The days pass in wait. I wake up every morning, hoping that she gets an operation date. I go to sleep every morning carrying that hope to morrow. It is exhausting. Hope never was this heavy a burden before.
Her cancer is spreading. She wakes up in more pain, and lives through it. There is no chemo to control the spread of the cancer. She has to have the operation. Yet, there are no beds. Doctors ask us to come again, tomorrow. and tomorrow. and tomorrow. Like a Macbeth monologue, it goes on.
There are times when I feel helpless, impotent and completely despondent. I look at dad and he is down to his knees. Metaphorically. His only courage is that I have courage. Or he thinks I have. The facade I have put up has now become the dam that is holding this lee together. A crack, a chink, a tiny little seepage somewhere and the whole thing would come crashing down.
I look at her. Tiny, old and very much in pain. She still wakes up every morning and makes her own cup of tea. She goes through the entire wait at the hospital with the patience of a nun. She does not complain when the doctor asks her to come back tomorrow. I know she is in pain. I see her sitting up at 2 am, coughing. Muffling her cough, trying not to wake me up. When I do wake up, she says ' I am sorry. Could you give me some hot water? Are you too tired?'
Am I too tired? Can I be? When she can sit up in stoic silence ,suffering that pain and not complain. Can I answer, 'yes, I am tired.'? No. I will be damned before I answer in the affirmative. I will not be tired. I will not lean down to catch a breath. Not till she does. I owe it to her.
Even in the interregnum between her treatments, there is a battle raging. The fight for her life does not stop. I cannot stop.
Her cancer is spreading. She wakes up in more pain, and lives through it. There is no chemo to control the spread of the cancer. She has to have the operation. Yet, there are no beds. Doctors ask us to come again, tomorrow. and tomorrow. and tomorrow. Like a Macbeth monologue, it goes on.
There are times when I feel helpless, impotent and completely despondent. I look at dad and he is down to his knees. Metaphorically. His only courage is that I have courage. Or he thinks I have. The facade I have put up has now become the dam that is holding this lee together. A crack, a chink, a tiny little seepage somewhere and the whole thing would come crashing down.
I look at her. Tiny, old and very much in pain. She still wakes up every morning and makes her own cup of tea. She goes through the entire wait at the hospital with the patience of a nun. She does not complain when the doctor asks her to come back tomorrow. I know she is in pain. I see her sitting up at 2 am, coughing. Muffling her cough, trying not to wake me up. When I do wake up, she says ' I am sorry. Could you give me some hot water? Are you too tired?'
Am I too tired? Can I be? When she can sit up in stoic silence ,suffering that pain and not complain. Can I answer, 'yes, I am tired.'? No. I will be damned before I answer in the affirmative. I will not be tired. I will not lean down to catch a breath. Not till she does. I owe it to her.
Even in the interregnum between her treatments, there is a battle raging. The fight for her life does not stop. I cannot stop.
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