Dim sum and family: Prescription for blessing

Chinese seniors are easy to please. Traditional older-Chinese folks’ idea of a blessing is simple—having dim sum with the family. Better still, doing so on a regular basis. Going for dim sum in a Chinese teahouse or restaurant is such a deeply rooted cultural behavior that, even to date, it has not gone out of fashion. Young and old alike, we all go for dim sum every now and then—sometimes for morning tea, sometimes for brunch, lunch or even afternoon tea, probably because we Chinese from the southern part of Canton, China, love food.

To a Chinese senior, having dim sum with one’s children and grandchildren is the symbol of a complete family, of being blessed in old age. It is something to boast about if a family can have five generations, all dining together. It is also a source of great delight to the elders.

For Reflections on Nursing Leadership (RNL), published by the Honor Society of Nursing, Sigma Theta Tau International.

Life is bearable because there is hope

A friend of mine died of leukemia a few months ago. He retired about three years ago and then was suddenly taken ill. Two weeks ago, I went with a colleague to visit his widow. She treated us at a restaurant to dim sum, a customary meal of local Chinese people.

Sundays are family days, and many families go for morning dim sum together. If your friends are visiting, they will be treated, as well. The widow’s son, daughter-in-law and 1-year-old granddaughter were all there. She seemed to be coping well, and we chatted away merrily. Soon, it was time to leave, and she came with us to the minibus stop to see us off. Suddenly, she told us, “I still miss him terribly,” and then burst into tears.

Life must be unbearable for her, because they were married for almost four decades and were very close. My colleague tried to comfort her by asking her to be brave, and to think of her current responsibilities of looking after the rest of her family and her granddaughter. We were in a public place and didn’t really have the chance to talk in depth. She stopped sobbing, and then we parted.

After I got home, I kept thinking of her—her grief and her loss. I wrote her a card. I wish I had had more time and been in a quieter place with her, so that she could cry her heart out. I wish I had had the courage to stop my colleague from talking. The woman needed a chance to express her true feelings.

As a nurse, I am expected to know how to therapeutically communicate with people in need. But, sometimes, I find myself tongue-tied, especially when I am with friends. I do not pretend to know how other people feel, because I don’t. I can’t. I can only imagine. But every individual’s experience is private and special. Nobody else can experience something in the exact same manner. Often, it is good enough simply to be there and listen. Let the person’s grief flow out. It is only in companionship that we feel supported. It is only in telling that we start to heal.

I often tell my students it is unnecessary to fill every moment with sounds when you are with a patient. The ability to tolerate needed silence in a conversation says much about a person’s skills in communication.

Although I am concerned about my friend’s wife, who is now a widow, I think time will be her best friend. The family is close, and she finds immense joy in playing an important part in her granddaughter’s life. In a young life, one can see joy and hope. We can find pure joy in simple matters in a child. Looking at him or her, we see hope for a happier, better future.

Life becomes bearable because there is hope.

For Reflections on Nursing Leadership (RNL), published by the Honor Society of Nursing, Sigma Theta Tau International.

Love of a mother

While I was recuperating from radiotherapy, my mother came to stay with me for a few months. Because she has memory problems, she could not remember that I was suffering from cancer. My brother and sister told her, but it didn’t register. Every now and then, my brother and sister and I would talk about my illness, such as taking my traditional Chinese medicine or going for follow-ups, etc. On these occasions, my mother would be reminded of my illness and then remember that she must thank the gods for me. Most Chinese people in Hong Kong have no particular religion, except worshipping their ancestors. My mother is this way.

One day, she asked us to buy a cooked chicken, fruits and Chinese rice wine, in order for her to thank the gods for having mercy on me. I bought a whole chicken, as is the traditional Chinese custom when you want to worship or show your gratitude to the gods.

It was a bright and sunny afternoon. We got the table ready, with the dim sum, fruits, teas and wines all properly arranged, just as Chinese people do when they make offerings to the gods. We even got some incense sticks burning.

My mother kowtowed to the gods for me. While on her knees, she softly mumbled her prayers, asking our ancestors to continue to bestow mercy on me. It had been a long while since I had seen my mother kneeling down praying to the gods. Nowadays, we are her “representatives” to go sweep the graves during the Ching Ming Festival. She is somewhat wobbly on her feet.

We were to go to my older brother’s home for dinner that evening. After appeasing the gods, the next thing to do was to cut the chicken. We wanted to share it with him. Western people use a knife or kitchen scissors to cut, but we use a chopper. As a child, I saw my mother chop up a whole chicken on a chopping board many times. I am aware that my mother is growing older and frailer, but I didn’t realize how weakened she has become.

I have vivid memories of my mother chopping up an entire chicken and then putting the pieces back together again in the shape of a whole chicken. She now struggled with the chopper and did not have the strength to cut the chicken into halves. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, I took out my scissors, and then Mom used it to cut the chicken into pieces. I offered to help, but she said that I wouldn’t know how to do it. She forgot that I am a grown woman. My heart ached to see that my mother could no longer do things that she was good at. I was not cognizant of the full picture of what my mother has lost to aging. The gulf between the images from back when I was small and the image I saw at that moment made me mourn my mother’s loss.

All these years that my mother has slowly been growing old, we have gradually been doing more and more things for her. My mother no longer takes care of us. We take care of her. She is used to not doing anything in particular and keeps calling herself “lazy.” But she actively took charge when she wanted to please the gods for her daughter.

This will probably be the last thing that my mother will do for me.

For Reflections on Nursing Leadership (RNL), published by the Honor Society of Nursing, Sigma Theta Tau International.