Since I started my collegiate studies, I've always preferred a steady schedule with few surprises, where I can easily outline my routine for the next week. It makes me feel like I have control over my life in many aspects... study, class, diet, and exercise, to name a few. I had been so fixed on maintaining constants in my life that I come up with the greatest excuses and do whatever it takes to avoid adjustments.
Yet today, as I reflect on the events that took place these past four days, I realize how my insistence in staying in "routine" has only shown my selfishness and cowardice. Yes, I am not accustomed to Taiwanese foods, I abhor jet-lag, and I am likely the most fidgety person on a 12-hour plane ride.
But I barely made it on time.
She wasn't conscious when I rushed to the hospital. I could hear and see her breathing, her chest heaving up and down as she struggled to gulp for air. She's still here, I thought. She won't go quickly, she was just talking to me on the phone two days ago.. Feeling slightly less tense, I left the hospital, ready for a good night's sleep and prepared to spend the entire day with her in the hospital the next day. She'll wake up tomorrow, I thought.
A 5am phone call woke me and the rest of the family. She was in trouble, and her lungs were failing. We all rushed to the hospital, breathless. I looked at the Blood Pressure and Heart monitor; her heartbeat was abnormally fast, although steady. With other organs gradually failing, her heart was pumping faster than usual. Her blood pressure was far too low, but consistent. For the next few hours, everyone walked anxiously in and out of the ward.
At 10:22am, I saw the Blood Pressure and Heart monitor numbers declining rapidly. Her heart rate had fallen to 60 beats per minute, and within the next minute, it fell to 50 beats per minute. Out of nowhere, the screen showed an unwanted question mark and the nurses came rushing in. Before I knew it, the hospital staff were shaking their heads with apologetic faces. Tears rushed to my eyes, and I sobbed uncontrollably. I looked to my left, and I saw my cousin and dad fighting tears.
My paternal grandmother is the third person I've lost in my life to cancer. Both of my maternal grandparents left several years ago from cancer as well, and when I saw my paternal grandmother lying helplessly in the ward, memories of seeing others in a fragile state, fighting cancer to their fullest extent, came swerving back. And these memories hit me hard.
I've been out of summer classes for nearly four weeks now. Yet, the thought of going back to Taiwan to see my grandma while she was still alive, communicating with the people around her, never hit me. Why? I could think of so many excuses that had crossed my mind: I needed a "break" after classes, I can't sit long enough for an airplane ride to the other side of the country, Taiwanese people eat food that I can't stand to even look at, it's too hot and humid for me there, and I won't be using a bathroom with proper toilet paper (this is real - my paternal grandparents' house doesn't only lack WiFi, but also lacks trashcans and toilet paper) are among them.
A day before I arrived, my grandma's eyes were open, and her voice carried a strength that made everyone believe she was getting well. I could have spoken with her, and laughed with her. But I didn't, all because I truly believed that my life would just be so incredibly out-of-sync if I did. I used to think I was a grateful, giving individual. I loved giving to the community and helping my neighborhood. Now, I understand how selfish I am for not even being able to change some routines for a couple days to see one of the most important people in my life and joke with her the way we used to when she was healthy. Something so simple was something I still couldn't accomplish.
As I'm choosing the music for her funeral and writing about the joyful memories my grandma and I share, I've come to realize that these past few days have been filled with self-reflection and self-doubt. I know my grandma would encourage me to learn from my experiences, and move on tomorrow to be a person who is stronger, fiercer, and more intelligent than the individual I was yesterday.
And I know that I am.
Rest in peace, grandma. I love you.
