Forthnights

Disappointment and frustration; the 2 emotions that are now

chiseling their way into my heart right now. I can practically hear my gloomy
little heart grumbling “Its not fair! Why now? Why me?”

So much for the trip up to Genting; weeks of anticipation crumble within the short period of a train ride.

We were all set to go. I had packed my bags, and so did she.
But things were not as I made them out to be. She had packed poorly, and it
became obvious to me that she had not recovered as well as I had hope. For a
two day weekend up in the hills, she had brought 2 dozens of sanitary napkins,
even though her menstrual hadn’t even started. She brought a Chinese bible,
even though she can read a drop of Mandarin, and packed countless other
miscellaneous things in small plastic bags. I went through her things and
repacked everything for her, which made her really upset.

She looked disoriented, haggard and just lost in her own line of thoughts. I actually started considered canceling the trip there and then, but I thought perhaps I was just overreacting. We rode on my motorbike to the train station and took the train to the church, where there were people waiting to pick us up. But it was in the train hat I realize with crystal clarity that my mother was still unable to function properly, let alone be allowed to socialize with complete strangers.

The train was a little crowded. She was clinging on to the
support bars, but her expression was vacant, lost and sad all at the same time.
Her eyes were rolling again, maybe due to the side effects of the medicine. She
started behaving strangely; praying out loud for thing that happened 5 years
back, writing invisible words into the air and motioning her hands, palms together like a Buddhist monk. I knew the people around were all starting. She was attracting all the wrong sorts of attention to her. She started speaking to me in a mix of mandarin and Cantonese to me again, despite the fact that she is barely fluent in either. All this happened in the train ride.

To tell you the truth, I was embarrassed. But she was my
mother, and I could not deny her. So with skin as thick as a crocodile, I
endured the embarrassment of m y mothers strange antics. But I face a difficult
choice ahead of me. Should I or should I not continue with this trip? It was a
church retreat. They had a guest speaker coming all the way in from Australia,
and it was really a time for the members to get to know each other in a more
holiday’ish setting; something I had been looking forward to. It was also the
one chance I had to go on holiday with my mother, and perhaps as a springboard
for her to re-enter society by socializing with people other than her sons.

But I had other things to consider now. In her current
state, she was unable to function. She would not be able to socialize and
participate in the activities planned out for the weekend. If I brought her
along, it would only serve to highlight her condition to everyone. Knowing
people, you cannot expect everyone to be so supportive and kind. People love to
talk and gossip, and news of a mentally ill person amongst them would only
spread like wildfire on that hilltop. Other than myself, I had my mother’s
dignity to consider. I know she always wants to be seen as normal. Though I am
sure some of them are aware that my mother has a mental illness, none of them
have actually witnessed such a case before; and hearing of something and seeing
it for yourself is two very very different things. A church they may be, but
they are humans too. I will not be so naïve as to thing that everyone will
understand what I am going through, or why my mother acts the way she does.
Many are ignorant and presumptuous when it comes to psychiatry. Many do not
even know what schizophrenia really is. They watch “Me, myself and Irene” and
they think they know what is it about. “Oh, yes, I saw that once on TV.” And
when they don’t understand it, they fear it, and they dislike it, and
ultimately, distant themselves from it. In the end, they learn nothing of this
illness, remain ignorant to the fact that thousands of others suffer from it,
and just conveniently label them ‘crazy’.

When we arrived at our stop, I sat her down at a Burger
King. I asked her if she was fit to go. And despite her assurances that she was
ok, her body language told me otherwise. She looked more like she was suffering
from a nervous breakdown than about to go holidaying. It was then that I
decided not to go. I gave a phone call to my awaiting friend, apologized and
told them I was unable to make it,.

The trip back home was no better. I continued to be
embarrassed by her antics. I tried controlling her, telling her not to do this
and that, but it was no use. I was angry at her, though I knew I shouldn’t be.
All I could think about was my missed opportunity of having a good time this
weekend. They say mental illness is more and more common these days. So why is
it that I have never seen any other son bringing their ill mother around town?
How come I have come across so little people who share the same problems that I
do? Many try to show that they understand what I am going through, as if they
would know how it felt like dealing with mental illness in the family.

But the pain of it is different from other kinds of
illnesses. It is unlike a persons battle with a physically disease; one you
heal, the battle is won. But in mental illness, the battle is never over. There
is no such thing as victory over it. There is no such thing as an operation to
cure it once and for all. You do not get to rejoice that your loved one is
finally free of it. You best hope is to contain it, and enjoy the times that it
does not show up. You have no scars to show, but only the one in your heart It
feels like the same wound being cut over and over again, before it gets the
chance to heal. It is a prolonged and agonizing torture, to feel the same hurt
and frustration over and over again. There is hardly any rejoicing to do when
things are ok, because you wonder when it may happen again, and you wonder
where you will find the strength from the next time.

My only consolation was when this friend of mine, whom I
sometimes like to consider a sister, sent me a message, saying that she thinks
that I am doing the right thing in taking care of my mother, and that I was
very thoughtful. It did make me feel better, and reaffirmed me a little on the
decision that I had just made.

It is hard. And I think that it is for this reason that so
many patients with mental illness end up in mental homes, with no family to
visit or care for them. People would rather just pay someone to take these
problems off their hands. The patient becomes an outcast in his or her own
family. It is a fate I do not want for my own mother. We tried that once, and
it did not work out; she suffered in there, and we lived in guilt that we had
just washed our hands clean of our responsibility as children.

So instead of sitting in a hilltop resort this weekend, I
have resign myself to watching cartons on Sunday morning, and praying everyday
that my mother quickly recovers so that this recurring nightmare finally comes
to an end for now.