afterweskype
After we skype
The last time I saw you was on Skype.
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December 15th 2016
“Gina, please don’t get scared. But I might be a bit sick.”
A 35-minute phone call is more than enough to transform a forgettable day.
It’s like a relay race of stress; me, the baton, being passed from one source of stress, to final exams, to this news. But I can’t really process what my mom’s saying yet. Not with how calm she narrates it.
Cancer. Test results. Possible treatments.
Her accounts are entirely surgical, factual, and neutered. My mom reduces and clips and spins her prognosis, not for herself, but because she doesn’t want me to worry. But this is a video call. I can see her. And despite her nonchalant and steady voice recounting her prognosis, she won’t look at me. Her eyes veer off into whatever’s beyond the screen or she looks down for split seconds; undeniably and openly sad just for that moment.
She tells me that she’s known about her diagnosis for a week. That she didn’t want me “distracted” for finals. As if finals can even remotely compete with her. As if my fucking grades are what really matter.
I realize that the everyday text messages, the frequent emails, and the once-in-three-day skype calls will never be enough. That there isn’t a messenger app in the world that’ll replace physical presence. When I’m 17 hours away by flight, I’ll always be missing something.
I always thought of myself as a decent friend, confidante, and daughter to my mother. That I wouldn’t have regrets if something were to ever happen. When faced with the very possibility of “something happening”, all I can think about are regrets. What I’ve done wrong or what I haven’t done yet.
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3rd January 2017
It’s days like these that lull me into a false sense of security.
The weather’s amazing in Korea, my mom still has a head full of hair, and she’s just doing laundry as I drone on and on about my day. The call was so picturesque that I even took a screenshot of it.
It’s been our routine for the past 2 years, and it remains to be our routine despite her diagnosis.
We’re only a few days till she starts chemo.
Before disconnecting the call, I told her “I want to know what’s going on! Keep me in the loop.” She just smiled, and said she’d try.
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January 20th 2017
My mom appears on my monitor; her hood up, eye’s half-closed, and exhausted. The skype call lasts about 5 minutes.
Our seemingly concrete routine has been shifting the past few weeks. The hour and a half long skype calls that covered every thinkable topic possible – from politics, the economy, personal dramas, to our favorite tv shows – have been shortened little by little from an hour, to 40 minutes, to 20 minutes, and now 5 minutes.
Chemo has been a bitch.
And from her half-closed eyes, deepened frown lines, and eventual admittance of constant bouts of nausea, I realize my callousness. I hadn’t realized—beyond her gaunter physicality—the extent of the side-effects.
I didn’t fully realize my inability to see the brutally real and unfailing constancy of her fight for cancer. Something that lied beyond our highly curated skype calls; where her constant hood masked her bare head, and the short minutes hid her frequent bouts of vomiting.
From before either of us knew about her diagnosis, I once wrote a journal entry comparing the severe Korean weather with the tamer Vancouver weather of that year.
Where my falls are bearably muggy, yours’ are soil-splittingly dry. Where my winters are the inconvenience of umbrellas, your winters are painfully frigid.
This seems to be a pattern of ours. Where I’m thoroughly removed from her reality.
I don’t really know how to handle this guilt.
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February 7th 2017
Mom has okay days and bad days. We call each other on okay days and don’t really talk on bad days. It’s our new routine, and it at least ensures some consistency in communication.
Today’s a good day. She’s got a collection of hats and hoodies now, and is showing off her bargain-priced grey toque (“it was selling 3 for $10! I had to buy it”). The toques aren’t terribly interesting by any means, but it’s nice to see her energetic; with her emotive arm movements and extreme close-up shots of toques, that somehow prove their quality to a doubtful daughter. She then moves on to her most exciting new fashion piece of all: her wig.
It’s a used wig from her friend who also went through chemo a year back. It’s mid-length hazel locks are neatly combed and styled on a faceless mannequin.
“It’s got bangs?” I blurt out. I don’t think she’s had bangs in years, I think out loud.
She nods and mumbles something about it helping the stability of the overall wig. She goes off camera and after some muffled rustlings caught by her microphone and a trip to the mirror, appears with her new do.
It’s surprisingly convincing and, honestly, the bangs look fine. She’s appeased by my reaction and her slight grin indicates that she deems my judgement as honest. We move on from toques and wigs to talk about our new favorite k-drama. It almost feels normal.
Two months into her diagnosis, we’re adjusting. She’s better at letting me know. I’m better at catching on. We’re getting used to this; whatever this is.
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