This is written for a module NM4247 Creative Writing in the Marketplace about a personal essay on a topic of my choice.
On the seventh of August, in 1997, I was born. But it was also the day I got closer to death.
In the fleeting months when I was normal, my proud parents would brag to neighbours about how their little girl was the bubbliest infant with the sweetest smile. As early as 10 months old, I could pull myself up from the ground and start walking myself. No one would have imagined that I was carrying a ticking time bomb.
At 17 months, my head blew up to the size of a pomelo. I started to throw up everything I ate. A blood vessel near the back of my brain had ruptured – it was a stroke. Everyone was in a frenzy. Doctors could not pinpoint how a baby would have a stroke. My father was chasing doctors for answers. My mother was towering over me, full of self-blame for not caring for me well enough. I was lying in the baby cot, needles poking all over my small and frail body. In the 1990s, no one knew how to treat a 17-month-old stroke patient. Not sure if I could call this luck, but I turned into a medical experiment thanks to an American professor who took interest in this rare case. I didn’t die, and yet I did.
While growing up, I’ve heard this story from my mother a million times. She nagged at me a little too much. "No, you can't do this. You can't do that," seems to be the only thing she could say. She refused to let me play in the playground, run around with my cousins, or lift a finger to do anything. While I was happy to be pampered, I was also lonely. I did not remember when I was ever glad to see my Asian tiger mum come home from the office. Sometimes she’ll buy my favourite titbits home but even then, I wasn’t happy to see her. Being in her presence meant losing my freedom.
In primary school, my teachers took extra care of me and my classmates all walked on tiptoes around me. The strangest thing was I wasn’t allowed to participate in physical education classes. Once again, I was the odd one out. "It must be mummy's doing," I figured. Resentment clouded my thoughts. In a fit of frustration, my legs started to carry me forward. I ran as fast as I could while wiping my tears. For a moment, I was ecstatic to feel the cool breeze as I ran. So, this is how it felt like to run. I felt liberated and forgot the fury in me until my feet kicked on a rock. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, blood gushing from my knee. Everyone crowded around me and stared at me with wide eyes. "Oh my god, are you okay?" I vaguely hear a teacher asked. I don't remember answering, but I do recall being carried to the sickbay. I was wailing and pleading for my mother amid my anger. Even though I hated her, my mother had the strange ability to make me feel secure. As red, hot blood flowed like a waterfall from my knee, I buried my head in my mother's warm chest as she took me to the hospital. The smell of mothballs in the taxi, combined with the scent of my mother's floral perfume, made me feel safe. It signified that help is near.
I whimpered like a cat and clenched onto my mother's thumb while my scrawny knee was being stitched up. I expected her to reprimand me, but she didn't. “Shhhhhh, no need to cry, you’re fine,” she said with the most gentle and comforting voice as she stared at me with soft watery eyes, gently stroking my head.
On the contrary, it was my doctor whom I'd seen every three months since I was an infant who chided me. “Didn’t you know can't afford to fall with the blood-thinning medication you're taking? Excessive blood loss could be life-threatening, my dear."
Wait, I had no idea about this. Wasn't that medication just supposed to prevent a stroke from occurring?
I was mistaken. My life has been controlled by the Warfarin that I took religiously at 8 p.m. every night, not by my mother. My face flushed red with embarrassment, but I couldn't bring myself to swallow my pride and apologise. Everything came flooding back to me. It was my mother who shielded me from harm. I wouldn’t be in the hospital if I was a little more obedient. It was my mother who accompanied me to every hospital check-up. Yet, I have abhorred her for as long as I can remember when she should be hating me. My illness took away her time, which she could have spent pursuing a promotion. It took away money that she could have spent on facials and manicures like the other mothers. It took away the extra sleep she could have gotten if she didn't have to spend sleepless nights worrying about me. This revelation was too much for me to bear so I buried it deep inside me, resolute to repay her.
Back in school, I worked extra hard to do well so I could get a good job, and my mother never had to struggle to pay for my medical bills. My plan sounds perfect then. I was in a top primary school with great teachers. Though no one wanted to hang out with me after my bloody show at the pond – they were all terrified of injuring me – it didn't matter. I'll just spend more time on my studies. However, I am not as strong as I thought.
After each recess of eating alone, walking to classes alone, with bird-like whispers and stares whenever someone walked past me, I became afraid to be seen. If they don’t see me, they wouldn’t talk about me.
Tears were my best friend. They were always there for me when there was no one else and when in pain. My grades, too, started to fall like my tears. I wished someone had scolded me for it, slapped me awake. No one, however, mentioned anything. Was I so insignificant that no one cared how I was doing? Yes, I had intentionally hidden myself away, but which child wouldn’t want attention, to be loved?
I guess no one loved me because I was sick. Who would like someone who can’t do anything, and is constantly visiting the hospital? Now, I can’t even do the one thing that I excelled in – getting good grades. I’m neither a good student nor am I a good child. How useless can I get? Perhaps it is in human nature to look for someone or something to hold responsible to whenever things go south. I took it out on Warfarin. If I didn't take that medication, I could play freely in the fields like any other kid, my mother wouldn't have been the target of my hate, and my friends wouldn't shun me.
My dream “came true” one day when I was out for a family dinner. I forgot to bring Warfarin out. I wasn’t trying to commit suicide, or perhaps I was, subconsciously. The thought of not having to swallow that two-centimetre-round brown tablet for once thrilled me. I kept mum, hoping that no one would notice. However, as soon as the clock struck 8 o’clock, my controlling mother went, "Baby, it's time to take your medicine."
I pursed my lips and stared intently at my feet. "Erm… I forgot to bring,” I stammered. I cupped my ears, preparing for her to lash out at me. Instead, she picked me up and started sprinting towards the taxi stand. That was when it hit me. I'm sure missing a dose of medication isn't a big deal, but she’ll do anything to keep her little one away from harm.
Streams of tears flowed faster than my heartbeat as I buried my head in my mother’s chest in the taxi, with the familiar smell of mothball and floral perfume. It wasn't because my knee hurt; instead, it was because my heart ached. I suddenly realised how great my mother’s love was for me. The sacrifices she was willing to make for me, the extent of her forgiveness no matter what I did. What right did I have to give up on my life when she was the one who fought for it? She had given up so much of herself for me. I guess to every parent, the greatest repayment is to live a happy and healthy life.
From then on, I try to be gentle with myself. Instead of fighting something that can’t be cured, why not embrace it? There’s a Chinese proverb that says, “One can spend a day crying. One can also spend a day laughing.” I’ve had my fair share of crying, so I choose to live each day laughing.
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