Snap Shot: What does missing the dead feel like?

Driving back home from work three days following a trip that I can only describe like so ---Relaxing in the the hot sun, meditating under water, dancing to sunset winds, diving with fish of all kind of sizes, textures and colours along deep and shallow waters, in and out of caves and shipwrecks, in the morning light and the darkness of the night, sleeping on the deck in the fresh breeze of night, clinging wine glasses with random strangers who soon became friends and teaching my first yoga classes to students eager to learn--my mind shifts in search for something missing. Slipping back in the rhythm of work is never easy for a human race that most often than not resists the changes in the flow of life.  So here I am driving home yet missing something. Perhaps its the fish or the breeze or the beautifully shaped landscape of mountains dotted with clouds or stars reflected in the deep red sea. Naturally created imagery that freed my mind of any ill-serving thoughts and emotions. But soon enough I realized that I was missing her, again.

It feels strange coming home with your father and sister after a week long vacation without running upstairs to fill her in about the details of the trip. It feels quite frustrating to say the least. The overwhelming frustration I felt urged me to write this blog to give you snap shot of what missing the dead feels like.

The first snap shot. "click, click". Sometimes it feels as though your locked up in prison. Have you ever considered how people feel when they get a life sentence. Guilty or innocent, I would presume that the prisoner experiences a sudden jolt that I like to call "go back in time syndrome" desperately seeking to traverse back in time to smell, hear, kiss, or touch something or someone one last time. Contrary to modern positive thinking approaches, when a prisoner realizes that positive thinking will not bring him any step closer to his dream, he becomes very agitated and frustrated. "I just wish" "one last time" and "why" are the questions whirling above his head. Filled with energy that refuses to accept reality the prisoner lunges forward grabs the bars of the prison and attempts to.........pull them out of the ground? Tare them to squeeze through? Impossible scenarios that reflect the truly delirious nature that the poor prisoner has reached. Soon enough, when his energy is released, he crouches to the ground and passes out. I suppose its a little like other stress releasing mechanism going for a run, a swim, smashing a tennis ball or punching a punching bag.

The second snap shot. "Click Click." Sometimes it feels as though you're in a world protected with a glass ceiling. Those outside can see what's inside but you can't see or interact with what's outside. Have you ever seen children surround an ice cream trucks, in the circus or on a merry-go round? Gleefully hoping beaming imagery and echoing sounds thats resonates beyond the glass ceiling. But on the other-side, people can only watch. They can't join even if they want to. They may feel a little like that prisoner. Or if we want to remain gleefully free then, perhaps, we can imagine that they-the outsiders- can share in our gleefulness despite being unable to participate.

What's the moral of this corny story? The choice is yours.  For the prisoner, accepting the life sentence is easier but acceptance in itself is an art that very few master.   As for the gleeful children, imagining that happiness lies both on the inside and outside of the looking glass is more comforting. But if the other side looks like a dark prison cell than are we in denial?

Depends on the prisoner. Is SHE the kind of person who would accept the life sentence or is SHE of the kind who would wail, shout and complain uncontrollably frustrated at HER inability to get what SHE wants- contact with the outside world?

Can you take a guess what choice my mother would have made?

Warrior Princess

Exactly 68 days ago her body perished and the particles inside her head that may have represented her soul in one way or another disintegrated, vibrated and vanished beyond sight, smell and touch.

“This is easy!” I thought to myself almost everyday for the past month.

“Life goes on. I don’t even think about her anymore” he arrogant thoughts continued.

Surely, she crosses my mind every now and then, but much like a cough or a sneeze, I don’t hold on to it. I let it go. I dust off the thoughts on my shoulders and they go away.

But today is different and this is why I am wearing a dress that belongs to her. The same yellow, blue, white and gold flower patterned dress that I courageously wore to her funeral exactly 68 days ago. This is why I will pack her rarely worn one-piece swim suits (although last time I remember wearing a one-piece, was probably was probably 14 years ago) with me on the 5-day-on-the-boat-diving-trip that my dad, sister and I are embarking on today.

In the shower as I crouch down on my knees under the shower head’s waterfall, I let the tears flow as thoughts of her last days come rushing back like a wave that thrusts you over a cliff.

Looking back at those last thirteen days, when her swollen liver blew up her stomach to the size of 3 watermelons barely uttering a word to anyone, its hard to imagine that we were all pacing around her death bed, sitting by her side waiting to the day to see her off to the coffin.

Reminds me of the image of a mother wavering her handkerchief ferociously at her daughter, the new bride, as she sees her off to a handsome groom.  Mother waved her hand at me numerous of times as I packed my bags and left to Montreal, London, and Vancouver. I liked to believe that those were tears of joy rushing down her face but in my heart, knew the truth. We just wanted different things in life.

Seeing off a Mother, daughter, sister or even wife to her coffin is an experience I would never want to wish upon anyone. Those seeking to comfort themselves may claim that we are seeing her off to Heaven, saints x, y and z, Jesus’ arms, or God. I am not about to make up a story to make myself feel better. I can face the truth and the truth is that I have no idea whether a soul exists and if it is does I have no idea where it goes after death. But one thing I am sure of, is that Mother is not longer physically suffering. But assuming there is a soul somewhere floating around, I am convinced that she is mentally suffering just like all her loved ones on earth are.  But this image of her flying around in heaven with angels and saints smiling down on us, is something I cannot accept because I know the truth.

On her last days, when the room was finally empty, I sat by her side and bravely asked her the questions no one else would dare. Are you afraid? Are you going to miss? Are you disappointed at God? Did you ever think this would happen? Are you looking forward to the next chapter? I could only ask her yes or no questions because she could only nod yes or no.

The truth is that she didn’t want to leave. She was very upset. She couldn’t believe that God was letting her down. She couldn’t believe that God was letting her sister down, the one who prayed endlessly and travelled from priest to priest in search of hope.  And for the last 48 hours of Mother’s life, only one person’s name was on my her lips, it wasn’t Jesus or God, nor was it Carol or Sandra, simply her sister’s name Suzy, the one who gave her hope and confidence that her life would not end. I’m glad that I never gave Mother false hope. I’m glad that I had the courage to speak the truth.

As the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and I am not dead. Far from that, with small hands rolled into fists, teeth clenched and a roar, I welcome death and smell it at every corner.  Thanks to that dreaded experience, I welcome death my enemy and friend. In fact I strongly desire to experience its nearness because I know that can defeat it, without reliance on God, Jesus or anyone else. The power to triumph without false hope is what I learnt from the dreaded experience. And if I don’t defeat it so what? What’s the worst that can happen after seeing off your mum to her coffin? Trust me there is nothing worse and if there is, I will let you know.

Dearest Mother, thank you for making me braver than I ever was.  

On the Other-side of the Looking Glass

How does it feel to be on the other side Mother?

When I look at myself in the mirror are you standing on the other side, banging your hands and screaming, Sandra I’m here, look at me! Listen to me! Why can’t you hear me?!

That scene just reminded me of that movie Ghost. You know the one where the guy gets murdered and falls in his girlfriend’s lap (demi moore) and his soul follows her around to protect her from the murderer?

Only in this case, neither was mum murdered, nor does she have some unfinished business to deal with here on earth, thus her soul has floated and drifted to the other side...of the mirror or looking glass.

I was swimming in the sea today, freely floating on the surface of the water, trying to imagine what the other side looked like. This is what I could see.

Without a gravitational pull, Sea, Sun, Sand and Sky mixed together like a Tropical Colada. Souls freely floated like ice cubes in a drink, leaving behind streaks of white trails dotted with two big eyes and a banana shaped smile. Just how an elevator’s door slides open when you push a button, Matter splits in two creating a passage way that allows the soul move through. Trees, flowers, fruits and vegetables purely decorate the other side.  In resemblance to the earth, this other side is round, but incubated in a glass ceiling. Souls levitate to the top, without a space shuttle or rocket and observe our earth. Waving their hands from left to right at their loved ones on earth, who sadly can’t see of hear them. How do these souls feel? Just like I long for being with Mother, I am positive that she longs to be with me. The other side may be prettier. Indeed she may be floating and flying. She may be living a life unbound by time or space. But what’s the point of living when separated from a loved one? Indeed the connection will always remain but so will the frustration in inherent in our inability to communicate, separated by a glass ceiling. I know Mother, I wish I could break it too. 

The Supernatural State

Sometimes I can’t believe that you’re really gone forever. That I will never touch, see or hear you again. I’m well trained to think that you are always present in my heart and above somewhere, but do you have any idea how much work is required to be able to really feel the vibrations of another being’s soul?

It requires transforming from a daily humanly state that thrives on responding to desires of the flesh to a supernatural state that meditates on acquiring intangible virtues that lead to spiritual freedom.  A being that is, rather than does.  As I drive from state to state, I get the urge to roll down my window to ask for directions to the supernatural state? Follow your heart is the answer. Aaahh What does that even mean?!  Go left or right are much clearer instructions don’t you think?

Life drives us on a path that is not always straight. The straight path is the familiar one; the daily comforting routine; I brush my teeth, wash my face, practice yoga, shower, eat breakfast and drive to work. The road is filled with bumps, an angry phone call or disappointing email, requiring a reaction. Should I shift gears or hit the breaks? Can you imagine life without those little bumps on the road? Flying through life at great speeds of sound without once looking back to examine, contemplate or reflect.

The road less travelled is the one that meanders in a snake-like fashion. Not only is this one bumpy, but surprises us with twists and turns requiring one to check the map, slow down and take a make decisions, should I turn right or left?  I find myself turning to you, frequently, Mother. I am aware that the answers I hear are purely a projection of my subconscious, but those moments spent with you in treasurely transit are rewarding.

The straight path is too easy, comfortable, known and planned. It’s faster but Mother is absent. Lighter on the gas pedal, I thought, take the more curvature road, not only is it bumpy but also elevated, requiring much more self-discipline and effort. For you Mother, I would do anything. Hit the breaks. Shift gears. And drive along the road less travelled. That’s how I will find you. 

Down Dog; Up Dog

On my yoga matt thoughts of you rush back. In my down dog, I remember the times when I rushed to finish my yoga routine hoping to beat Mother’s wake up clock. We were in the hospital those days. I’d wake up well before you did, meditate, journal write and dive into yoga. I didn’t always finish on time. Sometimes my practice ran a little longer and you were awake. You would start asking for things, breakfast, tea, nurse, open the curtains pushing me out of half moon or the dancer posture.  I embraced the challenge of remaining in those poses you nagged. Rather than seize the opportunity to serve you Mother, I asked you to wait for a few more minutes while I finished my practice.

“Haram 3aleiky” you used to say. Why victimize yourself, I wondered.  “Patience Mother” I ignored. But on my yoga matt today, those moments rush back. I still hear your voice, calling me to serve you breakfast midst my practice. It’s no longer a nagging voice, but a sweet innocent lullaby and two big almond shaped eyes twinkling a morning smile. Only sweet memories of you left behind. But, seduced by your appearance I am not. I remain steadfast in each posture. Some things just don’t change.

Splash Sea Sun; Can a soul swim?

The wind blows, brushing my cheeks and shoulders, hair flies over my eyes unveiling rays of sunlight that brightly illuminate the clear blue sky.  Dearest Mother, are you shining your rays to guide me?

The palm tree dances in the distant and birds flutter their wings across the deep blue sea. How do you move, I wonder. Are you fluttering your wings up above me?  Or are you floating like cloudy smoke?

The waves roll over the beach with a roar, sweeping away the golden sand grains, just like you were swept away.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall, where oh where is Mother’s soul?

We pretend that you are in a better place right now because you are no longer suffering bodily, but what about mentally? Are you suffering from mental trouble? It’s easier to pretend that soul no longer feels.  She doesn’t get angry that she can no longer taste deliciously appetizing food. Nor does she long for an ice-cold beer as she watches the waves of the sea sweep up the beach to touch my toes as I sit on the sand sipping my beer. She isn’t disappointed that she can no longer feel the waves splashing against her body as she swims in the sea. Mother, was always a fantastic swimmer. She bravely and energetically swam across to the other side of the pier, so far that she was invisible to the eye of those on the beach.  Today, rather than swim she watched me swim across the deep blue sea, frantically looking for her soul yet enjoying sensational seclusion, a skill Mother had acquired and graciously passed down onto me.

Neither a mirror or thermometer, nor a microphone or hydrophone will allow me to measure how you feel. An emotionometer is what I need. 

Surrender to Good and Bad Forces

Dearest Mother,

It’s getting harder. I feel so stupid writing this. What’s the point? I ‘m stuck between four walls. If I scream at the top of my lungs my voice will bounce back and I like it because this way I can hear my thoughts and tidy them up according to genre. Kinda like how you would organize books on a bookshelf. Group sadness with grief and longing with love. But why is it that some days are better than others? Ask a stupid question get a stupid answer. Asking why doesn’t solve the problem and if you’ve been following my previous chapters, I am (or want to be) a problem solver. Why didn’t I go into engineering or become a doctor? That’s a question I ask myself every day. No. That’s slightly exaggerated. But frequent enough.

I always want to be something, do something, produce or create something. Never satisfied with just being. Breathing. Walking. Watching. Coming home from work is a dreaded task if I haven’t pre-planned the rest of the day.  Without a to-do list, I float around on the ground while Mother floats in the air. Busyness drifts us further and further away from each other. As I cling on to earthly objects like people, tv, food, music her soul moves further away from me as she embraces virtues of acceptance, harmony, love, compassion, contentment and patience. What about movement? Is that an earthly or heavenly thing? I find myself on the go, go go. From yoga, to gym, to Pilates to swimming. I am acive and like it this way. This is how my mother was. But is it healthy? Will it bring Mother and I closer? I don’t think so.

Dearest Mother, can you pack my lunch box with sandwich virtues please? I promise I wont give any away like I used to when I was in school. I never liked those sandwiches, but I understand the true mental health benefits behind virtues.  

Isn’t it funny how on good days the world just seems bright, flourishing and almost perfect? We feel like we’re thriving and passing with flying colours in a journey to the moon and back. Creative. Innovative. Peaceful. Excited. These are all the adjectives I feel on a good day. But on bad days, oh boy does life get dark. Suddenly, all my personal flaws come to mind. I begin linking the sad moments I feel right now, such as being alone at home, with those that Mother must have experience when she was isolated in this big awful house.

What’s the moral of the story? It’s all in you’re head! We create life. We shape it. We choose the adjectives to describe. We represent the emotions we want to feel.

Surrender. Bow down to the forces. And Mother’s force will come closer and closer. 

Tick-Tock; M.O.T.H.E.R

On a good day, when my spirits are high, mind is clear and heart is calm, my mind clock's hands travel smoothly because I am in the driver's seat. I educate my desires and emotions to understand that, even though I can't see, touch or hear her, her soul is present and attentive to everything I do and say. On a good day, my rational mind can tame my desire and emotion. But, I'll have you know this only happens following an episode of picture flipping and tear-filled longing. A very short episode. 

I wouldn't know what happens on a bad day. I haven't had one of those yet. I can only imagine the thoughts and feelings that others might experience. My Grandma is probably the worst off. She stays home most of the time refusing to do anything; read a book, watch TV or go out. Dressed in black she sits in the same corner of the couch all day long waiting for time to pass. The internal dialogue she may be having could be along the lines of; Why didn't it happen to me instead of you? I'm old. I've lived my life, but you didn't. You were so young and beautiful. You wanted to be with your kids. They need you on their wedding day and even more on the day they give birth. Writing this imaginary dialogue makes me sick to my stomach. But it has helped me understand how Grandma must be feeling. Regret, disappointment, sadness and guilt are the oscillating emotions inside her clock's mind. I wonder if a positive emotion ever springs up. Something that signals time to take action. Grandma is not in the driver's seat. The emotional lion and desirous monster are clearly doing the driving. And poor grandma is a bystander. 

That's why I'm here today. I stayed the night following a lunch date that Grandma resisted at first but must have heard Mother's voice somewhere that told her to go out with the rest of us. My aunts, uncle, grandparents, father and sister all sat round a rectangular table. Things went well, but I have no doubt in my mind that Mother's bodily absence crossed our minds at least once. I filled mum's shoes, cracking absurd jokes, being brutally honest and actually investing energy to gather people. Something only my Mother would have done. Next friday another lunch date. And the friday after that. I suppose its our way of commemorating her. I thought of taking a picture of her and placing it on the table. But my sister and aunt faced that thought with resistance. 

What do you think? Is it weird for someone who has suffered a loss to bring a picture of the person, place it on the table and talk to it every once awhile? Would you feel awkward if your friend was that weird person? What about the family of the loved one? Would you talk to the picture in public? Or do you have too much pride to think and act in a child-like manner?

I am a child. Life's more fun that way. 

Mind Clock Ticks M.O.T.H.E.R

Saturday morning, like every other saturday,  I woke up, lied in bed and listened to the hands of the clock go tick tock while I reflected upon the week; who I am, what I've done, who I want to be and what to do to get there. I made a commitment to this self-improvement process a few years ago with help of a journal. It's a grueling task that requires  not only the willingness to unwind the knob that seals a wheel of rotating thoughts inside the mind-clock but also the courage to explore and sometimes fix the inside mechanisms. I borrowed the technique from my glorious mother. She would spend hours lying in bed staring into space, with classical music playing in the background. Aren't you bored I used to ask? Utterly confused at how she bared to sit still while the ticking clock took away treasured minutes out of her life. I was very good at running away from my thoughts. I kept busy doing meaningless acts. But, I think I'm all grown up now Mother. Because I've learnt from your courage to sit with my thoughts in silence and solitude. Without fearing the passage of time. 

Smoke-like thoughts preceded images before mother passed away. But for the past fifteen days, Mother's face is the first image I see supplemented with a gentle reminder that she is bodily absent. Longing to be with a soul feels different than longing to be reunited with a far-away loved-one. Missing a loved one is easily reasoned. When I have enough money, get my work holiday or finish this semester. But, missing a soul requires renewed learning. When I have enough time, I will sit and imagine where we are. When I have enough words in my vocabulary I will describe what I see. When I have enough colors and skill, I will paint a picture. Mother, for you, I will learn how to write, paint and meditate so I can see you clearly.

The worst time of the day must be the few minutes before falling asleep at the end of a long day. On most days, I opt to breathe my self to sleep rather than freeze my thoughts and feelings in a a box of popcorn and TV. Those longing-filled moments are uncomfortable at first but for an all day long busy bubbling bee, thats only natural to feel, when everything is switched off, except the unsurprising sound of tick-tock on a clock. Don't be at all surprised at the before bed time discomfort. It's only natural. Normal. And Non-avoidable. 

Equanimous without Mother

There are two couches in the living room forming an L shape. I lied on the the smaller one that faced the big screen TV. The air-conditioner blew out cold air that obstructed my nose from breathing naturally. My dad lied on the larger couch watching an arabic comedy movie, first night in months. Ever since the January revolution his eyes have been plastered to news and political talk shows. But this night was different. He keeps peering over to his side to see what the frantic typing was about. He must be thinking what on earth is she doing? why is she always so preoccupied? Or am I merely projecting how I feel about him? He must have looked over to my side about ten times. I figure he must be trying to get my attention. Perhaps he wants us to watch this movie together. Perhaps he's using this movie as bate so that we can spend more time together. Maybe he's actually trying. I closed my laptop and tried to watch. I was fidgeting. Too much coffee perhaps. Or is it something else?

I found my mind wondering to that night Mother and I watched the same movie while she lied on the hospital bed a few months ago. I was feeling especially vulnerable that night and quite unusually decided to share her hospital bed so that I could rest my head on her dolphin shaped stomach. It felt soothing. Comforting. Right. Her face carried tiny glasses and a contended smile. Underneath my head and ear I can still feel her stomach ascending and descending lightly with each breath. She held my hand. I asked her questions like a three year old curious child. She replied with gentleness, sincerity and humour. 

But with my dad we watch in silence. He grins and smiles occasionally at events unfolding in the movie, but unceasing tension fills the room. He looks back at me perhaps wondering why I'm not laughing. I pretend. Once. Twice. Three Tears escaped my eyelids. Silently. Practicing yoga regularly has increased my awareness and acceptance of the present moment. Rather than dwell on longing, I appreciate the moment and remain composed. Mentally and emotionally stable. The fountain is dry.  Mother, even though not physically present, I am still learning through you. Learning the power of EQUANIMITY. Thank you. 

Click-Clock, I hear dad's bedroom door close shut only a few minutes after I excused myself from the living room. Why didn't he finish the movie I wondered? Was it because I wasn't there? No need to react to reaction I reminded myself. Just let it go. 

An Enslaved Family of Thinkers

On Sunday, three days after Mother passed away, we held a prayer service in the same room she died. My limited understanding of the arabic and latin language and  my inability to assimilate with the Coptic Orthodox traditions denied me the opportunity to commemorate the  departure of the Mother's soul in union with those present. Filled with anger and arrogance, my mind listened with the intention to respond rather than understand the deeply manifested cultural traditions. 

The Priest sat down to answer questions. He seemed to have an answer for everything. The phrase "I don't know" was like the commonly avoided extra fat on a steak. Personifying a representative of God, the Priest explained the reason God took my Mother away. This is not an exact quote but the explanation was  along the following lines. 

"Sometimes we may ask God to extend our or someone else's life but he doesn't. This is because God can see that it’s in our best interest to die because if we live longer on earth, it is likely that we will deviate from our nearness to God". 

With my heart pumping blood through contracting veins at what felt like the speed of light all the way up to face, I interrupted ever so arrogantly and asked him to provide an example. Kindly enough, he provided an example from the Old Testament of King who lived a long life that pleased the Lord and others. When his life was nearing the end, the King prayed to God to extend his life with an additional fifteen years and God, answered his prayers. But, to the King’s misfortune, he deviated from God serving idols amongst other things. This explanation provides comfort for those who were disappointed at God because he did not answer their prayers that requested an extension to Mother's life. 

But, this explanation provided me with little comfort. An extension of life provides any human being with new challenges and opportunities. How we deal with problems is the what God wants to see. Do we think? ask? repent? harm others? harm ourselves? are we angry? jealous? selfish? or peaceful? loving? helpful? When you are angry at someone who is at harm? Isn't it the angry man? When you fail to forgive someone, who feels sad? Isn't it the unforgiver? When we inflict harm on the self or others life on earth becomes un-pleasurably dark. God graciously provided us with tools or tips to assist us in living in harmony within ourselves and with others. Used properly, the Holy bookS provide us with the power create heaven on earth. Do you think that cutting your life short on earth protects you? Rather doesn't it provide you with more ways to improve upon yourself and to become a better person through repentance?

Mother Loved Life more than Heaven

During the months that led to Mother's death,  Carol and I lived to some degree in seclusion from society with the exception of a handful of family members.  I felt as though my new self embodied the form of a nun, monk or a hermit.  Scripture reading, meditating on the word of God, prayers, and yoga constituted a large portion of my daily activities. The affairs of life were mundane. I convinced myself with help from Scripture readings that the affairs of life were common, ordinary, banal and unimaginative because they only pertained to this world or earth as contrasted with the Kingdom of Heaven. The bible is filled with numerous examples that aim to excite or comfort readers about the nearing Kingdom. I viewed Mother's nearness to the end of the race with jealousy. I yearned for death. I yearned to be released from earthly or wordy desires which according to scripture give birth to sin. 

Thirteen days before Mother passed away, I went on a ten day vacation, cut short to four days due to unforeseen complications. On those four days, I felt refreshed, excited and enthusiastic about life again. There was so much to do, see and learn in the world!  Suddenly, the concept of the nearing Kingdom no longer excited me and Mother's closeness to the end of the race saddened me. Only then did I understand why Mother avoided and feared the topic of death and the nearing Kingdom. My Mother Loved life more than heaven. Was it because she feared punishment? Or was she able to create heaven on earth?

Two years ago, while having a healthy lunch at home in our extravagantly furnished living room, my Mother described her fear of hell and the power of Satan. I consoled her explaining that the concept of hell does not apply to any Christian who believes that Jesus, the son of God, was crucified to save us from the power of sin and to provide us with eternal salvation. "We" I explained "are heading to heaven and need not be afraid." I also explained that I equate the power of Satan with the power of negative emotions. But, from my perspective, no such satanic figure exists.  Mother, shook her head in disagreement. She never could explain what was on her mind in enough words. In  a panic, she raised her voice signaling the end of the discussion and instructed me to speak with a Coptic priest who will have "all the answers". With exception of the sharp raise in voice, this pattern of panic and direction to a Coptic Priest for "all answers" is not uncommon. My father and aunt seem to believe that the Priest knows all.

Banana Wrapped Soul

I usually wake up for midnight snacks. Rather than sleep walk, I sleep eat. But on the day Mother passed away, I woke up, lyed quietly in bed and reminisced. But banana wrapped Mother was the only image that came to mind.  Her washed, perfumed and tightly wrapped body in a gold coloured cloak and a pear face sticking out. We all kissed her dead forehead in turn before the body was carried away. On the night she died and the nights that followed, I was surprised that despite sharing twenty four years worth of memories, my mind held tightly on this one image as I lied in bed. The Banana Wrap. Uncomfortable, sad and sorrowful are the emotions that came up.  Turn negative into positive I thought. I closed my eyes and imagined her angelic smile floating above my head. Only, then did I feel comforted. I smiled and pretended I could feel her presence. I began to resminse to old memories of us in  her favourite places…her summer home and on the beach but I paused when I realized that I was holding on to the past memories rather than leaping into a future of novel mysterious and adventurous future. Creativity. Imagination. Visualization.

We float together from tree to tree in a forest midst castles in the sky. Her smile is contagious. Her laughter is euphoric. There are no constraints or limitations to what can be done in this new world.

I ponder the question what has happened to my Mother’s soul after she died? Did it rise to the heavens or descend to the underworld? Is it stuck in transit patiently waiting for the the day of judgment? Or has it reincarnated itself according to karma? 

Who is God in times of crisis?

Three days following Mother's burial, I'm finally home in silence and solitude. The loss of my Mother gathered people from all over the country. Not only did Mother's friends and family attend the Funeral but also the friends and family of those suffering a loss in their lives. The presence of my friends and family, especially those who managed to keep a smile on their face while sharing positive stories provided my with comfort. Comfort that I am not alone. 

But, when I'm alone I openly questioned my relationship with God. Who is God in time of crisis? Rather than seeking God's comfort, I sought friends, books, movies, music, exercise and writing amongst other distractions understanding that I will grow from this grieving experience. Not only comforted but also foolishly over confident is how I think, act and feel right now. Rather than Thank God for providing me with positive coping mechanisms to deal with my Mother's loss, I provided my resignation and questioned the existence of a God. 

Mother, I am filled with the strength, courage and inspiration you always had. I am truly grateful for who I have become through you. I am ignorant, insignificant and can not see the truth. 

Mother's Eulogy Speech

Ladies and Gentlemen, 

Standing here to say a few words about my Mother to all of you is difficult. But this is not about me or you. This is about Her. My Mother. Your daughter. Sister. Cousin and Friend. It would be foolish of me to think that I can summarise in few words who my Mother was and is. This is only a snap shot of some of the things we  can rembember about her.  

There are seven words that come to mind.

Laughter: She loved to laugh and make others laugh around her.

Energy: She loved the energy in sports like tennis, aerobics and running and she filled us with an energy of power.

Brave Warrior: She was a brave warrior. She lived life with independence, never afraid of saying whats on her mind. She always broke the rules and still some-how seemed innocent.

Forgievness: She easily forgot whatever you did or said to hurt her. She had a forgiving heart that I wish we can all have.

Beauty: She was as beautiful on the outside; her nose, eyes, lips, hair and physique, as on the inside, her inner soul.

Short-temper: She quickly reacted with a loud voice or a shout but like a child, less than seconds later, the matter would be something of the past.

My mother loved life and sought to live it to the fullest. But ever since cancer entered her body, people and doctors brought fear into my Mother’s heart.  

Rather than living with courage, she lived in fear.  

Afraid to run on a treadmill or play tennis,

Afraid to travel, sit in the sun or walk in fresh air,

Afraid to eat her favourite foods and drinks.  

I lost my mother when  cancer took her courage away. And this didn’t happen yesterday but years ago. But this brave woman fought long and hard  for her life, a life she never wanted to let go. 

Mother's Loss will impact us in differnet ways. My preferred strategy is turning negative into positive. Fear into confidence. Loss into Gratitude. Grief into Acceptance. Sadness into Contentment. Midst good and bad days we ought to remain mindful that she is present at all times.

My mother’s departure is not the end but the beginning. A new start for me and for those who truly loved her because we recognized her soul. Our connection can never be lost no matter what happens to my Mother’s body.  I hope we can learn from our warrior princess how to love people, laugh and energetically live life to the fullest wearing bright colours. This is why I refuse to wear black. Today we celebrate the end of her suffering and the beginning of mysterious new relationship with my Mother’s soul.

Thank you for your presence and support in this bitter sweet time,

Love, 

Sandra

The Burial of Body and More

Following the church service, we made our way to the cemetery. In the car, I foresaw the burial and felt sick to my stomach. Hiding her body away in the ground marked the end of what we can see. It's natural to fear what we can't see and since death snatched my Mother out of sight, we react to it with fear. We all deal with loss in different ways. My preferred strategy is turning negative into positive. Would you consider this to be a burial strategy?  Fear into confidence. Loss into Gratitude. Grief into Acceptance. Sadness into Contentment. The method will differ according daily pressures. Midst good and bad days we ought to remain mindful at all times. 

Getting out of the car, we walked through the gates of the cemetery.  Black bodies bobbed around the unevenly constructed pavements and headed towards the reserved place. I was surprised that no digging was involved. No holes in the ground but a doorway to a basement. The door was opened and other coffins came to light. There was my aunt, a victim of cancer, who's body perished fours years ago. With ropes, Mother's coffin was slowly descended to the depths down below and placed where it will remain for years to come. The crowd of men obstructed the picture. I rushed to the front to observe, learn and make peace with reality; The end of the physical and the beginning of the spiritual. 

Done and Dusted I walked away. My father's arms wrapped behind my shoulders. His other arm wrapped round my sister. We walked away ahead of the crowd. We walked away from mother's body. I could see our shadow in the sand. We were now three, not four. Tears did and do flow. I trust that mother's soul was and is vibrating around us, floating above us and present with us. Imagination brings me into the future and out of the past, looking ahead into what we will share in a land of castles in the sky  or a  heavenly kingdom unbound by time or space. I'm looking forward to Mother's invitation into her new household. A new adventure. An opportunity to learn grow and become something new. 

May your body rest in peace. May our souls meet half way. 

The Self at the Funeral

Mother's fun filled funeral took place yesterday at four in the afternoon. The black attire traditions superseded reflecting the resistance to change that is deeply engrained within the Coptic Orthodox Ramses Family culture.  Faced with insurmountable resistance, we reached a compromise that replaced my orange and navy dress with a white, yellow and beige flower patterned black dress. The arguments that flooded my dress were beyond flawed, reflecting my family's apprehension of the judgement others. "It will be a disgrace..What will people say? They will think you are happy she's gone...You're disrespecting your Mother this way...You're being provocative. You didn't know mother at all, how long were you here anyway? [Bless you sister, its comments like this that really make me want to leave!]" I fired my gun and dodged each and every bullet but there was one that grazed the surface. The need to respect the culture within which I was present. My cross cultural background swept over me like a tsunami of dos and don'ts.  In a matter of seconds, my mind conquered my ego,  realizing that this isn't about me or them. Its is about Mother. Compromise is the best way forward.  

Uncultured about Coptic funeral expectations, I stood outside the Church gates greeting unfamiliar faces, unaware that hand shakes were to come at the end of the Funeral. Oops. Walking down the long carpet to the first class seats for the coffin show was heart wrenching. A sea of black bodies surrounded me, resembled the sea of black dressed priests that engulfed Mother's coffin, that was elevated as if on a stage.  One monotonous speech after the other my mind began to drift.  Midst the standing and sitting bodies in response to the priests' gestures, I remained seated, removed my journal out of my purse and ever so quietly wrote my mother a love letter. I could no longer bare the impersonal messages regurgitated by the well-respected spiritual figures.

With limited interest in the expected behavior and attitudes of daughterless mother's at Coptic funerals, I took a comfortable seat as the detached observer. I know who I am because of my presence in family and society. I understand that my desires clash with others. I accept that rather than bring me closer to wholeness, my ego has separated me from this experience. For the rest of the Funeral, my self-centered aim was to Lead by Example, lift my chin and shoulders up high and smile in celebration of the end of suffering and the beginning of mystery.

The church service ended.  Two by two, Mother's parents, sisters, daughters and husband shuffled their way to the church doors to accept condolences. They stood like bottles on a medicine cabinet, women to men. Out of order, I, the eldest daughter marked the bookend of the queue, standing tall next to my father, internally ensuring that the dominoes stayed in place.  The power of word of mouth in Egypt seizes to amaze me. Less than six hours the funeral was planned, more than three hundred people managed push their lives aside and attended the sad show.  The sound of the words "our condolences" and the look of sorrow on unfamiliar faces hit me like darts to a wall. Breathing exercises and steady gazes kept the tears from flowing, but inside the fountain was overflowing. The darts never hit the center, except when I embraced Mother's best friend, the one person with whom I shard a personal connection.  I gave in and it felt right. It's okay. She's in our hearts. 

Bye Bye Birdie>>>>>>>>>Friday June 24, 2011

At 630 this morning Carol shrugged me off the comfort of the bean bag chair where I fell asleep the previous two nights. Delirious mother was heavily sedated with a combination of drugs yesterday and shortly after blacked out. We were wondering if she would ever wake up again. Carol was the bearer of the good news the morning when she said to me "Dude, she's going....come hold her hand or something!"

I looked at the Clock. Only 630 I thought, probably another false alarm. I got up, climbed on the bed and observed mothers eye lids that flapped like the wings of bird learning to fly for the very first time. The belly that once expanded and contracted with each and every breath, live waves in the sea, was much more still. Could this be the end? Or has she slipped in a Coma? As Carol held mother's hand, I noticed a stark difference in skin color. A bitter sweet combination of lemons, bananas, yellow peppers, pineapples.  I touched her hand and body. Cold. Very Cold. But, she still breathed lightly very lightly. Pulse still there. But dying out. I climbed back into my bean bag. Closed my eyes and knew. The birdie had gone bye bye with the wind. I fell asleep and had a dream that brought tears to my eyes. I woke up to hear the wailing tears of my aunt, Gina, not suzy. In disbelief she shook my mother "Shereen, Shereen! Wake up!....No this is not happening" she screamed in denial. Who you kidding, we all had this coming. Except my faithful grandma and aunt, Gina. If only you prepared yourself for such a moment like I did and told her everything on your hearts. You would be at peace now. And you wouldn't shed a single tear, like me. But deep down inside, I know that there is a fountain that will trickle droplets of blood each and every day of the rest of my life.

Carol, lies, stretched out next to mother. Quietly kissing, caressing, touching and crying. She's a brave one. I can't touch mother. To me she's bodily dead. Her soul is floating around somewhere. I sincerely hope she doesn't get stuck between two worlds. Mum, was clinging on to her life with every breath. She strongly desired to live despite the pain and suffering. She loved life and lived it to the fullest. May her soul leave in peace.

One argument after the next shattered the emotion filled glass. My uncle the doctor refuting the notion to sit next to mother's bedside because "she's gone". My aunt insisting that Mother's body is still warm. My grandma warning that she will stay by mum's bed side all day long if she has to. My figuratively present father plans for the Church service, 6 hours from now.  Too soon? How will everyone know in time to deadly celebrate the end of her suffering? I hope this blog does the job. Mother's church service will take place today at 4 pm  at St. Mary El Golf Church, Heliopolis. The second held of the good bye ceremony will be held tomorrow.

This is a day of Celebration. Indeed sad, but mother was suffering greatly. In memory of Mother's bright smile, I challenge each and every participant to break black attire traditions and dress in bright colors that truly bring to light, the person my mother was. This is what she would have wanted.

Bye, Bye Birdie.

What happens pre-coma?

Delirium. Not Silence. Twenty four sleepless hours later mother continues to regurgitate a sequence of words and phrases, not more than twenty in number, occasionally referring to grandparents, parents, acquaintances, Jesus and the Virgin Mary. Sounding like a broken radio, each sentence begins with her sister's name Suzy, the incredibly strong resilient woman who carried mother on her six year long cancer journey. No mention Carol nor I. She no longer recognizes our faces.

The final steps on the liver cancer ladder are jaundice, abdominal pain, shortness of breath and delirium, two steps away from coma and death. Deliriously dead is where mum stands today. Ten days with no food and less than two liters of water, Mother lies on her death bed pleading for her life.

"Yalla" She begs for a change, in posture, emotional or physical state. Just a change.
"Khalas" and "goodbye" she announces the end.
"Ma3lesh" she reassures herself and others that it's all going to be okay.
"Ya habibty" "alby" she repeats in a parrot like fashion what others call her..."baby", "honey", "my love."
"Ana ta3bena" she persists ensuring that we all understand that she is not physically well.
"May God elongate your life" she pleads for her own.

Mixed together in a jumbo cocktail of meaningless dribble that mean little to any coherent logical minded person.

Six months ago, when I  decided to return home to accompany Mother on her slow ride of death, my co-worker warned "Be prepared to see her suffer." Rather than wince at the thought, I shrugged my shoulders wondering,  how hard could this be? Only, now do I understand my wise friend's warning. Cancer caught up her own mother less than a year ago, but rather than return home to watch the rated X horror movie, my wise co-worker, adhered to restrictions and chose to close her eyes to such an experience. One that my father and grand father have avoided . An experience that will detrimentally change anyones life. What's the point of being here anyway, I feel like a plank of wood.

Dear Mr. morphine, can you work your magic and put Mother to sleep? Oh shit. She's blacking out...

A Family of Independence

As episodes of mother's life flashed through my mind, a sense of regret for lost time crept over me. Our favorite pass times were sipping drinks at Mother's summer home in Sokhna and working out in the gym. When was the last time we ever did those things I wondered? Painful to remember, I realized it was the summer of 2009. Two years ago. Had I missed out on Mother's companionship?

I lived away from home for the past 6 years. I would usually come home for Christmas and in the summer. Two-weeks into the "holiday" left me longing for my other life. Cairo, was always a transit stop. But mother, never understood. She often pleaded with me to stay a little longer or to move back "home". But, from my perspective, this was not a negotiation. I knew that Mum's happiness could not depend on any one person. Happiness is a man-made virtue. Mum needed to fill the void in her life with something other than her family.   

Mother's expectations were shattered when I decided to move to Vancouver. Half a world a way. Every phone call felt like a snake bite. She missed me dearly. I did too but in a different way. I missed her like a friend, someone you visit for a couple of weeks. She missed me like a 2 year old daughter, someone you hold and never let go. But mother was never dependent. She was quite the opposite when I was growing up. Free as a bird. Throughout my childhood, family time was an unspoken luxury. Why should things change now? Did that wretched disease increase her dependency on us because she can't play tennis anymore or float around like a butterfly from shop to stop?  She was my teacher in independence, my father too. I'm sorry Mother that I wasn't prepared to unlearn the lessons of my childhood. 

Holding onto the past with my hands and teeth. I wonder what that means for the future of my family.

Don't Speak

I wish I knew what you were thinking Mother. Your ability to lie awake in bed with her arms and legs flapped haphazardly to the left and right, starring into nothingness without uttering a word, all day and night long, is beyond my limited understanding. Oh how I wish I could get into your head.  I opened my heart and lips in an attempt to identify her emotions.


Choking on tears, I spoke the truth and explained "you're going to a better place now". I'm the second and last person after dad to address Mother truthfully. She shook her head when I asked if she was afraid but nodded when I asked if she was sad. I continued exploring the continuum of emotions she may be experiencing, is she angry? disappointed? guilty? hurt? But, mum quickly lost patience. We only speak in terms of happy or sad in this household which exemplifies the task identifying the most appropriate antidote to give against the poisonous emotion. Is our limited understanding of emotions a cultural, family or individual problem I wondered?

My exploratory study continues.  Rather than formulating appropriate yes or no questions, I second guessed the reasons behind Mum's sadness and I said;

"I know you're going to miss us mum. We're going to miss you too. Rest assured that you have a place reserved in all our hearts. Trust that no matter where you go, you will be able to see us (not entirely sure if that was a convincing argument). You were an amazing Mother and woman. You've been through a lot of rough times. The sacrifices made for Carol and I will never be forgotten. We learnt so much from your strength, perseverance and sense of humor. God loves you just like he loved Jesus, His one and only Son. I can't imagine how you feel Mother, but Jesus can. He experienced agonizing pain and suffering before God resurrected him on the third day and just like we prayed for your life, Jesus pleaded with God and said "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done." [Luke 22:42] So don't fall into the same trap I fell into and be angry at God. He loves you." 


With tears free flowing down my face...I paused and wondered...could she be sad because of all those years I was away from here? Or maybe she's worried about what the future holds for Dad, Carol and I....

Funny Foreheads Tattoos

Day 8 on the Journey of slow death. Its hard not to laugh at the peculiar things Mother says and does. At 2 am, she asks for lunch. Convinced that she’s hungry, I rush to the kitchen to make her a sandwich. Unfortunately, we couldn’t bring Mum up to a seated position. Eating a meal is now a thing of the past. But, looking on the bright side, we know that liver malfunction has diminished her appetite for food, so we can rest our hearts knowing that she’s not hungry. But, it seems as though she intends to bring a sense of normalcy back into her being alive. At 4 am, she asks for tea and a breakfast sandwich, forgetting that she cannot eat or drink. I can’t help but grin at the peculiarity of the situation.

“Sandra, I can see a ball floating above my head” Mum says.

“Illusions are signaling that a fall into coma is nearing” The Nurse explains. But, I stopped believing.  

“Remove the ball please! Khalas…it’s gone” Mother continues.

An uncontrollable grin surfaces my face.  Everyone else’s face is solemnly bleak. Carol tries hard to wipe the smirk of her face. We look at mum, at each other and away. How can we bring humor back into this house while respecting the wills of the older solemn generation? I bet they’ll all wear black in the funeral. I refuse. I think I’ll wear an orange skirt, my favorite colour and mum’s too. Or perhaps I’ll wear a suit and a tie and pretend to be the second ‘man of the house.’ Two daughters in a Middle-eastern household bring shame to a family, although I never sensed to be lesser in any way. Tears will less likely flow down the cheeks of a girl with hair tied back dressed in a suit. Rather than tattooing the words “no hugs please” on my forehead, a suit ensures that women will keep a 70-80 cm distance when they offer their condolences. A handshake? Yes. A hug? No thank you.

“Get it on you’re forehead” replied dad when Mother asked him if she could get her own Tattoo. She liked the tattoos that Carol and I had chosen whilst on a family trip in Amsterdam. If memory serves me correctly, I was 16, Carol, 14. Dad didn’t have a problem with tattoos or tongue piercings, but he did have one with Mother. A year after I got my belly pierced, Mother followed suit. She was like our middle sister. My Coptic orthodox Father had unorthodox views. He always was our primary source of mixed signals.

Does Tom Submit to Jerry?

At 6 am this morning, I jolted out of bed in reaction to the pressure of teeth clenched on my thumb. OOOuuucccchhh! Having felt her mouth wrap around my finger seconds earlier, I was unsurprised at Jerry’s bite but shocked at the sense of pain that the mouse had managed to inflict. A symptom of the problem; for the sixth or seventh time that night, Jerry had asked for help in sitting upright and I, Tom, slightly ignored.  Not exactly sure whether that was conscious or a subconscious decision, my eyes grew heavy, body relaxed and I dosed off. Much like the disciples who fell asleep as Jesus prayed on Mount Olive just a few hours before he was arrested and sentenced to death on the cross. Jesus, warned, “Keep watch and pray, so that you will not give in to temptation. For the spirit is willing, but the body is weak!" (Mathew 26:41). By body gave way and I fell asleep but my conscious or spirit assured me that it was more than ok to ignore Jerry’s request. Not only does the upright posture exert pressure on the lungs and liver thereby inflicting pain but it also suffocates her trachea, exemplifying the taken for granitite task of breathing. But following that bite, I had no choice but to submit to Mother’s demand, even if I did not quite agree. Submission and independence, two sides of the same coin. When, why and how often do we submit to the demands of others? Most often, when it serves our own interest best. My thumb was hurting and so gave in.  How does submission to a higher power alleviate a patient's pain and suffering? How  is Deist, Theist or  an Atheist comforted in times of pain and suffering?

Waking Beauty

While she sleeps we wonder around the house. The passage of time is slow without action. Cooking books, reading meals or doing television certainly pushes the clocks hands faster, but in our minds, we remain stuck in transit. As we patiently wait for Mother's wake, we secretly hope for another chance to exchange a few words or share stories. 

From the corner of my eyes, I can see see her arm moving. She's waving. In her sleep I wonder? Oh mother! I roll my eyes. I look to the far corner of the room and see my grandma waving back and smiling. I remembered the days when Grandma used to wave her arm at me when I was still a child. My sister waves too and is ecstatic at mum's response. "She waved back!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe it!" She goes on and on, the smile on her face extending from cheek to cheek, like an athlete who just won his first race.

Like a moth to a flame, mum's wake gathers us around her. We surround her every side, like cats that gather around their first meal in days.  Starving for an exchange,  we fold ourselves in two or three, crouch our knees and sit in silence around the waking beauty. We watch in silence and smile.  No words. Do we resemble cats or dogs, I wonder...

Lost in Translation

Daylight turns to night and night into day. Approaching 23:30 now, Cairo time. She did a good job sleeping all day, with the exception of the attempted roll overs from side to side and requests to simply sit up right.  Bored, tired and soar of lying down she longs to sit up right in bed every 3-4 hours. Sit up. Not Chair. Sit Upright in bed, with her feet dangling, like many of us do on the edge of a pool, on a hot summer's day. How good does that feel?

The nurse and I gently supported, lifted and pulled. The nurse rotated the deadweight legs 90 degrees to the left, while I lifted mother's shoulders and back. I kneeled on the bed behind to prop her back  against my chest, as if to create a semi-wall. Mother is sitting up right now. Her head falls on my chest. 1...2...3...4...5...seconds later and panic!

"Enough! Enough! Leave! Stop!" she exclaims while panting heavily.

Slightly confused, I looked to the nurse, thinking what the hell is going on? Didn't she just say she wanted to sit up?

"Okay, okay, we'll put you back. She wants to lie back down because she can't breathe and feels pain round her stomach" explained the nurse. She eloquently translated the language of pain into the language of instruction. Something I' m much more familiar with.

As slowly and gently as humanely possible we re-rotated mum back to her original position, lying flat on her back, the same position she's been in for the past 5 days. Inevitably, we caused her some discomfort. She screams and shouts "I hate you! I hate you! Don't you have any mercy?!"

Choking on tears I manage to utter the words "I love you! I love you! I love you!" The oldest trick in the book, love those who hate you. But deep down inside I'm feel something. Carol and I are utterly confused. Why so much hatred now? Don't you know you that the clock is ticking?

My aunt escorts us out of the room explaining "She's only doing this because she doesn't want to hurt you. She can feel that she's going away now and she doesn't want you to miss her...my uncle did the same thing with his wife and children. But he loved them dearly."

Oh thats great. Thanks for the reassurance and lesson in family heritages; with strength comes sacrifice. I wonder what will I have to sacrifice?

Firemen Fighting Fear Gas

"Give me poison! That's all I want" Mum cried out.

"If you take poison, I will too" teased grandma.

"No, God forbid mum. I just want to die. I'm in a lot of pain" says mum.

Oh Grandma, even in the toughest times you manage to stir a sense of inner guilt rather than providing consolment, comfort and compassion. But, who am I to judge? At-least you could utter some words without shedding tears. What's the problem with crying anyway? My family culture seems to view tears in a negative light. A sign of weakness. On the few occasions that I've cried publicly, my aunt playfully teased "I thought you were stronger than that" and my dad with concern asked "are you okay, you didn't seem too good yesterday?"

I'm beginning to understand the problem with tears in my family. Tears, pain and suffering are sisters of the same family. The big T causes pain for others to see. One tear that flows down my face is like a fire that burns a building. Skilled firemen jump to the rescue with their water hoses and soon enough, the fire is out and building saved.  But members of my family are unprepared for the "rescue", for they fight fire with fire, fear with tear, reacting to tears by bringing their own which only ignite the fire within. Who said I needed rescuing anyway?

Grandma seems convinced that a sacrificial offering is the best suited method for the rescue mission. Yes, mum, we know you want to die, but you must endure through the pain so that you can save us from suffering. For if you take the poison, we will take it too, and you don't want us to suffer now do you? My sister and I would disagree. Rather individualistic, we would rather drown mum in drugs as to ensure a painless journey as possible rather than watch her in agony.

In my family, if any one of us cries, others will follow suit but by withholding our tears, others are save from suffering. Non-crying is an act for the greater common good in the side of the world, a coptic orthodox household in Cairo Egypt.  Them Vs. I. There, I resolved the puzzle.  Individuals in my family do not cry in public in order to remain strong not for themselves but for the family. A stark hidden difference between individualistic and collectivist family cultures. I wish they could understand that I don't need rescuing. Only, then would I be able try cry in peace, without shame or guilt.

Watermelon and Ice Cubes On a Summer Day

I prefer the term fruit to vegetable. Sweet & Revitalizing. Have some fruit on a hot sunny day will take you a long way, she always said. My number two favorite but now my number one;  the watermelon. Laying in a pink night gown hiding under green sheets...what's visible to the eye are the little black pebbles on her face. She was more like an ice cube, perfectly shaped, like a diamond cut. On vacation she used to eat like a gluttonous King, no shame or fear  there. "You only live once" She used to say. I had a problem with that view, to me,  life was worth a lot more than food.

Once back home, on the treadmill or tennis courts, in the aerobics studio or the pool,  the ice cube would quickly melt back in shape. Once an ice cube, is now a watermelon. Chemo, radiation and cortisone. Oh Cortisone how I despise you. It has many uses; it relieves inflammation in various parts of the body, treats nausea and vomit and stimulates appetite. Yes, stimulates the appetite for cancer patients with severe appetite problems, but Dr. that wasn't my mother. She was good on the appetite side, so why did they have to blow her up like a balloon? Making her to heavy to walk or live comfortably.

Watching her sit on a chair was uncomfortable for the eyes. You know its like sitting next to an over-sized person on the plane. Helplessness. I say used to because sitting on a chair is a thing of the past. A task beyond her capability today. When she could chair, she looked physically uncomfortable. Have you ever chaired before? I do, but sometimes I walk around the house and glimpse at her old pictures that remind me of her attractive looks and light body, butterflying from shop to stop. She was termed a "MILF" when I was in school, thanks to the little men I grew up with. I was flattered then. But now, offended? Lack of respect for women? Can't you just take a compliment! When I asked my father why he married my mother he said, "She looked nice." He had an uncontrollable grin on his face. A little embarrassed perhaps by his mere shallowness and disappointed that he didn't include additional criteria to measure the success rate of his marriage with an ice cube or a watermelon, malleable objects that change according to the external environment.

Although hard on the outside, termed a cultural misfit because of her bravado attitude and sense of humor, but lusciously addictive and filling on the inside. Once the the shell is broken, the laughter and heart of forgiveness is all that is left behind. My watermelon. You always refresh me. Especially in the summer. Is this one really your last?

Exceeded Expectations Saturday June, 18, 2011

In the present uncertainty, expectation, is considered to be the most likely event to happen. We all expected Mother to have slipped into a coma by now. But its saturday and she's still here. A pleasant surprise?! Take that Dr. Pessimistic! Expectations are beliefs centered on the future, realistic or not they give rise to the emotion of hope or disappointment. Wouldn't the world be a beautiful place if we could live without expecting anything from anyone? I have applied the equation, and on the few occasions that I have succeeded, life and more so relationships unfolded like a perfect square, exponentially ever increasing in pleasure. 


What we didn't expect however, is that Mum would turn into a vegetable or a fruit. Last time she held a coherent conversation was on Monday, the day I returned from Vancouver. However, with much internal confusion and doubt, it slipped my mind to embrace her. I thought, tomorrow will be a better day, she needs to rest now and I need to get mentally grounded so I don't burst into tears. But, too late. Embraces are no longer an option. The Vegetable has spoken and she can not tolerate a word yet alone a finger. She hates everything and everyone. Except the bank, I mean my father, the one object that exerted the most pain on her life's journey. And visa versa so they're even. Only he doesn't die because he brought some good to this world, not enough by my standards, but who the hell am I? No one. Just a an opinionated voice. 


Mother dearest, your strength is unquestionable. You exceeded expectations not once but five times on your journey. But you didn't know you'd  be a vegetable did you. You expected a brighter or unrealistic future. Not to self; False hope goes along way. So its ok to dream. 

Just a few more steps away 10 pm Thursday June 16

"I'm in so much pain" she told my dad. "I can't do anything."

"You don't have to do anything, just rest" dad said.

"But I'm in so much pain. Isn't there something that I can take to end this? Give me anything. I just want to die."

"Just thank God for each and every experience-"

"Not when I can't breathe--"

"--Yes, even when you can't breathe. The more pain that you endure the closer you will be to the end of the stairway...where do you want to be near the beginning or near the end?" Dad asked.

Disoriented, confused and hesitant she said "Near the end...but when will I see you again?"

Tears trickling down my face at this point. But sound withheld. Dad replied "Oh you'll see us, no need to worry about that. You'll see all of us."

"No I won't. I won't see any of you. This is all the radiation's fault". She argued back in a child-like fashion.

"We're going to come see you......Shall I read you a story now?" He reassured.

"Yes please."

Punching Bag or a Knife?

Walking to the bathroom is a more arduous task than yesterday. The nurse and I, supporting her like pillars left and right, but she still screams "place one foot in front of the other! Walk in a straight line!" and I was!

What is your problem?! I thought? I'm trying to help you woman! Just relax and be quiet! When the emotions drifted and mind returned to center I realized that she's frustrated at her inability to walk in a straight line without falling. Yes, she's yelling at me but she's not talking to me.

A tug of the hair here and a jab to the shoulder there...a few more times...a jab to the cheek....each jab tasting sweeter than the one before...like honey to the lips....chocolate coated ice-cream cookies...mmm....It's the least I can do mother....Use me as a punching bag because even though you repetitively asked, I can't give you a Knife.

Isn't it funny how we have so many avenues to release our miniature stresses in life. Put you conscious to sleep and smoke yourself a spliff or a blunt. Drink your worries away with one shot maybe two or even 10 who's counting? Go on a shopping spree! Shoes? Dresses? Cars? Phones? A combo? Don't forget to buy that iphone for your mother, lover or father to ease the guilt of self-spending. You're not a materialist huh? Well then I bet you'll go for a run or a jog? climb some rocks? Sink into yoga? Not into sports? Aaahh then how about chocolate? ice-cream? baked goods? Yum. One way or another we're bound to get our "kick."

I know you can't eat because you've lost your appetite for food. I know you can't run or play tennis like you used too because the cancer is eating away every single bone in your body. Oh mother. What remedy can I prescribe for your pain. Oh how I wish you could smoke some weed, I mean medicinal Mary J. It would certainly help ease the pain. But you would be putting to sleep your conscious and this may induce a falling into a coma sooner than meant be. God, wouldn't get mad mother. Jesus suffered too while he was on the cross. He endured the pain. But he was the Perfect Man. I know we all want to be like him, but sometimes we fall back on the world and ease our pain in earthly ways.  Your intentions are pure. He created drugs in the first place didn't he? Just thank Him for everything no matter how you feel. And He will always love you.

I refuse to believe that there is a problem without a solution. Think out of the box Sandra. What are you alternatives? Draw out a decision matrix and find a solution! Helplessness is something we were never taught in school. Helplessness in unacceptable in today's world. So do something. I'll pray. And do some yoga.

Finger Weights Thursday June, 16

Less than three days ago, I was in Vancouver. My flight was departing today evening and arriving Cairo tomorrow night. I desperately needed a change of scenery; a breath of fresh air. But, I couldn't ignore the pessimistic doctor's death forecast that my father graciously texted me; "Test results not good. Probably fall into coma on Tuesday or Friday latest. Monday's test results to confirm. Sorry..."

My heart fell to my feet. I was 24 hours away. Will I make it in time? What a journey that was. My heart skipped a beat every-time she didn't answer her phone. But, I made it in time. And now I wonder, was it worth it? The impulsive decision jump on the plane and head back. What did I gain? What would I have lost if I had returned tomorrow? Well, if she's still alive by tomorrow night, I wouldn't have lost much. But what I did gain are the precious lessons of witnessing mother's journey through tunnels excruciating pain and suffering.  Never again will I complain of a headache, stubbed toe or bruised elbow. Never again will I complain.

The pain is ever increasing. I stroke her arm gently as she sleeps, just like you stoke a sleeping baby. Her skin feels so soft against mine. She used to like it when I lay by her side. I wanted her to know that I'm right here by her side. That she is not alone. But, mum can't bare the weight of a single fingernail to her skin yet alone an arm or hand. "You're hurting me!" she screams. "your nails are too sharp, why are you doing this to me? This is all your fault!"

I replied earnestly, "Mum, you cut my nails so short just a week ago remember?"

She pulls her hand away from mine every time I come to touch. I wish I could give her one last hug. To rest my head on her chest just one last time. To tell her I love her and that its all going to be okay one way or the other. But the time for affection has passed. Nothing left but pain and suffering. It's not her fault. She just can't comprehend anything beyond the pain. I'm glad we shared a few hugs, kisses and cuddles before it was too late. I'm really lucky to have known her before these rough times.

Family circle the Bed.

Five women, including me and the estranged father too. Silence fills the dim room. Fists supporting drooping heads is the preferable pose. A second favorite is the long stare,  a 45 degree tilt of the neck to the floor eyes resting on the ground. The gaze. The stare. The lock down. A mind altering soothing pose. "Yatho thrishti thatho manah" Where the eyes goes, there should go the mind. Next time you're in a position of stress just focus on one point! Keep the eyes steady, mind will become steady and tears will come to a halt. This is like a walk in the park. Just one more ingredient. Keep your head high and shoulders broad. And no matter how strenuous it is don't forget to smile. A smile is much more than a superficial message signaling to the other that "its going to be ok." A smile in fact serves you before it serves anyone else. This delicate gesture can actually trick the brain into thinking that you're actually happy. Why do you think happiness is a man made virtue? Have you ever tried looking at a mirror and smiling when you're actually sad? I guarantee one laugh or two will come rolling out. Note to self. Put a smile on. Keep Your head high. Shoulders Broad. Maintain a steady gaze. And wait....

Sleeping Beauty...6 hours later

Yes, yes she still breathes. Sleeping on her right side now. She woke up 6 hours ago. Too much pain to stay awake. I asked her on a scale from 1-10 how's the pain? She said 9. I bet that wouldn't be true by my standard. I would give it a 5. But that just goes to show how different we are. Mummy is like a baby. 

The nurse graciously pumped some pain killers in the IVs. Drip..Drip..the droplets seeped into the wretched object lodged on her chest...what do they call it? Oh yes a portacath...What a blessing it is...this small medical appliance is installed beneath the skin...through it drugs can be injected..usually with less discomfort than a needle stick....yes yes less discomfort...but imagine lying in bed with long tubes of drip drip connected to your body...turn left..opps no can do..how about right...yes but need some help please so the wretched tubes don't engulf her neck...

I want her to be comfortable....but she can't even freely roll over from side to side in bed....not only does she need help (a little push to roll over and a night gown tuck) but with those tubes hanging in the way..how can anyone move....sternly one of us must say "no..you can't do that" add that to the list of can't dos. That reminds me, I almost killed her today. Why you ask?  I made her a Turkey sandwich for breakfast, her favorite...completely forgetting that her liver can no longer synthesize proteins. Add another can't to the list: she can't eat protein. And when she asked why? My sister said "the doctor said you can't eat protein." Carol, couldn't you just tell her we ran out? I mean if we're going to pretend she's getting better than why bind her in doctor rules? What's the point of living without freedom? She must feel trapped in a bubble to slow death....yet she doesn't even know....Turkey Breakfast Close call that was, I would have been blamed for a life time. Which  makes it so much easier abandon "my?" responsibilities or obligations as the eldest sister.  

Music to my Hears on Wednesday June 15, 2011

She's still breathing. Her every breath is like music to my ears. Its very comforting lying here next to her in peace and quiet. I look at her sometimes. Her little nose and eyes. Her heart beating, chest moving up and down. If only you could see the innocence; a pink night down and baby fingers on her chest. Last night dad, astonishingly recalled the extent to which an older person goes back to his old ways like child; kicking and screaming in frustration. This is my mother today. She is indeed suffering and frustrated. She doesn't know how to express herself except through kicking and shouting.

"I want to die" she screamed. "I can't eat or drink or sleep" she cried out.  "I did and said everything God...I just want to die."

Its painful to watch. Painful to hear. I wish I could just tell her the truth. I wish I could say "mum you will die, any day now the doctor said so" But no! Thats not how things work around here. False hope is a family trait. As a Christian, we can't/shouldn't call it 'false hope' because God is indeed a Miracle Maker. But surely God understands that what the flesh sees, hears and touches over sides the unseen.

Why can't we just tell her the truth. She was diagnosed with brain cancer 6 months ago. Three tumors. Death predicted a month ago. Yet we still acted as if or faked it to make it. Filling her mind with dreams and hopes for a brighter earthly future: the beach, waves and birds in the sky. I came to believe it myself. I even made plans to move back to Egypt permanently. But now....we wait...