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...