Hope

It has been a trying few days of watching and waiting. Have become quite familiar with hospital procedures, though not to the level of my cousins. They, who've been at their father's side since the beginning, describe to me how different coloured lights over the doors of the rooms mean different things: red for emergency, yellow for scanning. There are also the various whirring machines in the room itself: the gently hissing ventilator, the leg massager inflating and deflating rhythmically, the feed tube with its periodically turning rotor. Everything is well regulated, well controlled and orderly. Predictability is a strong point for Western medicine, giving us an impression of what to expect. And though all the machines, with their clockwork functioning, and the well-documented procedures of the hospital conspire to paint a picture that is not all that rosy, at least having a basis to prepare ourselves is a comfort.

Preparing ourselves for what, though? On the one hand, I guess it would be irresponsible of us not to prepare for the worst-case scenario. And the people in the ICU typically don't last long. My cousins tell me of two patients who have passed through the inauspiciously-numbered Room 14, one of whom was a convict who apparently took his own life by yanking out his own respirator, finally eluding the two stern prison guards posted to look after him. The nurses also whisper among themselves of the ill fates of the patients that are admitted to the ICU. And to pretend that there is no danger not is to delude oneself. And yet, there is also a feeling that making preparations for the worst case is also a form of cursing the patient, kind of like making a prophecy that you know will be self-fulfilling. There is a certain feeling in the room that as few preparations should be made as possible, to prevent the spirit from interpreting precautions as invitations.

One result is, of course, that we adopt many euphemisms to tiptoe around the topic. Even here, I feel constrained not to use overly strong terminology to describe the situation. Thus, we speak of "passing through", or "passing away", or "going up there", as if being any more specific would be to tempt fate. And whenever we speak in the room, we intentionally try to be upbeat, even irreverent, believing that somehow, my uncle can still hear us, and that we can either encourage him or irritate him into regaining consciousness. At any rate, even if it makes no difference to him, it does make a difference to the people around him. What we say may sound slightly delusional or disrespectful to an observer, but it is good for us, because it helps to maintain a sense of normalcy, without which this situation would overwhelm us.

The goal is, of course, to elicit a response from my uncle. The trouble is that to our untrained eyes, any response is a good response. This morning, while visiting, I touched his foot and he jerked it back from my hand, in much the same way as any conscious person would respond to tickling. I was made to understand that this is a reflex action rather than an indication of consciousness, but it was so lively and so normal that I thought we had had a breakthrough. And then there are the little movements in the toes and in the fingers and in the neck, as nerves get stimulated somehow and respond like they are meant to respond, with movements that are moving because they are so normal. The movements show that the body is intact, I am made to understand; the only thing is that the consciousness is blocked by blood clots near the brain stem. Somehow, somehow, those clots must either be removed or be bypassed.

Another thing that I noticed was the stark difference between the approaches of Western and Chinese medicine. Where Western doctors are grave, distant and placid, the Chinese doctors (a master physician and an acupuncturist) are easily excitable, enthusiastic and empathic. An examination by a Western doctor may just be a few minutes looking at the waveforms and the numbers on the monitor, whereas the Chinese doctors do not hesitate to feel the patient, moving limbs, pinching and poking. I found it especially incomprehensible how sometimes a doctor or a houseman would come in and peruse the charts showing the bodily numerics without one glance at the patient. And it is surely counterproductive for both Chinese and Western doctors to look at each other with distrust bordering on blatant hostility. After all, as long it does no harm, shouldn't any approach be tried if it has a chance of doing good?

The nursing staff, though, are extremely helpful and supportive. They are clearly interested in the TCM treatments, and they also express their surprise at how strong the reflex actions are in my uncle, but they're also committed to the Western approach. So, they sometimes furtively express their support and how impressed they are with the effects of TCM. I myself, too, am ambivalent about the use of TCM. It does seem to have a chance of working, and it certainly is better for our state of mind than simply waiting (as is the Western approach at this point), but the Chinese doctors seem to be a bit too confident for my liking, citing miraculous recoveries as evidence of there still being hope. We already know that there is hope; the only thing is now to get an accurate impression of just how much hope there is, and it doesn't help to base our impression on the outlier cases of medical miracles.

At this point, though, I think it is obvious that the greatest value of the Chinese approach is that it gives us something to do. My relatives look forward to the visits from the Chinese doctors with eagerness, and they go about acquiring the rare medicines with gusto and enthusiasm. It is certainly better for us than simply watching and waiting. The hope is that, of course, it is also better for my uncle.

*

And, not being able to travel at this point in time, contrary to my original plan to bus my way through the Northeast US, I am indulging in my old love for travel literature, reading Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, which is a sequel to his earlier The Great Railway Bazaar. I read the other book in Taiwan, when we were there for military training, and enjoyed it immensely - the descriptions of each country that he passes through, the incredible people that he bumps into, the remarkable experiences that seem to find him spontaneously, and of course, the long and interminable pleasure of a slow train ride that reinforced my own impression of the romance of rails.

Now, reading Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, I revisit that previous book and that previous experience. The latter book retraces the route taken by the former book: nearly the same rails across Asia, but with 33 years in between the two trips, and all the changes that it has wrought. Theroux continues to give gripping descriptions of the people and places that he discovers along the way, but this time there is a delicious nostalgia attached to it, because this time round it is really a revisiting, a long, stretched-out return not so much to a place but to a journey. He doesn't really search for a rediscovery of the old experience, but he does run into it again and again, and the differences and - more importantly - the similarities between then and now creates the most compelling contrasts. The book simultaneously moves forward and goes back, generating a tension of memory.

And then, sitting in the hospital room amidst the serene whirrings and hummings, I read this moving passage, of Theroux quoting a short story that he was working on on his way through India:

"She had come to understand what the solitary long-distance traveller eventually knows after months on the road - that, in the course of time, a trip stops being an interlude of distractions and detours, pursuing sights, looking for pleasures, and becomes a series of disconnections, giving up comfort, abandoning or being abandoned by friends, passing the time in obscure places, inured to the concept of delay, since the trip itself was a succession of delays.

Solving problems, finding meals, buying new clothes and giving away old ones, getting laundry done, buying tickets, scavenging for cheap hotels, studying maps, being alone but not lonely. It was not about happiness but safety, finding serenity, making discoveries in all this locomotion and an equal serenity when she had a place to roost, like a bird of passage migrating slowly in a sequence of flights."

I don't think that all good travel must be solitary travel, but solitary travel does have a particular pleasure attached to it. And I am taken back to days wandering on whim in Penang, long slow walks in Sabah and Sarawak, other early-morning or evening strolls along rivers far away...the sense of freedom, the yearning to have someone to share it with, the knowledge that not many people look for the same things that I look for in travel. The feeling that solitude is necessary for this kind of enjoyment, contrasted with the impulsive desire to share this enjoyment with someone else. In a situation like this, even that contradictory yearning becomes pleasurable.

And of course, there is always the allure of Elsewhere...

*

Also, over the last few days, have been revisiting old haunts. Went with G down to the Esplanade to try our luck at the free performances, striking gold with a concert of prodigiously talented young rockers and another rock band playing rather good original compositions in the new, enlarged Outdoor Theatre. It was a bit of a pity that the new Outdoor Theatre had sacrificed a bit of beauty for practicality: the sails that had framed the skyline so well in the old Theatre now extend all the way across, blocking out the cityscape but enabling concerts to be carried out in the rain. Nevertheless, it was a special moment, coming back to this well-loved spot, clapping eyes again on the well-loved skyline for the first time since coming back. Noting the changes: the monumental shapes of the Marina Bay Sands towers rising on a daily basis, the first new towers of the New Downtown also climbing to the sky. Noting the constants: the familiar riverside shape of the city, the old bayfront spot at the Esplanade, the same clear tropical sky at dusk.

And then yesterday, met I, K and E from UPenn with G for lunch at Siglap, tucking into Vietnamese food and claypot rice that would have been considered way too overpriced in the days before going to New York. It was a good reunion, on this side of returning, but a bit strange, too. Seeing familiar people and a familiar context, but with the former never having been inserted into the latter before - this created a certain novelty in the situation, a certain self-consciousness on my part, the awareness of disparate social spheres converging. And of course, similarly the previous night, performance-hunting with G at the Esplanade, I was aware of how this compares with rushing for Broadway shows in our last days in New York before returning: the breathless sprints from theatre to theatre, certain of landing a cheap ticket to a world-class show before the evening was out. Now that my perspective also encompasses four months in the US, coming back has a certain tinge of nostalgia and discomfiture as well. Sort of like Theroux retracing his steps.

But I also realise, to my surprise, that returning really isn't as hard as I'd thought it would be. Not that much has changed, after all, and it is easy to slip into old habits again, habits that have lain in wait for your return. The experience of the last six months has not been revolutionary; it is more evolutionary, a continuation from previous processes rather than a break with the past. It is a comfort to discover this, that returning is possible, and that returning is pleasurable, and that there need not be a conflict between the old and the new.