn’t have to deal with my insecurities.
I’ve been standing on the balcony of the fourth floor apartment, watching people walk around in the middle of the night. If there’s one thing that’s always defined Hong Kong to me, it’s the constant traffic you hear when you’re sleeping, mostly light buses running on diesel, and taxis. Across the street, the rooms of the St. Theresa’s Hospital are lighting up one by one. The sun hasn’t crested yet, but the streets are becoming busier by the minute as the sky brightens in noticeable degrees.
Practicing Tai Chi usually helps me sleep and center myself, but today it’s only a reminder of how painfully sore my hip sockets are from running around airports with all my luggage. You never truly appreciate the short form until you try practice in a Hong Kong apartment.
I’ve been up for hours now, and I’m exhausted but wide awake. It’s the jet lag, the medication, a restless mind, or all three.
Those who know me know that I’ve always felt that Hong Kong is my homeland, even though I wasn’t born here. But for some reason, it hasn’t sunk in that I’m here yet.
I guess I’ve been going through some hard times. I never really thought about it until someone brought it to my attention. The heartbreak, the colitis, the grandmother, the disillusionment. Somewhat major things, I suppose, that weren’t in the front of my mind. Maybe I haven’t been letting myself think about them. Or maybe they’ve been affecting me without realizing it.
The written word appears to be the only reliable thing I have left. My friends are all away. Everyone’s asleep, and I’ve been crying. I’ve been crying in the heart of this beautiful city.
This city brings my guard down. This city lets me feel.
For some reason, I’m always seated by the wings of planes. It suits me fine, as I like to watch the dance of flaps as the pilots check their instruments and controls. It makes me think of how beautiful flight is, of what an accomplishment of humanity it is to get this giant contraption off the ground.
The captain issues a word of caution over the loudspeaker in his generic voice about cinching up our seat belts because it’s going to be bumpy until we reach 20000 feet. Leaving at 1pm and arriving at five in the afternoon, it remains daylight for the entire flight, as we’re chasing the sun around the hemisphere.
Flight information flashes in pairs on the TV screens:
Ground speed: 857k/h. Time to destination: 14h 12m.
Altitude: 8000km. Distance to destination: 15289km.
The man next to me reads People magazine to take his mind off the sudden drops in altitude. He clutches his sternum every time the plane dips suddenly, and fumbles around for the vomit bag. Eventually, he settles his head on the upright tray.
Every shake and sudden movement is a reminder of your mortality.
I used to be scared of turbulence. Now I can’t tell if I’m used to it, or the fact that I’m going to die some day.
I’m on a plane somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, in the middle of this 16000km journey. 18 hours of flight time, one layover in Chicago, and two meals.
My grandmother in Hong Kong is dying. She’s been diagnosed with colon cancer, and started chemotherapy last week, slipping in and out of awareness due to the cancer, the treatment, the medications, or all three. So when my dad told me a few days ago that he was booking a ticket to fly out to see her, I had to take the opportunity to go with him.
This is the woman to whom I mailed the first paycheque from my first job. The woman who gave me the jade necklace I never take off. The woman who came to Canada by herself to find an education for my dad, when the only English word she knew was “delay”. The woman who taught me how to hold chopsticks properly. The woman I’ve looked up to my entire life.
I don’t know how I’ll react when I see her, because I don’t know what condition she’s in. The details have been vague.
Awareness is a big thing. I want to be there. I want her to be aware. I want her to know how important she is to me.
The circumstances aren’t great, but I’m thankful to have this opportunity to go. I’ll be able to bond with my dad. I’ll get a chance to see my uncles and aunts and cousins. I was going to go last year, but the trip was canceled due to unforeseen circumstances.
In a way, the timing is right. I already have my passport. I was able to get more than three weeks off work. My colitis has been diagnosed, and I’m taking medication that will allow me to eat very well and not worry1. I have all the camera gear I need2. And I’ve been feeling so jaded with life lately, it’ll be good to get away, a little bit of much needed exile.
Before driving to Toronto, I dropped Dolly off at Joel’s house3 The fish has a delayed feeding tablet. Extra prescriptions have been filled. The plants have been watered. Projects have been put on hold, both paid and unpaid, and plans have been canceled. Even Naveed called me during the drive, and invited me to Rosella’s first birthday party, but I’ll have to miss it. I don’t like to do things so last minute, but I have no choice.
This will be the first time I’ve ever gone when it wasn’t Christmas. It’ll be warmer, that’s for sure, and I’m going from a brutal Canadian winter to relatively tropical climes.
As a woman in her 80s4 with such a diagnosis on a different continent, it’ll probably be the last chance for me to see her.
It feels like soon isn’t soon enough.
Sunday pot luck brunch was a little different this weekend; instead of heading to Tim’s, I was at Pat and Jen’s. It was collection time for a sit-up competition (where Julie destroyed everyone in both the largest total sit-ups and most improved over the last two months, winning $60), and we decided to get together to see how everyone was feeling, perhaps compare a six-pack or two.
There were homemade waffles, fresh fruit, honey bacon, French toast, pigs in blankets, smoothies, croissants, and cheesecake. So much delicious food that I could eat, now that I’m on medication to control food induced flare-ups, and I happily gorged myself.
It was such a lazy Sunday. Long conversations sitting around the table, then hanging out and playing games for hours while the food digested.
Pat later told me he used to come here and read about what’s happening with me, but has stopped reading altogether. The reason — and he paused as he was telling me this so that I understood the gravity of it — was that he would rather hear things from me personally.
While this is far from the first time I’ve written about my friendship with him, it still amazes me. We rarely get any one-on-one time, even when I’m over at his house on the weekends for food and conversation, unless it’s on the phone.
Pat always takes such a concern about what’s going on in my life. He asks all the right questions. He listens wholeheartedly without interrupting. He never judges me. He calms me because everything he says makes so much sense. Just being able to open up, where I’m vulnerable, and have him completely accept what I’m saying makes me overflow with emotion.
Maybe I just need someone to understand me right now.
I think I’m going through a period where I’m not getting enough social interaction. My friends are too busy, or our schedules don’t work out. It’s left me confused and disillusioned.
Everyone seems to fit somewhere, but I’m not sure where that leaves me. On days like this, when I’m surrounded by people, it makes me think that perhaps I still don’t know where I belong.
Before I announce the winner, I wanted give a HUGE thank-you to everyone who participated in my painting naming contest. It’s simply amazing, the number of ways different people can see the same thing, even from different angles. I particularly liked the little bird in the left-hand corner that Julie noticed.
Even though there were a few consistent themes, like flowers, and dancers, the types of titles submitted were widely ranging, from:
…the abstract
…to the straightforward
…to the creative
…to the sci-fi
I chose this as the winner because of how well it describes the painting to me in such few words, while being wrapped in a clever pun. Congratulations to Pearl on winning the painting! I’ll figure out a way to get it to you this week.
To show my appreciation for all the participation, anyone who submitted a title is eligible to receive a 5″×6″ print of the painting. If you’d like a copy, just e-mail me and include your contact name and postal address. Since I’ll be numbering and signing each limited edition copy, I’ll need to know if you want one by the end of the month so I can figure out how many to make in total.
This is so awesome.
Adam Bobrow (the player in blue) times his loop perfectly in the middle of a series of defensive lobs against the smash of his opponent, throwing off his opponents offensive rhythm, and causing him to drive the ball into the net.
I generally don’t post stuff like this (i.e. content that isn’t mine, as I don’t want to have a tumblelog), but I couldn’t resist. As an avid lover of table tennis (who has since given up practices for a love for Tai Chi because they’re on conflicting nights), and as a player who frequently gets destroyed by opponents in the league, I understand exactly how good it feels to get a single point when it’s match point for the other guy. After all, it’s not a complete thrashing if you don’t have zero points. You can tell the ref isn’t impressed, but he doesn’t hand out a yellow card for misconduct.
I want to see someone do this after winning in push hands. :D
Edit: I showed the video to Norm, my old league teammate and coach, and also a certified level 5 umpire (the highest level you can get, which means you can preside over international and Olympic level matches; I’m a lowly certified level 1 umpire). He had this to say:
I watched the game, when the point was over and the guy did his dance I wouldn’t give him a yellow card for the first 5 seconds. But he kept on doing this and it definitely deserves a yellow card. But then when I saw the score board, I changed my mine again. Seems like the game was lopsided and he was just crowning around for his point.
I have to agree. If he was celebrating a lopsided game on his end, it would be considered cocky. But the fact that he’s losing and dancing to such a hollow victory means that he acknowledges how badly he’s losing. Well played.
Warning: This may be a little too much information for some. I find it funny that almost a year ago, Tiana crowned herself the winner of our inadvertent competition on gross-out bodily function blogging, and specifically mentioned that to top her period-blogging I would need to do a live blogging of a colonoscopy. I was too sedated to do a live blogging, so this is a night-of blogging.
Bishop takes rook-pawn, Tiana. Your move.
The first (overnight) laxative is to clean out your colon of all solid wastes. It doesn’t kick in overnight, it starts working in about an hour, which means you aren’t going to get much sleep.
The second laxative (magnesium citrate) makes your intestine absorb water through osmosis, so that you start passing liquid for a more thorough cleaning. The magnesium citrate wasn’t as bad tasting as I expected (sort of a chemically sour lemonade), but that, along with having to drink ten glasses of water to make it effective, did make me slightly nauseous.
When liquid comes out of you from this end, it doesn’t make a nice contained splosh. No, it goes everywhere. I lost track of how many times I went to the bathroom, and used almost two rolls of toilet paper in two days. And when you wipe this many times, even three-ply, ultra-soft toilet paper feels like it’s coated in diamond dust and dipped in acid.
I was able to get through a decent chunk of my novel, The Last Light of the Sun, and learned from GQ how to “Work That Tan”, why Shia LaBeouf is the upcoming bad boy of Hollywood, and that Rolex makes a $37,500 nautical watch.
You really don’t feel like doing anything but lie around when going through this. As such, I was able to finish God of War 2, and unlocked the awesome Cod of War costume, which still makes me laugh every time a Greek soldier addresses Kratos as “My lord!” when he’s wearing it.
Every person I spoke to who had a colonoscopy said that it was a breeze. Not so for me.
Pretty much as soon as they injected the sedative into my IV, I passed out, only to be awoken by bouts of agony. I’d say that for the entire procedure I was only conscious for about two minutes in total, but those two minutes were not fun. I don’t think I would have woken up if it wasn’t for the pain.
Part of the discomfort is supposed to come from injecting air into the colon so they can better see the colon. I couldn’t tell if it was that, the instrument they used to do it, or the endoscope itself snaking into my colon, but I felt a sharp pressure on both the anal cavity, and inside the colon.
I remember screaming through gritted teeth, grabbing the handles of the bed, swearing, and thinking that I should have better manners before passing out again.
At one point, someone also had to hold me down, and uttered comforting words, but I couldn’t make out what he said.
Since the colon is inflated with air, I was warned that I’d be passing gas for a while after the procedure. This is true, and very involuntary.
I have severe ulceritive colitis, which is an inflammatory bowel disease. The doctor showed me pictures of my colon; the right side is fine, but the left side is so inflamed that it’s black, red, and bleeding. All the information is being sent to another specialist, whom I’m very glad to be able to see soon.
I was pretty groggy for a while after, partially because I hadn’t eaten in two days, and partially because of the sedative. Every time I stood up, I felt like I was going to pass out.
Right now, I have to take 12 pills a day, one of them being prednisone, a steroid to suppress the overactive immune system responses, the other being mesalamine, an anti-inflammitory drug to bring the swelling under control. These drugs are scary. The side effects are pretty bad, but the doctor judged the benefits to outweigh the potential risks.
I may have to take pills (considered “maintenance medications” to prevent relapse) for the rest of my life. While I feel this lowers my quality of life, it’s much better than dealing with the flare-ups and side effects of colitis. Aside from that, the only cure is to have part of my colon removed in surgery, which I really don’t want to do.
The diagnosis of having a chronic digestive disease is not great, but I’m very relieved to have an explanation of the mystery pains, along with a treatment plan.
I hate, hate, hate being alone when I’m feeling sick. My stomach still feels very funny and unsettled. So Julie came over last night to hang out a bit and to take my mind off everything, and watch some Robson Arms.
The mind, knowing something painful or unpleasant is going to happen to the body, can prepare for such situations. Which is why I wasn’t ready for this. I didn’t wake up this morning, and think, “At some point today, someone will put a plastic tube in my ass, and shine a flashlight into it”.
Yet this is exactly what happened. With a lack of formality, after telling me to “Just relax”, the doctor inserts a speculum (in this case, the aptly named “anoscope”) in my anal cavity.
Unprepared for the sensation, I brace myself and grab the edge of the bed. I wouldn’t say that the feeling was painful as much as…unsavory.
“Just try to relax”, he repeats, with words added about an attempt. I thought he was already all the way in. I was wrong. With a thrust, he goes deeper.
I can’t stop laughing. It’s half nervous, half hysterical. This doctor must think I’m enjoying this.
But no doctor has ever done this before, or been so thorough in going over my symptoms, and it’s a far cry from the healthcare I’ve been getting before. So, after he literally wipes of my ass of the excess lubrication and I’m tucking the tails of my dress shirt into my pants, I thank him.
Wait. I hope he doesn’t take that the wrong way.
He tells me I need a colonoscopy. As I’m booking my appointment, the receptionist hands me a colonoscopy kit (at $25) which includes:
The laxatives are to completely clean out my system so they can see what’s going on inside my colon. The nausea tablets are to counteract the unpleasant taste of the magnesium citrate. I haven’t been able to eat anything with seeds three days prior, and nothing but clear liquids at two days until the procedure. Unfortunately, I’m off for two days from work and a night of Tai Chi, as the first round of laxatives has me running to the bathroom at frequent intervals. Louise is driving me to the clinic and back, as I’ll be given two sedatives during the procedure: one to relax me, and one to make me groggy. I’m just hoping that I’ll pass out, and wake up when it’s over.
I’m almost ready for spring. The winter isn’t getting on my nerves quite yet. The only thing I miss right now is being able to drive comfortably without a heavy coat on.
I’ve been feeling terribly helpless lately. There are so many things in my life that are out of my control — health, love, money, work — that I’ve actually considered doing a thought record for the first time since I finished therapy. Last week I woke up choking in the middle of the night. Then half way through the day I started developing moderate chest pains. I try not to worry when I’m awake, but at night, in my sleep, everything comes out. Maybe everything is starting to get to me.
I want things to happen quickly. I’m impatient. I want to be proactive, but there’s not much I can do. Verse 42 of the Tao Te Ching has been speaking to me:
Who knows what fate may bring —
one day your loss may be your fortune
one day your fortune may be your loss
While I usually crave the flux between constancy and change, I prefer it in one thing at a time. It feels like I’m going through another transition period. Nothing around me is settled.
All I can do is wait to see where I end up.